She's not sure how old she is at that point, but it's a Saturday, and Mr. and Mrs. Granger put on the television. Unlike the usual, though, they leave it on while they go talk to some other people.
Hermione Granger watches the strange animals and laughs. She doesn't really care for their names or where they are, though.
What they're doing, however, seems strangely familiar.
Harry Potter knows, on some level, that he's not really supposed to live under a cupboard under the stairs. People sleep in bedrooms, normally.
But there's something about the dusty walls and the old flooring that feel right. It feels not quite like home, but something close to it.
The first time Hermione sees a mouse in person, it's during class. A boy brings it as a show-and-tell. All the other girls shriek and tell him off and hate it, but…
She's not sure why, but she just feels a bit sad.
While pulling weeds, Harry sees a cat, and his first thought is to run away, for some reason. But then, the cat looks a bit hungry, and he can somewhat see its ribs.
He hurries inside while nobody's looking and gives the cat some milk. Then, he shoos it away, all the same.
Hermione is nine when her first bout of accidental magic happens. There's a piano at a relative's house, and like any kid, she tries to play something on it. Her mum shows her a piano book (Irish folk songs, or so it says,) and where the notes go.
She starts playing, but she's entirely new to music notation. The notes sound wrong until they don't, and she's taking too long, her dad's calling for her to get to dinner, but she has to get this right, and —
The moment her finger hits the High D note, there's an earth-shattering kaboom, and Hermione's face is covered in soot.
Harry is eight when his first bout of accidental magic happens. Dudley and his friends have gone Harry Hunting, and he's running for dear life (lest he get bumps and bruises for the rest of the week) —
And suddenly, he's the size of a thimble. Dudley scratches his head and looks around, but Harry instinctively ducks behind a corner and peeks around it.
Knowing just what to do, Harry finds a mouse trap and waits.
The high-pitched scream is nostalgic.
Whenever Hermione talks; usually in the form of answering questions, or correcting somebody, or asking for permission; she has the strangest Mid-Atlantic accent, bordering on fully American.
"It must be the telly," Mr. Granger shrugs, "she watches too much of it."
Otherwise, Hermione rarely talks. Everyone finds it strange.
Whenever Harry talks, his voice is strangely raspy, and sometimes even deep, but jumps to a very high pitch whenever he's flustered.
He only ever finds trouble if he talks too much, so he rarely talks, as well.
As Professor McGonagall leads a starry-eyed Hermione through Diagon Alley, she spots a woman pulling out an entire umbrella from her purse and relentlessly hounds the Professor about getting something like that.
Professor McGonagall is about to chastise her, but sees the shine in young Ms. Granger's eyes. She softens, and she thinks that maybe it would be alright to treat the next generation once in a while.
"Oh, very well," she says, "but we'll have to forgo a pet for Hogwarts, then. And we'll only get a small amount of space."
A girl wanting a purse is fine and well, Minerva says to herself.
She later regrets it.
Harry feels nervous with this many people around, all of them so very tall and eager, but for some reason, shaking hands with them and saying his hellos takes away those nerves.
"Good on yeh for being a people's person, Harry," Hagrid says, clapping on his back loudly and firmly.
He clears his throat and nods timidly. For some reason, he imagines them chasing him, like Dudley does. Perhaps with one of their brooms. Fear catches in his stomach for a moment before he walks into Gringotts.
It all comes to a head on the Hogwarts Express, as Harry listens raptly to Ron Weasley's stories about his brothers and magic and Hogwarts. Someone knocks, and Harry stands up to let them in.
Their eyes meet.
(Hammer on the tail — oh, that's a classic — and an ear-shattering scream echoes through the house.)
(Someone's thumping on his house! Well, maybe living in a piano isn't the best, but the rent was cheap. Anyways, time to put this sucker in his place.)
(Walking on the streets of New York, homeless, alone, then talking to a dog and his flea, and then talking to… each other?
"You talk?!")
(Wasting a million dollars, but it's absolutely worth it.)
(Eating so much cheese that he turns into a triangle, yum!)
(Fencing duels with the mouse and the smaller mouse — Have at you! —)
(Getting all muscled up, enough to beat that old tom cat up — He had it coming! —)
(Dying and seeing the pearly gates — the horror as he realizes why all those kittens were so wet, coming out of that rucksack bag —)
(Sitting there on the tracks, heartbroken, waiting for a train to come — then the both of them yanking each other from those tracks, kicking and screaming, because "it didn't matter if I died, but you're just too damn important to me" —)
(Shenanigans in a hotel in New York, newer and more modern than before, but all the same: they have nicknames for each other, at that point —)
(Endless chases, running like the wind, cat and mouse, an old show tune —)
(Memories explode into life like an MGM cartoon, color by Technicolor —)
"Tommy?"
"Jay?!"
Ron gulps down his candy and looks awkwardly between Harry Potter and… this girl he'd never met. They seem like old friends that haven't met in forever… or maybe they hate each other?
Harry mentioned he'd lived with muggles (absolutely mental, that!), so maybe she was some sort of… Muggleborn? Ron had heard stories of Muggleborns finding their friends again, but, well —
His jaw drops as this "Tommy" girl pulls out an entire mallet from her purse and takes a swing at Harry. Harry ducks the hammer, and it cracks against the walls of the train with a bang.
Before Ron can get on his feet, Harry stomps on the girl's foot, she yelps in pain, and they both go sprinting down the Hogwarts Express, barrelling past Trevor Longbottom and Draco Malfoy and his two trollish friends.
"Weasley," Draco says, looking more frazzled than Ron's ever seen, "what in the world was that about?"
The lot of them can only stare dumbly as a girlish shriek echoes from around the corner.
"Awoh-WA-HA-HA-HA-HOOO!"
As Professor McGonagall finishes giving both of them the lecture of a lifetime and giving them both detentions before school even starts and confiscating the girl's purse, Harry — Two letters off from his old name, funny how that works — Harry can't help but smile, despite the scrapes on his knees and the bruises on his side.
"What's even your name nowadays, Tommy?"
The words are barely a whisper, but this conversation isn't one they can have silently, unlike many of their other ones.
"Hermione Thomas Granger. I get to keep one of my names, ain't that a treat?"
The Mid-Atlantic accent is sweet on his ears. He wishes he kept his, but he figures he can get it back if he hangs with Tom — no, Hermione — long enough.
"Well, my middle name's James, and my name's Harry, so if ya put 'em together, it ain't so bad."
They look each other down. They're kids. Human kids. They aren't made of the same stuff as they used to be, apparently. That mallet probably could have done more damage than whatever comical flattening they suffered before they became... this.
They meet each other's eyes and reach an understanding.
Harry offers a handshake, Hermione accepts, and they both trod off to the Sorting Ceremony.
They're both in Gryffindor, because of course they are.
After all, one's a cat with far too much moxie, the other one's a mouse willing to fight that cat.
Among Hogwarts students, the first thing to know about Harry and Hermione is that they don't talk nearly enough for two firsties.
This particular fact becomes famous in Gryffindor when Professor Snape tries to quiz Harry during his first Potions class. As the story goes, Harry shrugged for the first question, made a face for the second question, and blew a raspberry for the third. And then Hermione laughed.
The detentions could be heard from the Astronomy Tower.
Draco feels a smug satisfaction, passing by and watching them scrub cauldrons in the dungeons under Professor Snape's cold glare. Crabbe points and laughs, making some hare-brained joke while trailing behind Draco.
Goyle looks at them for a bit longer than he should. He scratches his head, and moves on.
The second thing to know is that they're absolutely bonkers and hate each other to bits, and it's a very good idea not to come between them while they fight.
Professor Quirrel learns this when Hermione's chasing Harry down a hallway during a free period. He tries to stand in front of them to stop them like any good authority figure, but before he can stutter a word, Harry grabs his shoulders, uses him as a human shield for a solid five minutes, before climbing on top of him and using him as a springboard to get away.
After Quirrel is admitted to the Hospital Wing for third degree burns and then promptly disappears after being fired from the school shortly afterwards, everyone else agrees that it's good to have a wide berth when Harry and Hermione are up to their usual antics.
He's replaced by some fop named Professor Lockhart. Both Harry and Hermione roll their eyes, but life goes on.
It's their first day of Flying class and Lavender's having a hard time getting her broom to listen to her. Grumbling, she watches the other students on their brooms get it right — Harry's a natural, and as if on command, Hermione's right behind him. They go about chasing each other like they always do until Madam Hooch yells at them.
In the middle of it, Neville drops his Remembrall, and Draco starts tossing it around like the jerk he always is, and Harry gives him a stink-eye. Somewhere in there, Draco drops it, and both Harry and Hermione chase after it.
Lavender almost shrieks as Hermione grabs the Remembrall with an insane speed before pulling up at the last minute, pantomiming wiping sweat off her forehead. Then Professor McGonagall is there, and Lavender thinks they're about to lose more house points.
Except they don't.
Huh.
That night, far past midnight, Neville stays up late, trying to figure out what he'd forgotten. After all, it'd be a waste not to — not after Hermione did that insane dive for him.
Then, he hears someone talking in the common room. He cracks open a door ever so slightly and peeks.
"And I'm tellin' ya, Tommy, the guy was somethin' awful. I mean, who burns up like I'm some sorta hot iron? Nothin' normal, in my mind!"
Harry pokes at the dying coals with a grumble while Hermione reads from the Daily Prophet.
"Well, maybe we should ask that Dumbledore fella. He's a smart aleck, and he fired the schmuck, so he's probably got a clue… Wait, is someone there?"
Hermione looks up from her newspaper in Neville's direction. He nearly slams the door closed, his heart pounding out of his chest.
During Charms, Hermione gets Wingardium Leviosa right on the first try. Like she always does. And then she immediately tries to use it to mess with Harry, like she always does.
Ron watches Harry try to focus despite a feather threatening to go up his nose, and something bitter and fiery and righteous builds up in his chest.
By the end of class, as they're all leaving, Hermione tries to trip Harry, and the thing in his chest comes right out of his mouth.
"We all know you're some freakish, rat-toothed know-it-all, Granger, but do you have to bother Harry, too? No wonder nobody's your friend!"
The class of eleven-year-olds gasp and watch the scene unfold.
Granger stares at Ron for a moment, but then shakes her head and glares at him. He's not scared of her. He glares back at her dumb face. He tugs at Harry's sleeve so they can leave.
Harry doesn't move. Ron looks back, still trying to look tough.
"C'mon, Harry! Let's get out before Granger decides to try and kill you again."
And then Harry looks at Ron with the same ice that Hermione does, and the bitterness and the fire and the righteousness all drop into a bottomless pit somewhere in his stomach.
Harry Potter snorts at Ron Weasley before yanking his hand away, quickening his pace and — following behind Hermione Granger. They both have their hands balled up in fists as they storm off in tandem.
Ron feels like a goldfish out of water as the rest of the class brush past him.
It's Halloween night, and the festivities are in full force.
Harry and Hermione are having a food contest to cheer themselves up, and some of the students have started betting chocolate frog cards (and actual galleons, among the older students) on who can eat more. More people have wagered on Harry than on Hermione, but since Harry ate too much cheese to start off with, Hermione swallows down an entire fish fillet and is declared the winner.
(There's no troll in the dungeons, because why would there be?)
At the end of the night, Dumbledore asks Harry to follow him to his office, so he does.
"Thank you so much for coming, Harry. Lemon drop?"
Harry holds back a burp and shakes his head. He's stuffed. Dumbledore grins, a twinkle in his eyes.
"Ah, yes. I'm happy you've made amends with Ms. Granger — and in what a delightful way! It's wonderful that you enjoyed Halloween with your peers. Alas, I've called you up here for more somber topics, I'm afraid. As you know, Halloween is a very special day for the Wizarding World, and for your own family…"
Harry folds his hands in his lap and listens. Despite the fun he's had, the story of Harry Potter is a sad one indeed.
As a silver lining, though, Dumbledore does explain why Quirrel disappeared. Not much of a silver lining, though. That story's more than just sad: it makes Harry want to run far, far away, because evil is far, far closer than he might like to think.
Ron can't sleep one night, so he overhears a boy and a girl talking, and he puts an ear to the door.
"Look, Jay, I've been over it. He's just a kid, and I've got real thick skin. Besides, isn't he your friend and whatnot?"
"Yeah, well, I thought he wouldn't be as lousy as Dudley, at least! Not even an apology. That's the shoddiest type of 'friend' you can have. Honestly, I —"
He doesn't admit it for years, but Ron goes to bed that night with hot tears running down his face.
There's something humiliating, Cho thinks, about losing to a firstie.
Everyone knew that Granger was Gryffindor's kid genius. Best firstie scores, most infamous firstie in her year (next to the Boy-Who-Lived, and that's saying something), only firstie in ages to get on the Quidditch team — as a Seeker, no less.
Sure, her large amount of talent came with a large amount of flaws. She had detention every other night, was obsessed with either sabotaging or outright maiming Potter on sight, and was generally viewed as an absolute nutter by the school. …But that's not important, right now.
What's important is that, apparently, Granger's got an eye on the Snitch, while Cho has no clue where it is. The strategy now is to tail a firstie for a Snitch she can't see, wildly looking for some flash of gold somewhere in the sky.
Then, Hermione Granger smirks, waggles her eyebrows at Cho, and pulls upwards slightly before diving straight to the ground, and all Cho can hear is Lee Jordan as she tries to not slam into the ground in her chase.
"Granger's got an eye on something, folks, but I can't spot anything — oh, wait! She's going for a Wronski Feint! Wait, no, a Wronski Actual?! She was above the Snitch all along? Gryffindor wins?! Gryffindor wins! Oh, three cheers for the barmy firstie — looks like chasing Potter around was practice all this time — Ouch, sorry, Professor, I'll not say it again, promise!"
Cho hides her face in her hands and groans. Something humiliating, indeed.
It's a Saturday, and Harry's just dodged an Incendio from Hermione and he's hightailing it up a staircase he's never seen before. He sends a Glacius at the stairs to make Hermione trip over herself in the funny way she always does — taking forever to fall, her legs scrambling for traction, then landing face-first — but somewhere in there, Hermione's transfigured her shoes into cleated boots and her robes into hiking gear.
Obviously. The gag isn't as funny if it's only half-baked, they both know that.
And then they're on the third floor, although they don't realize it, and there's a distinct smell of dog and the distinct sound of a dog snoring, and both of them stop in their tracks immediately.
Hermione transfigures her clothes back. Harry mimes a 'shush!' before sneaking around the corner to look.
There's a cerberus on the third floor.
Armed with newfound information, Harry gives Hermione a devilish grin, wringing his hands with evil intent — before she shakes her head furiously, whaps Harry over the head with an open palm, and gives him a killer glare.
She points at the cerberus and makes a slicing motion across her neck. It snores like thunder.
He blanches, gulps, and nods repeatedly. Looking back at the cerberus one last time, they quietly shake hands, start whistling, and tip-toe away from the third floor.
On Christmas, Harry opens his presents. Some part of him is thankful that Hermione has a family to return to for the holidays, far enough that she can't steal any new toys or hex any new clothes. Another part wishes he could be where she is, if only to steal her new toys and hex her new clothes.
Hagrid gives him a wooden flute, which is lovely enough. Neville gets him a box's worth of chocolate frogs. Ron gets him a candy cane; the boy's absolutely awful at saying sorry, it seems, but he can at least hand out candy. The Dursleys give him fifty pence.
McGonagall gives him a moving photo of his parents while they were at school, with three other boys he doesn't know. He suspects she wouldn't have given him anything if he hadn't asked, but one upside from constant detention was getting to know the teachers, so he figured if anyone had pictures, it'd be her. He's glad he followed that hunch. The photo goes into a picture frame.
Then there's Hermione's gift. A medium-sized, unassuming, nicely-wrapped present.
Well, it really must be Christmas, if she's going to make it this easy.
Harry opens Hermione's gift with his wand, and true to form, a spring-loaded custard pie splatters onto a wall, clearly meant for his face. Under the spring, though, is a letter and a rather nice-looking metal watch. He levitates the envelope (careful of itching powder) and reads it.
To my eternal arch-nemesis,
Got you this watch. Took a while and a half to get my folks to pay for it, but I've got crocodile tears to spare.
Can't wait to break it over your head. It ain't the same, us being the same size, but I'll clobber you with it nonetheless. Have a good Christmas.
— T
P.S. Burn this letter. Could you imagine if these magician folks figured us out?
Harry cleans up the custard pie and puts on the watch, preening over his newest bauble. Then he burns the letter, as instructed.
(Some part of him wanted to keep that. For all that he's a mouse, he's also a lonely boy who often had no friends. Better stop thinking about it too hard before he starts crying like a baby.)
The last present is anonymous, and it contains an invisibility cloak. The note that comes with it reads: "Use it well".
Harry tries it on, and it makes him absolutely undetectable. There's no trace of him left, especially when he walks silently.
It's everything he could ever want. Sneaking, thieving, hiding — all of it, easy as pie, now. No challenge, no risks.
It's everything he hates.
Harry shoves the cloak in his trunk and doesn't look back. And just to give it the what-for, he decides to sneak around without it the day after.
Harry finds a mirror in an unused classroom. There's an inscription that looks like some backwards jumbled mess, but before he can try deciphering it, he sees what's in the mirror.
There's him, and Hermione, and two adults that look like his parents from the photo. An old, gray pitbull sits happily at his feet, wagging his tail. There's a younger pitbull, too, now that he looks again.
Finally, as he peers closer, there's a young looking grey mouse with a nappy on — he's there, waving, on Harry's head. He looks so small.
It's his nephew.
Harry sighs, letting go of a breath he never knew he held, and feels want in his heart.
But he's been lured by enough cheese perfume to know when something isn't cheese.
(Harry snorts at his own crass analogy: it's ridiculous-sounding, but it's true.)
So he knows how to look away and pay attention to other details. His eyes trail over the inscription on the mirror, and boy, does he wish he had a pen and paper. It takes a bit, but he figures it out after a few words.
Well, that makes sense, at least. Probably some magical trinket someone left lying around.
Harry leaves, but makes a note to check if it's still there when Hermione's back.
Once the holidays are over, Hermione looks at the mirror and chokes back a sob.
Harry's anticipation turns over to worry. His raspy voice is a whisper, his accent warbled between Queen's English and Mid-Atlantic.
"What do ya see, Tommy?"
"Me. You. Spike and Tyke, but they're still dogs. Even ol' Toodles and Butch, but they're cats."
She pauses. That can't be it.
"And…?"
"I… I see Missus Lillian. Ol' Momma Two Shoes, broom and all. Smilin', like she never… never left…"
Hermione is crying and hiccupping in that ugly way she always used to do, back when they were in a house and not in a castle, back when she had things to cry about like family and love and...
Harry quietly pulls her away from the mirror and out of the classroom, whispering how everything'll be okay, and they gotta skedaddle before ol' Filch shows his ugly mug.
Later, in the common room, as he hands her another tissue to blow her nose, Harry's expression darkens.
That mirror's nothing but trouble, and he hopes he never has to see it ever again.
Sometime during spring, Harry and Hermione show up, with Hermione looking like she's just cried, and Harry looking like he did something wrong, and Ron really hates Fred and George right now.
Of course, he'd tried to hide from his family what happened, but the twins had tattled during Christmas. And of course, they chewed him out. Mum's lectures didn't surprise him, but when dad told him off with his disappointed look, that's how Ron knew he'd done something wrong.
But it was Bill that really made Ron realize that he'd messed up. Bill, who had no context whatsoever other than the twins' storytelling.
"Like it or not, Ron, that Granger girl is probably Potter's best friend," Bill said softly, still cutting into his food, "probably because they're both barmy, from the sounds of it. But if it were me, I'd feel awful if I was Potter, having one friend hate on the other like that."
And all the pieces fell into place, but in the worst places imaginable, like hanging queens and rooks in a chess match. And Ron, in his infinite wisdom, had told the twins exactly how he planned to fix his friendship, with all the bravado and courage that came from imagining how perfectly it'll go in his head.
And now, as a result, Ron is in the worst place imaginable, as well — left standing on his lonesome when Fred and George had literally pushed him in front of the two most miserable Gryffindors in his year.
"Hi."
Both of them look at each other, then at him. He feels immensely awkward, opting to wave as though he didn't just say hello. His initial plan shatters in the face of reality, so he's flabbergasted for a bit.
They stare more.
Ron puffs up his chest, sighs, and... realizes he has to do it their way.
He closes his eyes, then gives them a pleading look and holds out a hand for Hermione to shake.
She hesitates. But she does, even if it's a bit slow and a bit tense. And that makes him feel a little better, and a little more hopeful, so he lets go and offers Harry a handshake with a bit more pep.
He hesitates for longer. But Harry also shakes his hand — before Ron pulls the both of them into a hug, even when they yelp. He laughs and pulls away, a bright smile on his face.
"I'm so happy you forgive me, mate! And Granger, look, I'm probably — the meanest person you've met, ever, but — if you're Harry's friend, you're my friend. Hey, you're brilliant at Quidditch, so that must mean you're not half-bad, right? And…"
As Ron talks about Quidditch and the Wronsky Actual that Hermione had done and the last World Cup, Harry and Hermione brighten up, and it made Ron brighten up, too.
(Fred and George give each other fist bumps before walking off.)
"Er, Hagrid. Is that a dragon egg?"
Ron points at it hesitantly. Harry and Hermione blink harmoniously in confusion.
"Oh, yes! I'll be naming them Norbert. It'll be no problem at all, with me around."
"...Er."
Professor Filius Flitwick isn't quite sure how to feel about Gryffindor's latest generation of troublemakers.
Rather than the self-proclaimed Marauders, who thrived on pranking Slytherin students until the cows came home, or Misters Fred and George Weasley, who continue to prank all of Hogwarts until the cows come home, Mr. Potter and Ms. Granger seem entirely dedicated to upending each other.
A novel approach, truly, but they were entirely blatant about their shenanigans, with no mind for subtlety or collateral damage. Although a supporter of personal liberty while dueling, the dynamic duo often remind Filius of why the codes of conduct are often so confounding. Otherwise, well, things get out of hand, and...
He watches as Mr. Potter pounces on one end of a make-shift lever, sending Ms. Granger flying sky-high into the air. The arc is impressive, at least, and he applauds her in her usage of Arresto Momentum right before plunging in the Great Lake.
And then, Ms. Granger emerges from the lake sitting on a piece of driftwood, spitting murky water from her mouth. She rapidly paddles using a rusty, seaweed-covered shovel as an oar, gets back to land, uses the Hot Air charm on herself to dry up, transfigures the rusty shovel into a tennis racket, and the chase is on again.
He then watches Professor Lockhart try and fail to keep up with the first year students, red in the face from mildly jogging and yelling meaningless reprimands simultaneously.
"Five points to Gryffindor, for outclassing a DADA professor," Filius says under his breath. He has no doubt that Severus or Minerva will be assigning the detentions, but he'll save his energy and merely appreciate the athleticism, creativity, and wandwork of the two ne'er-do-wells.
(Nobody notices Ron sneaking Norbert out to Charlie's coworkers in broad daylight.)
Between Harry Potter and Hermione Granger, Gryffindor has lost an accumulative one hundred and fifty points. This is even accounting for the basically-guaranteed Quidditch Cup, thanks to Hermione's efforts. As such, this makes the two of them a polarizing subject for their house and for the school.
On the one hand, they're fun to watch, easy to talk to (well, talk at, since they don't often speak), popular for their antics, and incredibly smart between the two of them. Academically speaking, they're neck-at-neck at the top, competitive in every way with one another.
On the other hand, they're prone to danger, prone to getting other people in danger (although they're getting better at that), absolutely unhinged, and the only voice of reason available is often Ron Weasley, of all people, and he can barely keep up at the best of times.
Hence why they're perfect little pieces of Gryffindor bait for Gilderoy Lockhart's latest adventure.
"Now, Harry, Hermione," he says patronizingly, leading them to the third floor, "this detention shall be an exercise in Defense Against the Dark Arts! Magical creatures, specifically! You see, I've planted quite the exotic creature — a cerberus, you see, that I've procured from a king that I'm friends with in Athens — and for your detention, you shall be distracting it and neutralizing it as a live lesson. Doesn't that sound fun?"
Lockhart smiles his best smile as they look at each other, and then study his brilliant face with a burning intensity. Because of course they do, they want to memorize every detail of it, as anyone should.
"Right, well, if you've no questions, once you find the ghastly beast, I expect your best efforts! If you need me, I will, of course, be moving to flank the creature, as is the best way to fend off a cerberus."
He turns around and keeps walking, thinking of titles for his next book already. "Hurrying with Hogwarts", he'll call it! Or, perhaps, "Capers with the Castle". "Sneaking with Cerebuses"? Ah, but they aren't the same letter…
The commotion begins with the sound of a muggle explosion, and there's a distinct "UWAAAAH!" from Ms. Granger before he hears the cerberus giving chase. A wall shatters in the distance, and there's a great big splashing sound. Perfect! Now, to uncover the secret of Hogwarts, hidden on the forbidden floor!
"Unfortunately, Mr. Lockhart will not be available to teach at Hogwarts any longer. A chance encounter with Devil's Snare has, unfortunately, left him unable to assume the position of instructor any longer."
The student body all sigh with a sound somewhere between relief and disappointment. However, nobody seems surprised whatsoever. Albus Dumbledore frowns at this. Between both Quirinus' and Gilderoy's untimely deaths, Albus had expected more sympathy… alas, perhaps the curse was too well-known, now.
Something to consider. His smile returns.
"But let us end this year in merriment and joy. Congratulations to our graduating class: Hogwarts is proud of you, and there shall always be a home for you here. In addition, congratulations to our Quidditch players, and to Gryffindor, for winning the Cup. I'm certain that it shall look dazzling on your mantle, after so many years of absence."
The Gryffindor table cheers as expected, but Ms. Granger seems more somber, compared to her usually explosive energy. A quick peek into her surface thoughts reveals memories of her death-defying encounter with Fluffy, the cerberus, and then her discovery of Gilderoy's body. Ah, yes, that would make sense.
"And now, some last-minute points. To Harry Potter and Hermione Granger, I award thirty points each for staving off a magical creature that nobody could have ever expected. To Ronald Weasley, I award twenty points for extending an act of kindness to a different kind of magical creature."
The Great Hall fills with murmurs as the students try to unravel the mystery of these creatures. Everybody knew about Fluffy; Harry and Ms. Granger had led it outside the castle the moment they could; but Ronald Weasley's adventure is an enigma to most, except those who know whom to ask. The youngest Weasley boy beams, and Albus smiles at him before continuing.
"And finally, to Nymphadora Tonks, who managed to subdue the cerberus with nary an injury on either itself or any of our students or faculty — fifty points!"
All at once, the billowing banners of the Great Hall become a brilliant gold and a beautiful black. Hufflepuff wins the House Cup. The entire table is on their feet in celebration, and Ms. Tonks is held aloft by her housemates, laughing and crying in victory. Somebody has already transfigured a crown onto her head.
Albus gives some last notes of dismissal, but finds himself pleased as he's drowned out by the 'Puff's enthusiasm. Even Pomona joins in.
Flamel's Stone is safe, Voldemort's wraith is temporarily vanquished, and Harry is happy at Hogwarts, with good friends by his side. Despite two tragic losses of life, all is well for now. As Albus takes his seat, he briefly basks in the peacetime and merriment that he has strived so long for.
There's three knocks on the door, and Vernon blurbles out a grunt, flipping his newspaper while Dudley watches telly.
Petunia knows well enough that they can't be bothered, but that's fine. Giving a momentary glare at the door under the stairs as she passes it by, Petunia clears her throat and looks through the peephole.
A girl. Perhaps one of the neighborhood Girl Guides? Definitely not one of those freaks, not with such a nice dress on.
She opens the door and looks down at the frizzy-haired girl.
"Hello, dearie," Petunia says sweetly, "how can I help you?"
The girl looks up at her, beams, then clears her throat.
And then, she puts her fingers to her mouth, and blows out an ear-piercing, window-rattling whistle.
Flabbergasted, Petunia riles herself up to ask what that's all about, what's the meaning of this, is this some sort of prank —
But then her freak of a nephew barrels past her and through the door, a blur of black hair and hand-me-downs. The now-obviously-freakish girl shoves a pager in her nephew's hand and they dash away into a probably-freakish car, smiling like madmen.
Anger boils over, but Petunia can't afford to scream and shout in their perfectly respectable neighborhood.
So she slams the door and locks it.
An hour's drive later, in Hampstead, in a rather nice garden owned by two dentists, a game of cat and mouse starts.