look me in the eyes and burn

Within moments — of Hermione hitting Harry, of Hermione drawing her wand, of Hermione firing hexes at Malfoy and Parkinson and some first years — shields sprang up and seemed to absorb the magic of the spells, using it to strengthen the shields.

Not a second later, Malfoy had his own wand in hand. Another few seconds and Harry and Parkinson followed.

The first years were paralysed, stumped. Who wouldn’t be?

Suddenly, golden ropes wound themselves tightly around Hermione’s body, the same time someone cast “expelliarmus!”, flinging her wand away from the Gryffindor and into Parkinson’s waiting hand.

Perplexed, Ron blinked rapidly. Then, when the scene didn’t change, didn’t dissolve like a dream, he rubbed his eyes.

Nothing. Hermione was still bound on the floor after hitting Harry and cursing Malfoy.

Why would she hit Harry?

“I think that will be 50 points from Gryffindor, Granger, for hitting Potter.” Ron’s mouth dropped open. So much?!

“And another fifty for attacking fellow students.” Ron’s eyes popped. Malfoy couldn’t do this! Hermione would never attack someone without a legitimate reason!

Malfoy obviously started the whole thing just to make them loose their house points! Bloody ferret never should have been allowed to be a prefect!

And how could Harry simply stand by and let this injustice happen?!

Drawing his wand, Ron stepped in front of Hermione and Harry. If Harry did nothing — if he couldn’t do anything — then he would protect them from the slimy Death Eaters in training.

“What have you done to ‘Moine and Harry, Malfoy?” He wouldn’t let him get away with this.

Malfoy, however, only raised a pretentious eyebrow and made no move to release Ron’s friends. Parkinson remained as pudgy faced as ever, her cold blue eyes roaming over him as though she had any right to judge him.

“I haven’t done anything, Weasley,” Malfoy’s voice was bland and even — like he wasn’t itching to gloat and rub his superiority in his face as he’d always done.

Ron sneered. He would teach this pathetic snake not to lie to him.

The spell was on the tip of his tongue. He held his wand steady and pointed it at Malfoy.

“Flipp—“

“Ron!” Harry’s sharp voice cut in. It made Ron falter, but only for a moment! Then he grinned smugly. Harry must be getting ready too, must want them to go together; Malfoy wouldn’t know what hit him.

No-one got away with cursing his friends. No-one.

Ron didn’t even want to know what the Slytherins had done to his friends while he’d slept. They probably cursed him too, to sleep and not notice them hurting Harry and Hermione.

A sudden tug had Ron stumbling. He flailed for a second, thrown off course and disoriented, before he regained his footing.

He glared at Malfoy, who had the gal to look at him with bloody surprise. As if he wasn’t the one that jinxed him in the back.

“LEVICORPUS!” The incantation echoed through the otherwise silent library. The first years behind Malfoy ducke— didn’t duck. They didn’t even scatter; didn’t seem scared that Malfoy was going to curse them.

Why wouldn’t they? They looked frightened enough.

And why was Parkinson laughing at him?! —

…

His wand wasn’t in his hand.

Where was his wand?

Where was his wand?!

Ron looked around, growing more frantic with every second that passed. He couldn’t believe they’d managed to get his wand without him noticing. Especially as he’d just had it in his hand.

“Calm down, mate!” Why should he? Malfoy and his goons wanted to curse them and now only Harry had a wand. He was the Boy-Who-Lived, not even You-Know-Who was a match for him, but there were at least ten Slytherins. Ten! He wouldn’t stand a chance!

But Ron wouldn’t let anything happed to them!

Never letting the Slytherins out of his eyes, Ron balled his fists. He stemmed his feet on the ground and puffed up.

Malfoy sighed in defeat. Ha!

“You’re a Prefect, Weasley,” he said with a perfectly bland voice, obviously too terrified to do anything, even with his wand still in his hand. “Act like it.” No, Ron would never abuse his power like that.

However, the longer he stood here, stopping Malfoy and Parkinson in their nefarious plan, the more an uneasy feeling grew in his stomach.

“Ron,” Harry sighed with — was that tiredness? Frustration? Why would he — “stop it.”

Ron spun around. He must have heard wrong. He must have. There’s no way Harry would —

“Wha— Harry?!” Ron’s eyes bogged out of his head while his voice rose an octave.

Zeroing in, his eyes caught sight of his wand in Harry’s hand. Harry had taken his wand.

The queasiness in his stomach grew, bubbling up and spreading out. It crawled up his throat and locked his jaw shut.

“He’s right, Ron.” He couldn’t believe his eyes, his ears. Something must have been done to Harry. Something horrible. Something unforgivable. But what —

Ron gasped. He knew what was wrong with his friend. The rune engravings!

It all made sense now! Why Harry was so calm about it. Why he didn’t what Ron to see it. Why he said it was completely harmless and not to worry about anything!

Harry was bewitched! He couldn’t know better; the runes and therefore You-Know-Who controlled him and his mind!

Oh Merlin, how was Ron supposed to help Harry if not even Dumbledore was aware of the evilness of it?

What if Dumbledore had been bewitched too?!

Desperately, Ron looked around. There had to be something he could do, something he could use — Hermione! She’d surely know what to do!

Eyes wide and gasping for air that wouldn’t come, Ron nodded frantically.

“Yeah, I— uhm I —” Ron couldn’t think. It was all too much and nothing made sense anymore.

Hermione hitting Harry. Harry on Malfoy’s side. Malfoy not attacking. Slytherin and Gryffindor students standing together and looking at Ron as though he was crazy.

His mind spun. His breath came in short pants. His stomach turned.

Ron needed to get out of here. This was a nightmare.

“Fine, I’ll go — we’ll go.” Despite what Malfoy always said, he knew when he needed to retreat and make a better plan on how to finish him and his cronies. “Release Hermione.”

It took but a flick of Malfoy’s wand to do so.

Ron didn’t like that he managed this wordlessly. It didn’t bode well for them if Death Eaters could do this.

Still, no time to think about this now.

Hermione was fuming. Her wild hair appeared to be more wild than ever, a great big cloud of untamable hair.

With her moth set into a thin line and glaring daggers at everyone, even Harry (she doesn’t know!), Ron had to wonder if she wasn’t still silenced. But he had to get her and Harry out of here. Immediately. Before Malfoy did something else.

This really couldn’t get any worse.

“Hem hem.”

Ron stiffened instinctively, his whole body immediately readying for a fight.

Bloody bitch. He’d spoken too soon.

It could get worse. And it did.

A high pitched, horrific giggle had everyone cringing and edging away. Far, far away.

Ron turned around, slowly and wishing this all were really a dream. A nightmare for sure, but a dream.

Nope. Pink entered his vision. So much pink.

“What is this I see here? Wands?” Umbridge tutted; everyone in earshot twitched. “A wand is no toy for such young, foolish children such as yourselves. I’d have thought you’d know better by now. Obviously, I’ve overestimated your delightful naïve minds. Maybe our lessons haven quite sunken in just yet.”

Her smile was angelic and pure and innocent and Ron wanted to puke.

Of course, bloody Malfoy just smiled; the slimy git. He was probably the one that got the toad here.

“Of course, madam,” Malfoy didn’t see his burning gaze, too preoccupied with smothering up to Umbridge. Ron scowled when he noticed Harry shifting next to him. “Heiress Parkinson and I were just showing our new attendees what to avoid.”

Parkinson nodded, her impeccable upbringing showing even in such small gestures. “It is as Heir Malfoy said,” she agreed. “As Prefects it is our duty to help the Professors to relieve some of the burden this strenuous job brings with it. Our fellow Prefects allowed us to demonstrate how it is not done.”

What was going on?

It wasn’t Ron and Hermione and Harry that were the bad example! It were them; the Slytherins, twisting the truth to suit their needs!

How dare they —! (“Hem hem”)

Umbridge tittered. “But of course, Heir Malfoy, Heiress Parkinson. I must thank you for your hard work. I’m sure the Minister will he quite delighted to hear there is still hope for our world.” The pink toad fluttered her eyelashes, an ugly, simpering smile etched onto her toady face.

Malfoy inclined his head, smirking. “The honour is ours, Madam.” Umbridge giggled. “May we be excused, Professor? Important studies are already piling up and we have yet to finish our first years’ orientation.”

“Certainly, Heir Malfoy. It is always lovely to see such dedicated, young children.” The toad’s ‘smile’ grew as she gave Harry a side eye. “Unlike some. I think ten points to Slytherin are in order… And fifty from Gryffindor; for unauthorised usage of spells not only in the hallways, but also on upstanding nobles of our society.”

And with that, she strutted down the isles of the library, already seeking out her next prey.

Collectively, a silent, relieved sigh fell from every person’s lips.

They had survived. And without awaited torture detention no less.

At least, Ron could begrudgingly admit, Malfoy had some use. Minimally. They could have also done without, but if he was desperate for it…

“I suggest you leave now, Weasley, Granger.” At once, both Hermione and Ron whipped around, on high alert once more. How they could have let their guard down in the first place was unexplainable.

Malfoy was looking at them cooly, though far more civil than ever before.

“While you might like being bad examples, some of us are above that. I admit that I have acted exceptionally childish the last few years, but fact is, I am a prefect now. I have a duty. Petty fights and name calling are not something I will tolerate any longer.”

They stared at the blond. Their faces blank. Dumbfounded.

Did this git just honestly imply he had never done anything wrong? That he was some angel and they the savages? If anything, they had to defend against him.

Petty fights and name calling his ass.

Blood rushing through his ears was the only sound Ron heard. The only sound he cared about. And finally, the weird feeling in his stomach — the lump, heavy and growing and weird — made sense. It exploded, flowed through his every vein and trapped all the air inside his lungs.

Somewhere something rattled. (Books in the shelves, only kept in place by their charms.)

Parkinson narrowing her beady little eyes made him see red.

Ron was furious. His eyes, staring directly into the creepy whitish-ones of Malfoy, displayed his feelings as clear as day.

Malfoy lurched forward, shoving his claws into Harry and narrowly escaping the thick tome that came roaring, shuddering against a nearby book case.

If he hadn’t moved, his pretty little head would have at least some sort of knowledge now.

What a shame —

“Ron!” Hermione shrieked, scolding. Nothing more was said; Harry helped Malfoy upright again and threw the group one last — whatever kind of — look, before he grabbed both of them and pulled them out of the library.

Some distant, muted part of Ron envied Harry for keeping his cool for so long. Then he remembered the way he had fidgeted the whole time, itching for his wand to curse the blond git and his slimy devotees black and blue, and Ron’s mood improved considerably.

Still, maybe it was good that they’d managed to get out before everything escalated. The Ministry already had it out for Harry, just because he was speaking the truth and not sticking his head in the sand like every other coward — if Malfoy’s father heard about this, he would surely try to destroy his best mate even more.

At least it seemed as though the runes weren’t as strong as Harry and, most of the time, he managed to simply shrug the effect of them off. And when he couldn’t, well, Ron was always there to protect his friend. Even from himself if needed — no matter how hard it would be. He would do it.

xXxXxXx

Irritation ran through Hadrian as he dragged both his ‘friends’ down Hogwarts’ hallways.

He could not believe it; would not.

Everything had been going so well — the first years mixed and talked to one another, they learnt, Draco and Hadrian worked on bettering their rather bad public relationship (they had a perfectly good explanation for it, too), with Pansy helping wonderfully, without ever being asked or knowing the reason. She just did.

Of course, the two people who had not been paying attention, who had not been part of the conversation and had no idea what was going on had to butt in. Butt in and risk everything.

Hadrian’s grip tightened considerably before he got himself under control again. Still, the sting of his cheek worked as a constant reminder.

He ignored both Ron and Hermione; not interested to hear their petty whines and complains. Right now, all he wanted was to get them as far away from the library and Umbridge as possible. As well as to a vaguely secluded place without making it too obvious — he knew them, and he knew they were going to be loud.

He just had to get them through one more door. Just a few more steps. Just a little —

Hermione yanked her arm out of Hadrian’s bruising grip.

She stopped, crossed her arms smugly over her chest and dared him to try and move her another inch.

Hermione would not let that happen, they both knew this. Because even after all these years, Hadrian still recognised the expression on her face. There was no way he would be able to get her away from the very open, very not secluded, very populated courtyard.

Hermione stood, rigid and unbudging, with stubbornness and barely contained anger etched onto her lovely face, in the middle of the courtyard. Her hair, wild and charged with magic rose above her like a vengeful, dark cloud. It shadowed her face and highlighted her blazing eyes.

She opened her mouth.

“What was that?!” Her voice was shrill, easily echoing around the premises and coming back full force once more. More than one head turned in their direction, before quickly diverting their attention again.

Just another one of mad Harry Potter’s episodes, no doubt.

Hadrian though, he had enough. And to think that not even half an hour ago everything had been calm and lovely. Perfect.

He let go of Ron’s arm and copied Hermione’s stance; arms crossed and fire in his slitted eyes.

“I could ask the same of you. Why would you do this?!” Hermione huffed disbelievingly. Ron whirled around, gaping at Hadrian.

“I did nothing wrong! You kissedMalfoy!”

Choking came from their red-haired friend, not that either of them really payed it attention, caught in their stare off as they were.

“It’s not like it meant anything!” Except it did. It meant so much. Slytherin and Gryffindor — they didn’t have to fight. They could get along. “But you hit me! Without any reason! You hadn’t been part of the conversation and if you’d really known what was going on, you wouldn’t have reacted the way you did. What makes you think that your actions were justified?”

Ron, it seemed, had managed to get control over his breathing once more. His tactical mind also appeared to have drawn up a picture of what exactly went down while he had been sleeping studying.

He stepped in from of Hermione; his back was straight and his chest puffed out. His whole bearing and every move he made screamed protectiveness, his willingness to defend her against him should it come to it.

The lines were clear.

“Lay off her, mate. She’s right. This — you kissing the git — kissing Malfoy of all people — that’s not  — that sick.” Ron looked him over. He let his eyes — shrouded with disgust — roam over his body and form and clothes and hair and finally, stopping at his eyes. Hadrian’s guarded, slitted eyes. “What’s wrong with you, man?”

Hadrian said nothing. He took a deep breath. And another. Then, exhaling slowly and counting down from ten, he let his arms fall to his sides, hanging limply.

There was no use to being angry. No use to all this posturing. It was pointless.

“Nothing is wrong with me.” Seeing their doubting, downgrading faces, Hadrian sighed. “It’s… Look, this whole thing — fighting with Malfoy, throwing petty insults back and forth, ridiculing all things Slytherin — it’s as Malfoy said: there are bigger things to worry about now.”

Seeing Ron open his mouth once more, Hadrian continued. “Yes, bigger even than some spoilt brat with serious daddy issues.”

At long last, a reluctant smile simmered around Hermione’s lips. The anger was still there, of course, as was the indignation and confusion, but it was better. It was a start.

She huffed. “I mean — I know that.”

“Really? Could have fooled me.”

Wrong thing to say. Definitely wrong thing to say if the way Hermione zeroed in on him was any indication. Her renewed glare was almost a rival to Hadrian’s own deadly gaze.

“This,” she suddenly hissed. Her jaw was clenched shut and, despite obviously trying to remain calm and collected, her finger shook with suppressed anger as she pointed it at him. “This, right there. You’ve changed, Harry. You… you’re different.”

She said it as though it was a bad thing. (Was it a bad thing?)

Her chest heaved with every breath Hermione took, laboured and fast, heavy. Still, her laser sharp focus remained.

“The Harry I know would have never let Malfoy do this. He wouldn’t have stood by as that jerk thought he could order us around and attack us as he thought fit. And he definitely wouldn’t have let him get away with it!”

Okay, Hadrian could understand being different, because he was. But that? That wouldn’t do.

“He attacked you?” Hadrian asked incredulously. "You attacked him and dozens of defenceless first year students! Malfoy had every right to draw his wand on you!”

This time, Hadrian saw the hand coming before it could connect to his cheek.

He jerked back, barely missing the slap that Hermione seemed so fond of today.

Hadrian stared at Hermione — his friend — wide eyed before his attention was drawn to Ron. Ron who had his wand pointed at him. His face was an alarming shade of red, his eyes narrowed and lips pulled into a sneer.

The point of his ire was obvious, and Hadrian hated himself for it.

He hated himself for the piercing pain that pulsed in his chest.

He hated himself for his naïveté, for thinking that this time things could be different. For thinking that his ‘friends’ were not yet so caught up in their prejudices and bigotry that they would be willing to listen to him, that they would be willing to give other kids that same chances and doubts he got.

It hurt that he was wrong — that he was that wrong about them.

Not that it mattered in the end. It was war, and they had chosen their side before the war got hot again.

It honestly shouldn’t surprise Hadrian that their chosen was not by his side. Not really.

“How dare you?!” Hermione frothed. “What’s wrong with you?!”

It was the moment it took Hadrian to refocus on her, the moment he blinked and looked into her eyes, that Hermione’s face drained of all anger. All fury and betrayal — gone. Within the span of a second.

(But — had he betrayed them?)

Horrified realisation dawned in Hermione’s chocolate brown eyes.

“Harry.” And why was her voice suddenly so soft, so gentle. Why were her eyes so carefully guarded but still so inviting, so innocent; her demeanour open and friendly and coaxing.

Where did the vengeful witch go? The one he’d come to know so well in the future? Why was she suddenly his lovely, fierce, understanding friend again?

“You know you can always come to us, right? If you need anything, if you need us, we’re here for you. You can talk to us.”

Oh.

Hadrian wanted this. Wanted it so badly. But —

“I needed you.” His voice was soft now, barely above a whisper and he wouldn’t be surprised if they hadn’t heard him. Still, a relieved, understanding smile grew on Hermione’s face and Ron’s wand was lowered, no matter how indecisively.

“I needed you,” Hadrian reiterated. His eyes caught those of his friends; he caught the look of easy acceptance in Ron’s eyes, the ‘job well done’, and he caught the thirst for more information in Hermione’s, as well as a tiny spark of confusion. “You weren’t there.”

The confusion grew.

“What—? Harry, I just told you that you could always come to us—”

“You weren’t there. The days that I felt like I couldn’t breath and that they were never going to end. The endless nights that I could not pick myself up off of the floor, could not stop shaking and screaming, when sleep would not come to me. You were not there when I was shipped off and locked away, having no company but that of my traitorous mind; abandoned by everything and everyone I thought I could count on. Including my ‘friends’. Including you. I cannot forget that.”

“You weren’t locked away!”

“That’s not what happened!”

A joyless smile graced Hadrian’s lips, while his eyes were clouded by pain. Because as much as he hated it, as much as he didn’t want it to be true —

“That’s exactly what happened,” he told them. “You abandoned me.”

“We would never—”

“But you did! You abandoned me without a second thought!”

Hermione shook her head frantically, her former anger forgotten, only to be replaced with bewilderment and — and irritation. They didn’t believe him.

“We didn’t! Harry, you know we would never ever do this! It’s just that Dumbledore—!”

Of course it all came back to Hadrian’s groomer. The man who’d watched him suffer, year after year after year. The general who’d raised him to die. The Headmaster who should have absolutely no say in their friendship!

“Fuck Dumbledore! I needed you! I needed my friends! But you — you weren’t there!” There was a telltale stinging in his eyes, a tingling in the back of his throat as his voice broke. Still — “You weren’t there.” Like so often.

“Bloody hell, mate, stop spewing such hogwash!” Ron’s sudden, booming voice probably did not just get Hadrian’s attention. Not that he noticed or cared about that right now.

Exactly that was the reason why he’d not wanted to do this in the middle of the courtyard, in the middle of the day, in the middle of dozens of lazing students.

“We just told you we’d be there if you really needed us!”

That, right there — how could he have never seen it before? How could he have been so blind to it?

It was a wake-up call. A wake-up call that maybe their friendship had been condemned to end one way or another.

It was a knife to the gut. A knife, twisted and pushed in deeper and deeper, blood spurting from the wound that was ignored for the desperate wish of acceptance and love and friendship.

But it hurt. So, so much.

“I understand.” Hadrian smiled, a bitter little thing. He should have known, or at least been more careful. What good was knowledge if he didn’t learn? “My feelings and thoughts are… not… right. They don’t matter. As long as for you everything is fine, then all must be well.”

Hermione huffed. “That’s not true, Harry! Stop twisting our words!” But he was not twisting anything, was he?

“Have you ever thought about me? At all?”

“Of course we did. We thought about you all the time,” Hermione assured him. “But all your letters — they were so angry and desperate for information on everything. It just showed us that Professor Dumbledore was right and you couldn’t be trusted in this instance.

“If we had answered we couldn’t be sure the letter got to you or was intercepted by someone else. Not to mention that you would have done something reckless and stupid again, while we couldn’t be there to save you. By not writing we kept you safe — no matter how much you might want to hate us for it. It was for the best. You were with your family and you were safe and fine.”

Hermione was a very bright girl, but for all her book-smarts, she really didn’t know anything about the real world.

Hadrian almost scoffed.

As if he was ‘safe’ with his ‘family’. Don’t be ridiculous.

“My family?” He still questioned. After all, it might have been years for him. Years for him to come to terms with the fact this friendship, this family, didn’t work out. But at this point in time he’d thought they were still close — inseparable with nothing the others didn’t know about them. It seemed Hadrian was, like with too many other things about his early life, wrong.

Hadrian didn’t let his face show the pain he felt — the pain of losing yet another cherished notion. Another memory tainted.

But looking at these familiar faces of memories long passed, being reminded of the love they once held; the warmth and trust — it made his heart ache and soul yearn.

The warmth and inexplicable faith hadn’t been there in the future. Somewhen it had faded, and when he’d returned it had had no time to grow again before it was twisted and converted to anger and hurt and hate.

But this? Now? Those were supposed to be good times. Happy memories with great friends he loved — still loves.

By Circe, Hadrian tried. He really, really tried. Still, he could not forget the future. Could not forget his own hate and resentment of their future personas and past betrayals.

And Hadrian hated it — losing these beautiful memories and replacing them with these cheap, painful replicates.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Hadrian cocked his head to the side.

“What family? The Dursley’s and I share blood from my mother’s side, but that’s it. They are not my family.”

Hermione looked annoyed, Ron scandalised

“Of course they are your family. Who else would it be?” You. I’d hoped that you’d be my family. That one day we’d make it official, but…

“Yeah. I mean, your parents are dead and you have no siblings. So…"

No.

Just no.

“You’re doing it again.”

They honestly needn’t be so surprised.

“I need you. I’m telling you about by thoughts and feelings and problems. Just as you wanted. Yet you deny everything. You’re abandoning me again.”

Hadrian tilted his head and looked at them; really looked at them.

They seemed angry and indignant, put-upon and even annoyed. What they didn’t appear to be was surprised; there was no surprise caused by Hadrian’s accusations.

He didn’t know what hurt more. That they either saw nothing wrong with their actions, or that they knew what their behaviour made him feel all along and simply didn’t care.

And then —

“It wasn’t even like it was the first time you abandoned me.” Immediately, the denials started; Hadrian levelled them a flat look. He’d just told them that his feelings and thoughts don’t matter to them and they’d denied it all. Now look what they are doing.

Hermione quietened when she came to the same realisation. Wordlessly, she silenced Ron as well.

At least she had the sense to look ashamed.

“Remember second year, when everyone was convinced I was the Heir of Slytherin, even you? Or last year, when no-one believed me that I hadn’t put my name in the Goblet of Fire; not even my best friend?”

Ron puffed up. “Well, I couldn’t be sure you hadn’t —“

“There was an age-line, drawn by Dumbledore himself,” Hadrian pointed out. “And, of course, you could have trusted my word. You didn’t.”

Seeing Ron turn as red as his hair, Hermione stepped forward, her hands held out placatory.

“Harry, look, we didn’t mean to make you feel this way. We never wanted to abandoned you. Never. You have to believe us.”

“That’s good to know, but… I don’t need your reassurances that it wasn’t your intention now. I needed it when I was locked up in my room at Privet Drive. I needed it when you didn’t write because I was a murderer and you knew it and wanted nothing to do with me. I needed it when those thoughts festered and grew and you weren’t there.”

“But — that’s not true!” A horrified gasp tore out of Hermione’s open mouth. “You aren’t a murderer!”

“Tell that to eleven year old me who scrubbed his hands bloody and couldn’t sleep, because every time he did all he could see was Quirrell, burning underneath my touch, his tortured screams in my ears from pain that I inflicted.

“I had been shipped back to the Dursley’s and locked up again, knowing that I was a murderer, that I had no-one to talk to and no-one to watch out for me. I didn’t hear from you back then either. And while I know now that it wasn’t your fault, that Dobby intercepted all your letters, I didn’t know back then. In my mind, I was the monster. Just like this summer, I was the murderer once more.”

Hermione stammered. Her mouth opened several times before closing without saying a thing. Ron was equally as stumped. “But,” Hermione finally got out. “ But — you aren’t a murderer. Quirrell was the one who attacked. You simply defended yourself. And you didn’t kill Cedric either, Voldemort did. It’s… completely unreasonable to think like that.”

“Yeah,” Ron simply agreed, nodding his head. “We’re your friends, Harry.”

Stunned, all Hadrian could do was stare at them. They knew nothing, did they? They had no idea.

“That doesn’t matter.” His voice was faint, his statement almost a question. “All that matters is that — no matter how unreasonable — I thought that. For weeks, months, maybe even years. I thought that.”

“Okay, Harry, look. As you said, you now know that you aren’t a killer and that we’re here when you need us. So you can just stop thinking all that nonsense now. And I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry that, even though it wasn’t my fault, you felt abandoned by me — us.”

“But don’t you realise? I don’t just feel abandoned. Such feelings and thoughts rarely come alone. I feel betrayed — and while I might have ignored it for the most part, I’ve felt that way for a while now.”

Hermione looked completely scandalised, affronted; as though what he’d said was the highest offence possible. Still, she only stared at him, words eluding her once more.

Ron though, Ron threw his hands up fed up and turned to march away.

“If we’re such bad friends,” he sneered, “why don’t you run to your new bestie Malfoy. I bet he would love to murder and burn people with you!”

Hermione glared at Hadrian. “Now look what you’ve done,” she said, annoyance and anger clear in her voice. Then, without another glance back, she left Hadrian alone in the courtyard. Hermione ran off after the red-head.

“Ron! Ron, wait! I’m sure Harry didn’t mean it like that — !”

Hadrian snorted restively. Sure he didn’t.

xXxXxXx

Soft sun rays were kissing his skin while the wind played with his hair.

Eyes followed him wherever he went; it mattered not. Hadrian had long since grown used to it. Being watched and analysed and scrutinised, hated and loved in equal measures, one moment the one, the next the other, always changing, never staying the same.

He’d learnt to live with it.

Trying to control it was futile.

Trying to change it was futile.

Trying to influence it was futile.

A waste of time and effort is what it was — and Hadrian, well, he knew that sometimes it’s better to simply remain silent and smile; to make them wonder — even while in awe or hatred of him — how he kept coming back, again and again and again. Still standing, still breathing, and stronger than ever before.

Quiet, padding footsteps drew closer — soft and lofty, uneven, almost as if the person were skipping — and magic called out to his — so gentle and tender.

Hadrian came to a stop.

He was far enough away from prying ears to not have to worry should anything happen. Moreover, he would recognise this gait anywhere — this magic.

She came to a stop beside him; her arm brushing against his side and a petite hand grasping ahold of his.

For but a second, a myriad of emotions washed over him, pictures and scenes danced in front of his inner eye, in explicit detail but vanishing just before he could take them in, just before he could grasp them; they were gone again.

Calm washed over him then, soothed the ripples in his magic that’d appeared and retreated once it was done. The magic stayed close, though. Hadrian could still feel it; could feel it brushing against him, poking and prodding, but never getting nearer. Reaching out — it slipped through his fingers.

The magic was right there, as were the images and emotion. At the same time, they weren’t.

Exhaling, Hadrian closed his eyes and squeezed the petite hand holding his softly.

Luna hummed some unknown melody in reply, her doe-like eyes glazed over and seeing something others did not have the privilege to.

Hadrian did not speak as he continued his trek across the meadow. With Luna, there was really only one place he wanted to go to.

The Forbidden Forest loomed over them in no time. Sinister and grim and whispering and enticing them to come closer, just a little step, and another, closer and closer; he would keep them, he would wrap his long, slender fingers around their delicate figures and hold on tight. He would swallow their sounds and harbour their secrets.

Would they want to leave again?

Would they find their way out?

Would they find their way in?

Luna skipped alongside Hadrian, swinging their joint hands and twirling this way and that, never once stumbling over stones, never once getting caught on roots.

She smiled. Happy and light and not all there.

Hadrian was helpless to her enjoyment of these little moments, to her liveliness.

Somehow Hadrian knew that this wasn’t Luna, not completely. But his Little Moon? She was dead.

“Come,” Luna’s airy voice beckoned him. Her glazed eyes looked at Hadrian, half-lidded and dreamy but earnest. So earnest.

Hadrian let himself be led, deeper and deeper they ventured inside the Forbidden Forest. The ticket grew denser and the trees higher. Branches reached for them and everything got just a little bit brighter.

There was no noise from the castle to be heard anymore; voices from other students had long faded. A light breeze rustled the leaves though. Birds sung their songs and some unicorns traipsed through the jungle.

They watched on, curious about the mages that’d dared set foot in here, but kept their distance.

Playful little pixies and bowtruckles weren’t as reserved, coming out to play with their hair and letting leaves and dirt and little flowers rain down on them.

Luna greeted them all delightfully; her laugh a tinkling of bells in the gentle breeze.

Their final destination came upon them eventually. Coming to a stop in the middle of a clearing, with sun rays caressing their skin and surrounded by Thestrals, Luna turned around, a serene smile on her face.

She glanced at their joint hands for a moment before her gaze returned to his.

Luna made no move to let go of him.

Instead, she simply stood here, in the middle of the clearing, sun rays caressing her skin and surrounded by Thestrals, a serene smile on her face and wisdom and knowledge in her beautiful, beautiful eyes.

“I’m sorry, Emerald.” Her eerie voice drifted through the air, a perfect imitation of a horrible moment.

Hadrian clenched his jaw. He kept his mouth shut and muscles tense, but could not make his hands stop shaking.

He strained his ears and listened — everything was peaceful. Luna’s frilly dress moved loosely and freely in the wind. He took it in, then; the colours, the shape — there was no red. There was no blood drip drop dropping onto the ground.

Deathly eyes looked into dreamy blue ones.

“I know you didn’t want me to do this,” she said. “But it had to be done — it was meant to be,” she said. “You don’t have to forgive me,” she assured him. “You don’t have to forgive me for doing this to you,” she insisted.

Oh, how Hadrian wanted to weep. How he wanted to take her into his arms and never let go again. Keep her safe and secure and peacefully oblivious to the cruelness of the world.

His body ached for it. His heart longed for it.

Yet all he did was squeeze her hand and smile. “I understand why you did it. Draco and I… we just aren’t meant to be separated. But he couldn’t be there.”

Luna bobbed her head wisely. “Death is nothing without Life.”

“I am not death,” Hadrian pointed out.

Luna just gazed at him with eyes too wise and an expression on her face he could not decipher.

“You’re not.”

It was… not a question, neither was is a statement or assent or even agreement. It was… Hadrian did not know what it was, what to make of it. Luna’s eyes had not changed, but something tugged at her lips, something only she knew, something he could only hope to guess.

“But you keep them safe.”

And that — “I do.” Or at least — “I try.”

“That’s all that counts, my dear Emerald.” Luna seemed to change then. Her eyes dropped and she blinked a few times. Her gaze roamed around before once more zeroing in on him. Had Hadrian not watched her as close as he did, he would not have seen it.

It was but for a moment. Still —

His breathing hitched and he closed his eyes so that no tears would fall. Opening them again he could see Luna sway in place.

“I guess it’s time for me to say goodbye then, huh?” The smile — no matter how fixed or forced upon, never left his face. But her limp hand — he let go.

“I will never forget you, Emerald. —”

Luna’s knees gave out, she stumbled and fell and — and caught herself.

She brought a hand to her face, holding her head and blinking profusely, a frown marring her young features. Blue eyes flitted around, taking in the looming trees and shifting shadows, the white flowers dotting the ground around them and peacefully grazing Thestrals before finally coming to a stop on Hadrian.

A tired smile lit up her lovely face.

“The Lines are changing, Hadrian Grim,” she told him, before cocking her head. “But you already know that, don’t you? Death surrounds you.”

“I—” A cold, skeletal nose had Hadrian flinch in surprise as it nudged the back of his head. He had not noticed the Thestral approach.

Looking around now, he realised the wholeherd had come to circle around the two of them. Some looked at the mages with something that could only be curiosity in their empty white eyes, while others went along with their lives, unbothered.

Little foals jumped around; they bounced into others, stumbled and stepped onto Hadrian’s feet.

Instinctively, he reached out and steadied them, patting their reptilian heads; their leathery skin cold to even his touch.

Unbidden, a small laugh tore out of his throat. He looked at Luna and grinned. “I guess it does,” he agreed. Death really did surround him right now.

Another foal was over by Luna; she’d taken her butter-cork necklace off and the small Thestral seemed quite taken with it. It jumped around and tried to catch it with its mouth, his bat-like wings flapping at his back.

“You know, Hadrian,” she suddenly said, breaking the peaceful silence. He hummed. “I believe He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is back. And I know you fought him and escaped from him.”

“Erm — okay,” he said, a bit distractedly as Luna’s foal had enough of her necklace and now decided to nibble at her radish-earrings. “That’s good. Nice, yeah.”

She nodded. “Yes.” Her happy carefree smile and dreamy demeanour was back and, without any real effort, Hadrian could feel his own lips pulling up into a smile. “You are a seasoned soldier. And you have strong people by your side. Should you ever long for it though — I am here.”

That she was, and already did he wish to be with his Little Moon — she who was not her and hopefully would never be. Because this Luna, she was a child; innocent and still enamoured with all the world could offer her.

Being a Seer and knowing hundreds of possible outcomes, secrets that could destroy and having knowledge no-one else was privy to — it didn’t change that.

Besides, it’s best to let the dead rest.

So Hadrian smiled at her gratefully. Love shone in his eyes and warmth pulsed in his chest.

She would be his ally. Openly and without causing a riot — something no-one else in the know could currently achieve. Not that she knew.

Despite appearances, Luna was still not all seeing. She was not crazy or delusional. Her words where no inane babble and her knowing smiles were no bluff. Luna knew more than others. More than even Hadrian, who had seen the future with his own eyes and experienced it with his own body.

Well, he’d lived a future. One possibility out of infinity.

Hadrian knew only those he’d lived; Luna saw many, and many more where whispered to her every second of every minute. She did not live them though. She did not look for them deliberately.

Luna knew much, yes, but she was not omniscient. (And what a relief that was; for her to not know what kind of man Hadrian turned out to be.)

“I cannot wait to learn how to produce a Patronus charm.” The girl looked at him with her imploring wide, blue eyes. “They can bait Crumple-Horned Snorkack, you know.”

Chuckling softly at the randomness and Luna being, well, Luna, Hadrian shook his head. “No,” he told her, “I didn’t.”

“That’s not a problem. You do now.”

xXxXxXx

Eventually the birds’ chirping tampered off and what little sun managed to peek through the thick leaves was replaced by the bright light of the moon.

Flowers only growing in the night blossomed. Their florescence — so beautiful und simply magical — lured fairies out of their little hidey-holes and had them fluttering from bloom to bloom, leaving a trail of glimmering dust in their wake, brightening the looming darkness surrounding them.

Every now and then there was a faint shimmer between the trees, and, if looked closely, if treaded carefully, with calm movements and gentle magic, one might come upon a unicorn, drinking from a nearby stream.

It was then that Hadrian noticed; the creeping shadows growing larger and thicker. They twisted and curled, took form and reached out to him.

Translucent hands grabbed him — but they phased through.

They spoke — to him — but no tone left their mouths.

Eyes — see-through and still sparkling with color and emotions, feelings and remembrance — watched him. Some seemed to plead, others simply observed — none judged.

They never left him. They followed him, every step he took, and everywhere he looked he could see them, hovering on the edge of his vision; vanishing the moment he looked too deeply, then reappearing in the corner of his eyes.

Most amazingly, the Thestrals walked these shadows. They did not phase through Hadrian, but neither did they ever bump into anyone from the other side of the veil.

In the end, it were them that showed them the way out of the deep, deep forest.

And when Luna pressed a single last kiss to his cheek and wished him a good night, he left her with a lone, beautiful iris, its purple-blue colour a deep contrast to her healthy pale complexion.

xXxXxXx

Hermione sat with her head in her hands and tears threatening to spill down her cheeks. The fire of the fireplace in front of her was a welcoming warmth, not that she was really aware of it.

Apart from her and Ron, the common room was practically deserted, everyone using the last chances to soak in the sun before the cold would inevitably come.

After the crazy happenings in the library and the disastrous talk with Harry, where he’d accused them of things they had absolutely no choice in or were even the faintest bit true, Hermione felt lost.

Harry had looked at them like they were the crazy ones, like they were the ones in the wrong.

Ron was mad. Understandably so. But all the things that Harry said — she didn’t recognise him then. That was not the Harry Hermione’s come to know so well.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with Harry,” she eventually croaked out, eyes never leaving the hypnotising flames in front of her. Ron stayed silent. “It’s like he changed. Like, his whole personality is suddenly different. I mean, he still our Harry, but at the same time he’s not, and I just don’t get what’s wrong with him. And… and he refuses to tell us anything. That’s not normal.”

Turning her head to see Ron’s face contorted to a sneer, Hermione’s gaze returned to the flames.

The comfortable, red-golden couch, that she normally loved to curl up upon was just a tad too soft right now. Hermione didn’t want to sink into the squashy cushions. She wanted to… to hit something. To scream and rage and let her frustration and pain and anger at Harry’s impossible behaviour drain out of her.

Instead, she clenched her jaw and harshly wiped her eyes with her sleeve. 

“If I didn’t know he’s immune to the Unforgivables, I’d think he was imperious’ed,” she said. “He must be influenced by something, don’t you thi—”

A sudden, sharp intake of breath had Hermione swivel her head around. Ron’s eyes were ripped open, his face drained of all colour and horror etched onto his pale features.

“The runes,” Ron gasped. His wide, frantic eyes found hers, but Hermione couldn’t follow. What runes?— “Harry has — there’s — runes. Engraved. In his chest. He’s — he said they were from — from — you know!”

No, Hermione did certainly not know.

“What?” She asked sharply from where she’s suddenly appeared right in front of him, her hands digging into the tender flesh of Ron’s arms, her eyes boring into his. “Why would he have runes engraved into his chest?! Which runes? Where did he get them?!”

Ron swallowed a few times before determination overcame his features. Harry had not known the true significance of having something like this done to him. He just wasn’t as clever as Hermione. She had known immediately. She knew that dangers of dark magic and evil rituals.

Looking around, he saw that on-one was paying them any attention, so he set his jaw and faced Hermione head on, his shape mind coming up with ways to protect and free Harry from such evilness.

(He drew up blank.)

“I saw them just this morning,” he told the witch. “He got them from the ritual that revived You-Know-Who and assured me that Dumbledore told him it’s nothing to worry about. But, ‘Moine, his whole chest is like — covered in these crazy runes and scares and all.” His hands moved around, showing just the size of the whole thing.

It was huge.

Hermione’s face parlour started to resemble Ron’s. Her hands covering her mouth to muffle the sobs that wanted to break free.

Oh, her poor, poor Harry. No wonder he acted out like this. He must be scared out of his mind.

“Harry was part of a dark ritual to bring back You-Know-Who, and now he had this huge rune-circle there, all scarred over and — bloody hell!”

Ron was still word vomiting, gasping in-between before coming to a stop full-force.

He broke off — gasping. His mouth was left hanging open in shock by something. A realisation. A thing so bad he could not say it aloud. Didn’t dare to.

Hermione — ever helpful — grabbed his shoulders and shook him frantically. “What, Ron? What is it?”

Ron was still when he looked at her, his eyes ripped wide open.

“Scars. The runes are scares, Hermione.”

The witch looked on, uncomprehendingly and growing more frustrated and anxious by the second.

“Bill told me that different rituals yield different results. Most often, when a ritual is done, any and all markings that were made on your body simply disappear — like, they’re simply gone or the wounds are healed and you can wash away any residues. But rituals that scar over indicate that they are still in effect.

“It could be anything, from powering something to connecting or even protecting things that are inside us. The rune-circle on Harry’s chest is scarred over. Which means —”

“— That it’s still active.” Hermione finished the damning sentence. Because yes, this was damning.

Wide, terrified eyes met while both teenagers sat motionless in horrified silence.

Their heart tried to break out of their chests, pounding against their ribcages with an irregular rhythm, much too fast.

Finally, Hermione shook herself out of it. She gulped in a lung of air, and another. And, with shaking hands and cold sweat rolling down her back, she packed her completed assignments and shoved them into her back, not caring if they got crumpled and ripped.

They had more important things to worry about than some assignments.

They had to safe their friend. Or else the whole Wizarding World was damned.

“Come on, Ron,” she whispered with a trembling voice. Her friend — the only one who knew what was going on — apart from Headmaster Dumbledore, of course — looked at her with empty eyes.

“We need to go to the library.”