Destined By Blood

by Jhtolsen

Chapter 29: The Cursed Diary

 

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January began in a quiet, monotonous way in the hospital wing.

It dragged on with a sleepy slowness, punctuated only by the swish of Madam Pomfrey’s robes and the persistent smell of cleanliness and healing potions.

On the very day after New Year’s, just after breakfast, Neville made sure to recount, with a wide and amused smile, that Ron’s grand plan of staying up all night had gone down the drain barely two hours after the last firework had exploded.

“He was so insistent that I keep him awake,” Neville said, his kindly eyes twinkling with amusement, “but once he started snoring… not even the Filibuster Fireworks the twins tossed at his feet worked. He slept sitting in the common room sofa, like a log.”

Ron, in fact, was sitting on Harry’s bed with dark circles under his eyes and an expression of deep unhappiness, his pale face standing out against his red hair.

“Better than the dormitory bed, that’s for sure,” said Harry, nudging his shoulder, trying to suppress a grin, his feline fangs slightly exposed at the sorry sight of his friend. “No better place to sleep, is there?”

Ron raised his eyes, his weary look filled with deep resentment. He seemed to want to tell him to piss off judging by his sulky face, but he hadn’t the strength.

“Bloody stupid idea,” he muttered, rubbing his face and feeling every muscle in his body protest in pain.

“Language!” said Hermione at once, her voice shriller and reproving, though the corners of her lips twitched with the visible effort not to smile.

Later, when Ron and Neville bade them goodbye and went to have lunch in the Great Hall, Harry looked with curiosity at Hermione while they ate fish stew—the hospital wing’s dish of the day for them—at a table conjured between their two beds, she sitting opposite him.

The air between them was charged with an unshared secret.

Though they spoke of perfectly trivial things—such as the weekend weather forecast or the taste of the hospital wing meals—and whispered between shy smiles and suggestive glances that promised mischief as wild and unrestrained as the previous night’s, there was a palpable silence hanging over them.

She laughed at one of his silly jokes, her face lit with amusement, yet her eyes, always so expressive, held a shadow of hesitation.

Harry thought she was deep in thought, as if drifting for a few seconds into her mind before returning to the present.

She remained silent, carefully avoiding the subject that made him curious to know what it was.

“So, are you going to tell me what you were thinking about?” Harry asked, casting her a curious glance over his water glass.

“Thinking what?” She swished her cat’s tail gently, intrigued.

“You know,” Harry pressed, taking a spoonful of the deliciously hot stew. “Last night, you said you’d tell me something today.”

“Ah… erm… well, of course,” Hermione blinked several times in quick succession, as though trying to steady herself, and scratched her arm with a suddenly hesitant air. “It’s just that yesterday I didn’t want to bother you with it. It wasn’t the right time.”

“Bother me?” Harry asked, his pointed ears pricking up with instinctive curiosity. “Bother me with what?”

She drew a deep breath, as though preparing to lift a considerable weight, and squared her shoulders.

“I was thinking of creating a study timetable for us. You know, for this coming term. Something really efficient, so we can make the most of our time whilst we’re still confined here.”

Harry blinked, and despite his keen hearing, he was quite certain he hadn’t heard properly.

“But… but… BUT IT’S THE FIRST OF JANUARY! AND YOU WERE THINKING ABOUT THIS ON NEW YEAR’S EVE?! IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FIREWORKS?!” he thought, screaming internally.

What actually came out of his mouth, however, was a surprised, incredulous sound: “Oh…”

Hermione’s face immediately twisted, her black whiskers twitching in a mask of sharp disappointment at her friend’s lack of enthusiasm.

“Don’t be like that—you know perfectly well we need to get ourselves organised!”

Harry merely nodded, bringing the water glass to his lips in an evasive gesture, hoping not to have to meet her eyes directly. Hermione pursed her lips, her gaze darting between the steaming bowl of stew and the water glass he was drinking from.

“Who on earth drinks water and soup at the same time?” she thought, but decided to overlook her friend’s culinary eccentricity in favour of a greater goal.

“Of course, of course—go on, I’m listening,” he said, waving his free hand vaguely.

She rolled her yellow eyes, her pupils slightly rounded, but resumed her explanation with renewed energy.

“Since we can’t attend lessons right now and we can’t go straight to the professors with questions, I thought we could get ahead on assignments by creating a priority list divided by colours—blue for the easier ones, yellow for medium, and red for the more challenging ones. For me, colours help determine what to tackle first, you know that. Potions can go in blue, because I know you enjoy it, even having to put up with Professor Snape. Transfiguration, although harder for you—and don’t look at me like that!—I know you still struggle with the theory, but it’s your favourite subject as well, so that can go in yellow. But History of Magic… well, that’s a bit trickier, and I know you’ve trouble with remembering dates of important events, so that can go in red…”

And she went on.

And on… and on.

Harry didn’t notice exactly when he began to muffle her voice in his mind, leaving it as a distant background buzz, and drifted into his own thoughts, expertly maintaining the vague expression of someone who appeared to be listening.

Hermione had a genuine love for subjects, assignments, and any matter that involved an almost pornographic level of academic detail and planning.

She delighted in topics no one else on earth knew, and adored showing off her knowledge by quoting passages from books so complex that Harry, if he had to guess, reckoned reading them in archaic Latin might have been easier to understand.

He had noticed that peculiarity in the first two days he’d known her, back on the Hogwarts Express.

Over time, Harry had perfected the art of interacting as little as possible in those moments, limiting himself to nodding at just the right instant, a survival mechanism to stop his brain being fried by a torrent of information he simply wasn’t prepared for, or from beginning to yawn.

On the few occasions when he had yawned, he saw that she felt slightly put out, as though she thought she was being irritating or tiresome. So he had begun to avoid it, not wanting to make her uncomfortable.

He could even follow, for a while, the subjects she brought up.

But Hermione was like a car.

Once she shifted into fifth gear, her mind simply made no more pauses, gave no respite, left no gaps. She thought faster than words could leave her mouth and spoke more than she could replenish with oxygen.

Like now, on the very first of January.

And she was lecturing, absolutely thrilled, about planning assignments that weren’t due for weeks yet, as though New Year’s were an arbitrary and unimportant marker beside the grandeur of study.

Even though, in the opinion of anyone in their right mind, it clearly wasn’t. Harry was no exception.

Still, did he like her?

That wasn’t even a question.

The answer was so obvious, so ingrained in his being, it didn’t even need to be put into words.

Of course he did.

She was a loyal friend, the sort who would sit and study all day long beside you if you needed it, patiently explaining a difficult subject in simpler terms until you understood.

And that was one of the many reasons Harry adored Hermione.

Of course, it wasn’t just about studying, that was merely an example… he adored her in many ways, for many reasons.

“All right, that sentence out of context sounds pretty awful…” he thought, frowning instinctively before nodding mechanically at something she was saying.

“Did you follow me up to there?” Hermione asked, biting her lip lightly as she gestured with her paws in the air.

“Sure, carry on,” he replied.

“Right!” she said, her eyes shining. “So, for that Astronomy essay, we’ll need to analyse the constellations, so I thought we could…”

And Harry, once again, drifted off, heading into his own thoughts.

Studying had always been his great distraction in those first days at Hogwarts, when he felt a complete stranger in the castle, a boy brought up his whole life in a cupboard, forgotten by all, who suddenly found himself in a world of marvels where everyone knew who he was.

Books, notes and the library had been his anchor against loneliness and awe.

And, to his own surprise, that was how he had done so well in lessons—well enough even to stir a fleeting jealousy in Hermione in those days, something Harry had always thought a complete exaggeration.

Hermione, in the end, would always be incomparably superior to anyone else where the academic world was concerned. She breathed books, lived for libraries, and found it deeply satisfying to organise colour-coded study timetables.

But today?

Today Harry agreed wholeheartedly with Ron. And not only him—Neville agreed with the redhead as well.

There were countless—and infinitely more appealing—things he’d much rather be doing at that very moment to make the most of what was left of the holiday.

If, of course, he weren’t stuck in a hospital bed, his body covered in black fur, soft paws and cat’s eyes.

The list sprang up in his mind, vast and tempting, merely scratching the surface of his options.

He could be playing on the Quidditch pitch, feeling the cutting wind in his face while chasing Neville or Ron for the Quaffle.

He could be making up bad jokes, wandering aimlessly through the castle’s ancient corridors, laughing at the expense of some particularly idiotic Slytherin.

He could be coming up with a new creative insult for Snape—one the professor, unfortunately, would never hear.

He could be pestering the twins to find out what prank they were planning next, maybe even persuading them to rope him into one that wouldn’t get them into quite so much trouble.

He could be casting harmless spells to change Scabbers’ colour, hunting for Trevor lost in the Gryffindor common room, flying with Hedwig over the frozen lake, or simply having a strong cup of tea and a long chat with Hagrid in his hut, listening to his stories about magical creatures he reckoned far more harmless than they really were.

He could be trying out a funny spell on himself, conjuring a few things and transfiguring others.

He might even brew a few potions in his new copper cauldron, or chuck a few random ingredients together just to see what happened.

Or perhaps, simply… exist, without thinking about absolutely anything.

Every one of those options, without exception, ranked much, much higher on his list of priorities than working on school assignments weeks in advance, especially on a New Year holiday.

Studying had never truly been a burden for him; in fact, he even liked it—depending on the subject and the topic.

But doing things Hermione’s way, with that overwhelming intensity and meticulous rigour?

“No way.” He thought, with the utter conviction it was madness.

Trying to keep up with her pace was, definitely, a recipe for ending up crying in foetal position in the shower before bed.

But… talking about girls?

Did that count as one of the options he might have if he weren’t in the hospital wing?

“I hadn’t thought of that…” Harry reflected, his mind wandering into entirely new territory.

Would that fit into one of those neat little tables of tasks Hermione was explaining now?

Which of the three colours in the priority list would it go in?

Blue, yellow, or red?

Or did girls not even feature in that sort of list?

Harry shook his head inwardly, while his feline ears twitched slightly.

“Nah… me, Ron and Nev have never talked about that. They all look at us as if we’re complete idiots…” He frowned. “Hang on. Do we look like idiots? Or worse… are we idiots?”

But before Harry could sink deeper into that particularly torturous line of reasoning, Hermione let out a sudden, sharp gasp, as though startled by something.

“What is it?” he asked, alarmed, casting a quick look around the cubicle, his imagination already conjuring Snape bursting out of the shadows like a gigantic bat or a potion about to explode.

“I almost forgot to tell you about that essay on practical examples of Charms!” Hermione’s eyes widened, an expression of pure academic panic stamped across her face. “Professor Flitwick asked us to hand it in on the sixteenth and we haven’t even started! But I already know exactly how we can find a practical approach to the Dancing Feet Spell...”

He breathed deeply, relieved.

“False alarm,” Harry thought, sinking back against the pillows once more.

Back to what really mattered.

The problem was that, well... most girls seemed rather dull. All they ever did was laugh together in groups and gossip in corners.

But Hermione was a girl. And—well—she put up with him somehow.

She was the sort of person who couldn’t stand stupid people and loathed those trivial chats other girls liked so much – she’d even said so herself once, back in first year, one random afternoon when the four of them had been wandering around together.

“And why exactly am I remembering this now?” he asked himself.

That was a good question.

Some things Hermione did or said, Harry just remembered without effort.

Come to think of it, that completely broke apart his theory that all girls looked at them as if they were complete idiots.

Hermione didn’t look at Harry as if he were an idiot—at least, he hoped not—and she definitely wasn’t dull.

Because if she were dull, Harry wouldn’t try so hard to hang around her, nor would he sit beside her to study. But... there was something about her that always made him want to have her nearby, as if her very aura naturally asked for that closeness.

Hermione was simply too eager with the things she loved to discuss; it was just her way of being—always trying to show her knowledge and, above all, helping her friends whenever they needed it.

In other words, to Harry, she was an incredible best friend. Different from Neville or Ron, but no less interesting.

She had her place in his heart, and Harry had only let a handful of people in there.

So in a way, to him... she was... she was...

“She’s special…” he said aloud, eyes unfocused.

The words, dreamy and completely out of sync with the conversation about Charms, slipped from his lips before his brain—too occupied contemplating the unique nature of his friendship with that girl—could stop them.

Hermione—who had still been gesticulating and explaining something about the practical application of the Dancing Feet Spell with vivid enthusiasm—froze abruptly in the middle of a syllable.

She blinked at him, confused, her large amber eyes fixed on his face with a deeply intrigued expression.

“Huh? What?”

“What what?” Harry shot back, trying to feign ignorance and failing miserably, for his pointed ears twitched traitorously.

“What did you say?” she pressed, tilting her head to the side, a movement both human and curiously animal.

“Uh… nothing?” Harry tried, his voice coming out a bit higher than he’d intended.

“Who’s special?” Hermione asked, ignoring his attempted escape entirely.

Harry ran a nervous hand through his already untidy hair and glanced away at the bowl of fish stew, feeling a sudden heat climb up his neck and spread across his face.

He was embarrassed without quite knowing why.

“Ah, erm... no one, really.” He cleared his throat. “I was... I was just thinking out loud.”

She narrowed her eyes and arched an eyebrow, clearly suspicious. Her tail, which had until then been swinging lazily beneath the chair, gave a small sudden jerk, and her ears tipped slightly forward, like radars tuning into a suspicious frequency.

“She’s nervous…” Harry noticed, watching her closely and recognising her signs as if she were a book.

“Were you even paying attention to what I was saying?” Hermione demanded, her pupils sharpening dangerously.

Harry cleared his throat again, ran his hand through his hair once more, and brushed the base of his sensitive ear absentmindedly, feeling a peculiar warmth there. Then, pushing the stew and the glass of water aside, he rested his elbows on the table and leaned slightly forward towards her, his green eyes—still with their rounded vertical pupils—fixed on her with a bright attentiveness.

His own tail swayed slowly back and forth, which generally meant he was, at last, focused.

“I think I missed the last bit about... the... uh... spells,” he admitted, a small, slightly embarrassed smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Hermione paused, disarmed her inquisitive look, and blinked a few times, her feline pupils momentarily rounding into a more human shape.

She seemed momentarily a little lost, as though she had completely forgotten the script of her own explanation while staring at those intense green eyes studying her face.

“Are you... going to go on?” Harry prompted her, noticing she’d drifted.

“Oh, right.” Hermione cleared her throat.

She shifted in her chair with a small movement and, tucking the strands of hair back behind her ear, simply carried on from where she had left off—though this time in a slightly softer voice.

This time, Harry decided to pay attention.

 

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A few days later, one evening, the space was softly lit by gentle yellow magical lights along the walls.

Hermione had transformed their little corner into something close to Madame Malkin’s fitting room, following to the letter her own policy of organising everything they had in their trunks. And once again, the day had come to put their clothes in order.

In no time, there were neat little piles of clothes spread across her bed, each stack sorted by type of garment. Harry watched out of the corner of his eye, astonished by her patience in folding even the socks.

When it came to sorting her more personal items, Hermione grew visibly tense. Normally, she did that while he was taking a bath, but this time she had decided to begin earlier and arranged them with him present in their shared space.

It wasn’t anything extraordinary, in theory, merely... her knickers and bras—pieces which, to her constant annoyance, always seemed smaller than they ought to be, though they fitted, frustratingly perfectly, her developing bust. Still, to her, in that moment, it felt like the most important and embarrassing thing in the world.

Hermione grabbed a handful of underwear and, blushing, shoved them beneath a pile of pyjama bottoms as though someone were about to confiscate them.

The feline ears atop her head twitched tautly, betraying her shame.

“Hm… I’ll just leave some shirts and jumpers on your bed for now, all right?” she asked, not meeting his gaze. “Just until I finish sorting everything.”

Harry, who was casually immersed in a basic Defence Against the Dark Arts volume—The Guide to Deadly Creatures, Volume I, a recommendation from Hermione herself, who insisted that if he truly wanted to focus on the subject, as he claimed, and not on “Professor Lockhart’s nonsense”, he ought to read this book—raised his eyes from the section on Banshee identification and looked at her with indifference, giving a slight shrug.

“Fine,” he replied distractedly, closing the book with a soft thud and setting it carefully on the bedside table next to his bed. “I’ll go take a bath, then.”

Hermione merely murmured assent, her snout still pointed towards the clothes, now entirely absorbed in a dilemma: whether or not she ought to separate the casual white socks from the long black ones—the sort that went up to the knee and were worn with the uniform—or if that would be over-organising even by her standards.

It didn’t take her long to realise that this arrangement was necessary, not excessive.

Harry picked up his pyjamas and, without noticing, took with him one of the Christmas jumpers he’d received from Mrs Weasley, the one with the large “H” on the chest, into the bathroom.

With hot water running down his head and the rest of his body, the bath already promised to be a losing battle—as always.

The long fur held the suds, the water took ages to touch the skin and forever to run off, and every time Harry rubbed his face, his ears twitched involuntarily, flicking droplets everywhere.

Everything was harder to do.

Even things no one would ever imagine, like sinking his claws into the bar of soap.

In his first bath in those conditions—still trying to get used to the altered body—Harry had accidentally clawed into the soap and, startled, made a sudden movement with his hand. The soap shot up like a drenched missile and landed straight on his head, making him growl in frustration like a thoroughly disgruntled cat.

When he finally left the bath, he managed to dry himself with a towel and then with what was supposed to be a magical hairdryer—in truth, a clever contraption called a Solar Blower, consisting of a polished copper sphere with a large “mouth” from which poured a surprisingly strong stream of hot air.

For someone who hadn’t mastered the Drying Charm, it was actually quite practical. Apparently, many vainer witches preferred it so as not to dry out their hair with excessive magic.

After several minutes, Harry managed to dry himself completely, though not before leaving the floor entirely soaked again—and full of black hairs in the drain.

“Hermione doesn’t need to see this,” he thought, at least clearing that up so it wouldn’t be so disgusting.

After what felt like a small eternity, Harry finally managed to put on his pyjamas.

And when he pulled the red woollen jumper over his head, he noticed something immediately odd. The moment the soft fabric touched his neck, he froze completely.

The smell… wasn’t quite what he remembered as his own.

It was warmer, deeply comforting, with a sweet softness at the end.

It was… inexplicably good.

His snout, sharpened by the transformation, flared on its own.

Without realising consciously, Harry tugged the collar of the jumper to his nose and inhaled deeply.

His aura gave a nearly imperceptible leap, as though instinctively recognising to whom that scent belonged, yet unable—or unwilling—to translate the information.

Harry breathed in again, more deeply this time, letting the scent invade his senses, releasing the air through his mouth.

He closed his eyes, feeling his restless aura calm of its own accord, for no apparent reason, simply enjoying the sensation of comfort wrapping around him.

He inhaled once more, overcome by an irresistible desire to rub his face against the soft fabric.

“Why is it so good?” he thought to himself, surprised by the satisfaction this seemingly bizarre action gave him, smiling as he rubbed his face against the wool. “I like my smell, but… has it changed and I haven’t noticed?”

It was a strangely familiar scent, and at the same time entirely different, so pleasant that it stirred within him a profound sense of calm.

It was faintly perfumed, like summer flowers in bloom.

Maybe lavender?

Well, Harry wasn’t sure; he only ever pricked himself when tending his aunt’s roses; Neville was the one who knew about plants, not him.

“Whose perfume is this? Mine? But…” Harry wondered, furrowing his brow in confusion.

But he hadn’t used any perfume—in fact, he’d never owned one, so someone must have passed close by, of course.

“Ah, sod it.” He followed the instinctive advice of his aura to leave it be.

The wool was warm, the scent was good, and he felt comfortable, and that was what mattered after the war he had just waged against his fur.

Shrugging, he drew in another deep breath—absorbing that comforting aroma—and left the bathroom, his hair utterly rebellious after he’d given up trying to comb it, as always.

“I’ve soaked the floor again,” he announced in an apologetic tone, his tail swishing a little awkwardly behind him.

Hermione muttered a barely audible complaint, but she had her back to him, hands on her hips, searching for something around his bed.

“Have you seen my jumper?”

“Which one?”

“The one Mrs Weasley gave me for Christmas,” she said, kneeling on his bed to see if it had fallen to the far side. “I’d been wearing it for days, I need to put it in the wash, but I can’t find it anywhere.”

“Your jumper?” Harry frowned, genuinely puzzled. “Er… didn’t you already put yours aside? Thought you’d put it in the wash.”

Hermione returned to her bed with an exasperated huff.

“No, I’d left it on your bed and—”

She lifted her eyes from the perfectly folded clothes, but her expression changed completely in a second. Her eyes widened, fixing themselves on the jumper Harry was wearing.

“Harry…” she said slowly, her ears leaning forward in absolute disbelief. “That jumper’s mine!”

Harry froze on the spot.

He looked down at the large “H” on his chest and felt his face heat to the roots of his hair.

His own feline ears flattened back as the meaning of her words—and of the aroma that had comforted him so much—finally struck him.

The smell wasn’t his.

He… he’d been snuffling for Merlin knows how long at… Hermione’s scent?!

“What?!” he squeaked in a high, adolescent tone. “But I thought this was mine!”

Hermione pointed at his open trunk, with his real jumper simply tossed across the top.

“That one’s yours!” she said in a higher pitch than she intended.

Colour rushed into her face as fast as it had into his. Her ears pressed flat against her head, and her tail, until then still at the side of the bed, gave a nervous flick.

“I—I didn’t—I mean…” Harry tried to yank the jumper off quickly, but the fabric stuck in his fur.

In the awkward silence that followed, both were red beneath their pelts.

Harry was utterly mortified.

He would never tell anyone what he had been doing in that bathroom. It would remain a secret locked away with seven keys at the bottom of the deepest ocean he could imagine inside himself.

“It’s all right,” Hermione said, breaking the oppressive silence. “It happens, we… we don’t need to be awkward about it, all right?”

“Sorry about that...”

“No need.” She answered softly.

Harry swallowed hard, not sure what else to say, but trying to make light of it, he gave an embarrassed laugh.

“I should’ve realised sooner…” he said more quietly than he meant to, still tugging the jumper off, “yours smelt nicer anyway.”

Hermione dropped the shirts she was holding.

Both their tails twitched nervously.

Hermione bit her lip, torn between scolding him or laughing. Her heart thudded in a peculiar way, not for the first time, but for some reason this comment had set it racing again.

Now Harry only wanted to fling open the nearest window and leap out. If it were up to him, he would sprint across the frozen Great Lake and vanish with a false identity to another continent.

“Well, next time,” Hermione murmured, trying to recover her composure as she tucked back her hair, “make sure you don’t mix up the clothes.”

“Hmhm, all right…”

But as she passed him to take the jumper, the tip of her furry tail brushed lightly against his—and neither of them dared to mention it.

Hermione took the jumper from his hands, folding it slowly, as though each movement was an excuse not to meet Harry’s eyes at once. He, in turn, pretended to examine the bed and his own feline claws—anything but her face.

Gradually, though, the heavy silence began to dissolve.

Hermione let out a brief, muffled laugh.

Harry looked up, startled.

“What?”

“You…” she shook her head, still smiling, “you really are hopeless.”

The blush crept back into his face, but now with a timid smile.

“I should’ve asked if it was yours, shouldn’t I?”

“Yes, you should,” Hermione replied, but without a trace of irritation. On the contrary, her eyes sparkled with amusement. “But honestly, it’s fine—Ron did say we might get muddled, remember?”

“Yeah… I remember.” Harry chuckled softly.

For a moment, it felt as though the air between them had changed.

What had been sheer embarrassment was now becoming a funny memory, something just theirs. Harry felt an unexpected relief, more because she didn’t know about the part where he’d been sniffing that jumper than because they were acting normal again.

“Did the bathroom get very soaked?” she asked, changing the subject.

Harry ruffled his hair and made sure to pull on any jumper that wasn’t Mrs Weasley’s.

“Yeah, sorry…”

Hermione bit her lip and picked up her wand from the bedside table.

“Come on, I’ll teach you how to do the Drying Charm.” The authoritative tone in her voice made it clear she wouldn’t accept anything but a yes.

 

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Harry eventually, though with some initial reluctance, grew accustomed to Hermione’s methodical system—getting ahead on assignments and studying far beyond what any normal person would consider healthy.

But who could blame him for giving in?

He was effectively trapped in the hospital wing and, should he dare to step outside, it would be in the grotesque form of a cat.

It was already bad enough being seen by everyone as the supposed Heir of Slytherin, the lunatic who had unleashed the monster roaming the corridors and Petrifying students. To become even more of a laughing-stock because of the disastrous result of the Polyjuice Potion was a humiliation he was most definitely eager to avoid at all costs.

Spending so much time alone with Hermione, however, turned out to be a new and peculiar experience for Harry. Of course, he’d been alone with her before, in those first weeks at Hogwarts, but back then she’d been different—more formal, a little reserved, and with a greater compulsion to prove her worth.

He had assumed she would act in the same way now, but was surprised by what he found.

Now Hermione had changed noticeably—and that without any pun on her current feline appearance.

She seemed lighter, more open, and Harry soon realised that this was simply the way she was with people she truly knew and trusted. When it was just the two of them, Hermione was remarkably sweeter, more relaxed, and even more playful—though, of course, she still had her bossy, authoritative moments, almost giving orders without noticing on how best to approach homework or how to arrange a roll of parchment.

Her unique and peculiar mannerisms also became more apparent, as did certain habits, since they spent the whole day together. Harry had long been used to those quirks and, secretly, even found them special.

Of all her peculiarities, he could say Aslan was the greatest—such an intimacy that she had had the courage to reveal it only to him. Every morning, when he woke a little earlier than he should, he could see her tenderly cuddled up with her faithful stuffed toy.

But besides that, there were also her simpler habits—the more academic ones.

After all, Hermione wouldn’t be Hermione without her random curiosities about every kind of obscure subject and her long dissertations on complex themes.

The subjects she chose to fill the time were not, admittedly, as exciting as Quidditch or as intriguing as sneaking about the castle, but Harry now listened and genuinely tried to keep pace with the quick turns of her mind, interacting as much as he could and asking her, with a tolerant smile, to slow down when he was utterly lost.

“I end up talking far too quickly when I get excited,” she murmured to him one afternoon, with unusual shyness, while sorting a pile of parchment. “So please, tell me to stop! And… you can ask questions too. I don’t want this turning into some boring monologue.”

“All right, I’ll say something,” Harry smiled.

And gradually, almost without noticing, Harry found himself drifting less into his own thoughts during their conversations and beginning to take part more actively.

“So then, what do you think?” Hermione asked one afternoon, after explaining a complex theory on Transfiguration, her feet swinging freely above the floor as she sat on the bed.

Harry, who would normally just nod, surprised himself by answering:

“I reckon it makes sense, but what if…” He hesitated, but went on when he saw her encouraging look. “What if the spell reacts differently with organic materials? Like, it’s easier to turn a feather into a teacup than a rabbit into a basket. The texture of the material would kind of interfere with what you’re trying to Transfigure—a frog or even water is all floppy, it’d be ten times harder to turn that into a rock.”

Hermione looked at him, surprised.

“That’s exactly it!” Her eyes shone, and she let her fangs show in a smile bright with enthusiasm for the discussion. “Most people never notice that nuance! Of course everything can be done, but it depends on the wizard’s intent.”

He wasn’t just listening more, but also sharing fragments of his own experience and knowledge with her.

And although Hogwarts and the magical arts still dominated most of their dialogues, they also began to drift into more personal waters, territories beyond the castle walls.

Hermione told him about her parents.

Her father, John Granger, had served in the British Army before becoming a dentist; her mother, Emma Granger, had always dreamt of following that profession since childhood. The two had started dating at university, marrying some time after graduating.

Harry discovered, to his surprise, that he deeply enjoyed hearing about this private part of her life, about what it was like to grow up in the Muggle world—just as he had—but in such a radically different way.

Since they were constantly immersed in magic and surrounded by wizarding friends twenty-four hours a day, they rarely had reason or incentive to talk about good films, childhood dreams, favourite songs, or life’s simple things in general.

But Hermione was so passionate about the wizarding world and magic that it was hard for Harry to imagine her outside Hogwarts, living a life completely devoid of magic.

He, for his part, instinctively avoided any topic involving the Dursleys or the darker details of his upbringing.

Just thinking of them sent a wave of bitterness through his chest, hating the memory that he would have to face them again next summer, recalling all too vividly the misery of those past holidays.

But sometimes, little stories slipped from his lips before his instinct for self-preservation could hold them back.

“And that’s when my mother said she wouldn’t buy me any more books unless I learnt to tidy the ones I already had in my room,” Hermione recounted, a hint of nostalgia in her voice as she lined up a pile of parchment perfectly. “Believe it or not, I wasn’t always this organised. I loved studying and reading, but that’s how she taught me about responsibility and organisation.”

Harry swished his tail slowly, amused by the picture forming in his mind.

“You, not knowing how to organise something, is something my mind refuses to contemplate,” Harry teased, his feline ears twitching lightly with amusement.

Hermione rolled her eyes, but a small smile played at her lips.

“I used to leave a pile of books in the car every time we went out. You know... you never know when the adults are going to start those endless conversations about work. A good book always saves the day.”

Harry gave a low chuckle, having to agree.

“Fair enough,” he said.

“But I’m talking far too much about myself,” Hermione said with a sigh that betrayed her weariness at being the centre of attention. “And you? Do you have any story of reprimand? Something your... uncles... might have done?”

“Ah, uh... well,” Harry began, focusing intently on a splinter in the wooden table. “Once, I burnt Uncle Vernon’s steak. I’d heard a shouting match out in the street and went to see what it was. Apparently the neighbour was cheating on her husband and he caught the lover... it got rather ugly. I only came back when I smelt burning. Because of that, I was locked in my...” He faltered slightly, swallowing hard. “In my room the whole day.”

It was a cupboard under the stairs, dark and full of cobwebs, but she didn’t need to know that particular detail.

Hermione abruptly stopped sorting her parchments, her fingertips still pressing down on the paper.

“In your room? The whole day? For a burnt steak?” The scepticism was clear in her voice, which came out louder than intended in the silence of the hospital wing.

“Yeah...” He shrugged, avoiding her gaze at all costs. “But it was only once, too...”

And it had only been once because Harry didn’t want to recall Uncle Vernon’s specific threat about what would happen if he ever burnt another steak.

“Harry...” she said softly, her tone laced with a concern that made his stomach twist. “That isn’t normal, you do know that, don’t you?”

He stayed silent for a moment, his shoulders tense beneath the woollen jumper.

“Yeah, probably not,” he replied in a sombre, distant tone, as if commenting on the weather.

Hermione immediately realised she had crossed an invisible line, her face softening with regret.

“Sorry,” she murmured, retreating visibly and pulling her parchments closer to herself. “What do you say we start with the Potions homework? We could test your new cauldron... what do you think? Snape’s going to demand perfection, as always.”

“Good idea, let me get it,” Harry said, quickly standing to fetch the copper cauldron from the bottom of his trunk.

With his back to her, he didn’t notice the look she gave him—a hesitant look, filled with deep pity and a contained fury, mingled with an impotent wish to do something, to mend something that lay far beyond her reach.

Her fingers tightened around a quill, nearly snapping it, as she struggled to find a way to reach the friend who always seemed locked behind doors she could never open.

And more and more, Hermione was learning—through trial and error—where she could tread safely and where she should retreat when it came to the delicate matters of his childhood. But every time Harry let slip one of those painful fragments of his past, Hermione felt a knot tightening in her heart, a mixture of rage and profound compassion.

It was impossible not to see how mistreated he had been all those years, even with the scarce, fragmented scraps of information she managed to piece together. If she could, she would hex each and every one of those three callous idiots he was forced to call family—and she’d make sure the hexes were particularly creative and long-lasting.

Hermione had never been a vindictive girl, never, but that family of his... it made her very aura roar with fury inside, boiling with hatred for making him so repressed.

And, at the end of the day, what else could Harry talk about, except that which had constituted his everyday life?

The few exceptions he could recall, the rare moments of satisfaction in his earlier life, were those when Mrs Figg was unavailable for some reason and Harry stayed at home alone—especially at times like Christmas, when the family spent the day out shopping for presents, or at New Year or during summer holidays, when they travelled.

Harry seized those precious moments of solitude to sneak leftovers from Aunt Petunia’s lavish dinners and eat them while watching television late into the night, laughing to himself without worrying about reprimands, shouting, Dudley’s bullying or slammed doors.

It was a small, fleeting freedom, but it tasted of sweet victory.

 

---

 

Everything changed after that turn of the year.

The initial shyness between Harry and Hermione evaporated completely, and the feline games became a nightly routine as regular as the passage of the moon through the tall windows of the hospital wing.

When Madam Pomfrey retired to her quarters and the sound of the cold, howling wind against the stained glass drowned out all other noises of the castle, all it took was a quick exchange of looks between the two beds and, in silence, the colourful balls of yarn and the ill-fated little magical mouse would be set up for yet another lively contest.

This happened religiously at weekends and, with remarkable frequency during the week as well, whenever the pent-up energy of a day in confinement demanded an extra outlet.

Hermione, of course, with her meticulous mind, had already done the calculations on a piece of parchment in coloured ink.

“We play with the balls of yarn about five to six times a week. With the mouse included it’s fewer, about four.” She announced this after finishing her sums, chin lifted, proud of herself.

Harry raised an eyebrow.

“You keep count of how many times we play in a week? And write it down?” he asked, sounding rather sceptical.

“Of course, how else would I have worked out the average?” she replied in a tone bordering on the obvious.

Harry merely nodded methodically, not pushing the matter. Hermione seemed far too pleased with her result and her mathematical data while her tail swished, and it was better not to disturb her.

The practice of their games became something special between them, in a way that neither Ron nor Neville—who occasionally still kept them company—seemed to notice the significant glances Harry and Hermione exchanged when anxious for some time alone, once their friends left in the late afternoon.

And as soon as Harry and Hermione finished dinner and Pomfrey retired to her quarters, it never took long before they were rolling about on the floor with some cat toy or other.

There was also an unspoken rule, a silent pact between them:

Never play alone.

If one felt the irresistible impulse to chase a ball of yarn or pounce on the mouse, the other had to join in. It was a matter of courtesy, preventing the awkwardness of one wanting to rest while the other bounded noisily about the floor or the neighbouring bed.

Besides, the inner feeling of being left out caused something in the other that neither of them could quite describe—it was rather selfish—they had never said this explicitly, but the feeling was mutual.

“He—or she—doesn’t need me to have fun...” That was what their auras seemed to convey, and the sensation was horrid, melancholy, and one they both wanted to avoid in their own hearts.

Sometimes, on more exhausting study days and longer nights, one was simply too tired and the game was abandoned before it even began.

At other times, the exhausted one allowed themselves to be caught up in the other’s enthusiasm, and they ended up playing with such vigour that they were left panting and purring with satisfaction.

Normally Harry was the more active of the two, probably because he had more energy, though it varied quite a bit.

As days went by, the low purrs, the muted mews, and the playful growls became more frequent—yet that unique language had transformed into something intimate, a secret code shared only between them.

“I predicted this would happen,” remarked Madam Pomfrey during one of her periodic inspections, observing the two with a clinical but unsurprised eye as they reported how life in the hospital wing was going, especially regarding communication.

“But... do we need to stop?” Hermione asked nervously, stroking her own tail with a paw.

“No, my dear. This is perfectly normal,” assured the matron with her practical, soothing voice. “You’ve been behaving this way for some days now. The longer you remain in humanoid form, the more common this kind of instinctive communication between you will become. When you return to your normal form, you may even miss it for a while.”

Harry and Hermione exchanged a glance, and a low, harmonious feline murmur of mutual understanding escaped their throats almost at the same moment. Almost unconsciously, their tails came to rest against one another, a gesture of silent, reassuring support.

The nurse looked first at them and then at the tails with a deeply knowing expression, a faint smile on her lips.

“You’ve been rubbing against each other too, haven’t you?” she asked, as direct as ever.

Harry and Hermione’s eyes widened like two billiard balls, a chorus of stammered, embarrassed protests escaping as a wave of heat rose up their necks.

Pomfrey merely nodded and sighed, as if she were dealing with a pair of particularly dense pupils.

“That’s normal as well,” she explained, with professional patience. “You may even feel the urge to groom each other, as cats do in dry baths, but in that case I have one clear rule: no. Touching or rubbing is fine, as long as it isn’t excessive. If I think you’re... getting too close, I’ll separate you into different private areas, is that understood?”

Harry opened his mouth to ask what exactly the problem with that was, but Pomfrey’s stern expression closed the matter. He preferred to remain silent and simply nodded, while Hermione shrank back in mortification, muttering an almost inaudible confirmation.

And it was true...

They touched more often, rubbed up against each other now and then, and... they had even licked each other the day before—Harry grooming behind her ears, Hermione his nape.

But it was more instinct than conscious will. It wasn’t something that stirred any feeling beyond the purest care they had for each other.

But when they licked, did Harry like her scent and taste?

“I’ve got used to it...” was what he told himself—Hermione to the same degree.

They simply couldn’t quite control it, and, to their relief, it didn’t seem odd or forced between them.

It just... happened, and that was fine. They didn’t overthink it.

Later, whispering between themselves once Pomfrey had left them, they agreed that everything they had done and lived through in that hospital wing would remain theirs alone, for ever.

It wasn’t the first time they had spoken of it, but it was a fairly frequent subject between them, as though they needed to confirm with one another that it would remain an eternal secret.

It was simply far, far too embarrassing to try to explain to anyone else, and only the two of them could truly understand the reasons behind every purr, every gesture, every instinctive touch.

It was their secret, and so it would remain.

And when Ron and Neville were around, Harry and Hermione restrained themselves.

But the moment the two left, it all began again—the sounds, the almost instinctive communication through mews to draw attention, soft purrs of satisfaction, hisses to call out or rebuke, and chirrups when they spotted the little mouse or a bird flying past the window.

They didn’t realise when it began nor who mewed first, but once the other responded, they never stopped.

Harry still didn’t understand how he could make sense of Hermione mewing at him and answer her in kind, but somehow, it worked. It was almost as though they had developed a language of their own—or learnt the cats’.

And it reached a certain point where they barely spoke English at all, only in that half-wild way.

And no wonder, for on a particularly exhausting Friday night, with Snape giving more assignments on good uses for puffer-fish eyes and Flitwick demanding a review of the Fire-Making Spell, they were already lying on their beds. The deep blue-black of night was broken only by the lamps on the bedside tables beside them.

Madam Pomfrey had given them their final dose of potions for the day and retired to bed after wishing them goodnight.

That was when Harry began to stir with excitement.

He watched Hermione, who was curled in her blankets, sitting upright on the bed with a large pillow behind her back, absorbed in revising one of her many assignments already completed, wanting to check for any errors she might have overlooked.

She was a serene vision to behold when she was so focused.

His black tail swayed in a slow, hypnotic rhythm, back and forth, tapping lightly against the mattress.

And it all began with that little “Meaw” that slipped from his throat, a sound more instinctive than deliberate.

“Wanna... play tonight?” he asked, his voice a soft, suggestive mew, his pupils dilating further in the dimness of the hospital wing to see her more clearly.

She sighed, a tired sound that was almost a purr, and her own brown ears, flecked with lighter tones, twitched slightly in response.

“I’m exhausted,” she mewed back, in a low, dragging tone. “I’ve finished all the extra work Professor McGonagall set, and my paws are throbbing from so much writing.”

Harry let out a growl that was a mixture of frustration and understanding.

“But what if I did all the boring work for us?” he purred, attempting negotiation. “I’ll take the most tiring part. All of it.”

Hermione bit her lip, thoughtful, and Harry stayed silent, allowing her to weigh it up. He had learnt it wasn’t wise to cut across her reasoning if he wanted to persuade her of something, especially when the matter was playing so late.

“I think I’ll just be a nuisance...” she murmured at last, with an awkward little smile that sounded like a soft, resigned “brrr.”

“You’re never a nuisance when we play,” Harry countered in an equally soft tone, almost a cat’s whisper.

She didn’t reply, pretending to return to her reading without giving him more attention—or, Harry noticed, at least trying not to.

Unable to resist, he slid out of his bed, approaching hers with the silent grace their feline form had granted them. His tail swished with palpable expectation as he perched on the edge of her bed.

“And tomorrow’s Saturday,” he pressed, purring with deep persuasiveness. “No homework to worry about... I even finished my History of Magic essay early, the one you insisted I do.”

Hermione arched a brow at him, her amber eyes with now rounded pupils fixing him with suspicion.

“That’s emotional blackmail,” she accused, folding her arms.

Harry began to flex and sink his claws idly into the mattress, in a motion reminiscent of kneading dough. He shrugged, with a studied indifference.

“It isn’t blackmail... it’s just... responsibility,” he mewed softly, his voice a silky thread.

“All this... just so we can play a bit?” she trilled, amused.

He ran a paw through his messy hair, shrugging again—a gesture at once oddly human and feline.

“Maybe?...” he replied, his feline gaze loaded with suggestion and amusement.

When she didn't respond, Harry lightly headbutted her shoulder playfully.

“Come on...” he cooed softly “you want to play...”

Hermione rolled her amber eyes, but a weak, traitorous purr slipped from her throat, betraying her true interest.

“Always so much energy,” she complained, though her own brown tail had begun to move slowly, from side to side, against her will.

Harry stood and went to his own bed, retrieving something hidden beneath his pillow before sitting back down beside her. He then rubbed his head softly against her shoulder, a gesture that had become natural and reassuring for them both, purring louder.

“Look what I made for you,” he said, his voice a deep purr, as he held out the brown ball of yarn which he had patiently wound and tidied himself.

Hermione couldn’t help it—her black whiskers trembled with involuntary interest and she stretched out a paw, touching the ball with her fingertips.

“Oh, Harry... you wound this for me?” she mewed, her voice laden with a genuine tenderness that made his purring intensify.

“Of course,” he purred, with a contented smile. “But I’ll only give it to you if you play...”

She sighed dramatically, making sure to look exasperated, but her eyes gleamed with an interest she could no longer conceal.

“All right,” she yielded, mewing drily, adopting that air of reluctance she sometimes liked to feign. “But it has to be quick. Ten minutes, no more.”

Harry’s green eyes, with their vertical pupils, gleamed triumphantly in the dark.

He leapt to the floor, dragging the brown ball of yarn across the carpet between their beds.

Hermione slipped out of bed, her movements hesitant at first, but soon she was chasing the ball with growing enthusiasm.

The game began gently – Harry pulled the yarn along the floor while Hermione batted at it with her paws, trying to catch it.

But it quickly turned into something far more energetic.

They chased each other across the carpet, rolling and dodging, their tails swishing excitedly. Harry pounced on the ball as though it were prey, while Hermione used precise movements to dodge and strike.

“Got it!” Hermione mewed triumphantly, clutching the yarn between her paws.

But Harry already had another challenge ready – that magical little mouse.

“Think you’re too quick for me?” he teased, holding the mouse by its tail and making it dance in the air.

For over forty minutes they played with fierce intensity, until both of them collapsed onto the carpet, panting and exhausted. Sweat matted the fur to their faces, and their bodies rose and fell with their rapid breathing.

Hermione rolled closer to him, purring deeply as she rubbed her head against his shoulder in a gesture of thanks.

“Okay,” she mewed softly between sighs. “Okay, you were right. I needed that.”

“Knew you’d enjoy it.” He mewed back. “You never play for just ten minutes”

Hermione gave a playful huff as Harry purred in satisfaction, licking the top of her head quickly, then nipping at it to clean. Hermione smiled contentedly with her eyes shut.

The licking was, as always, a matter of necessity.

So long as they didn’t tell Madam Pomfrey, she would never know, and this way they could take care of each other without anyone else interfering in their activities.

Despite the necessity of licking one another after their play, it remained a pleasurable thing to do, for reasons they still didn’t understand.

They lay there like that for several minutes, Hermione pulling his paw towards her to lick the fur, and then she even tried to get to her feet.

Her legs trembled visibly with exhaustion and she staggered as she stood.

“Merlin,” she murmured in a trill. “I feel like jelly.”

Harry watched with satisfaction.

“You’ll sleep like a log tonight,” he mewed hoarsely, his tail swishing lazily in contentment.

“That’s what I’m counting on,” she replied, disappearing into the bathroom with a satisfied smile.

Harry lay on his back on the carpet, content with himself.

No nightmare was likely to trouble her that night.

His own purring filled the silence of the hospital wing, a sound of pure contentment after yet another intense night.

 

---

 

Over time, Neville began turning up more often to help Hermione train her Magical Sensitivity, and Harry took the chance to hone his own as well—besides having an excuse to take his mind off lessons and schoolwork.

When they weren’t focused on detecting auras, Harry helped Hermione to conceal hers and keep control.

“If you don’t relax, you won’t be able to hide it,” Harry mewed quietly, opening one eye as he heard her tail thump hard against the floor.

Hermione was visibly tense, brow furrowed, sitting cross-legged on the carpet. She let out an exasperated sigh.

“It’s harder than it looks. And I… I—” Hermione growled a frustrated moan.

As though she couldn’t help herself, she began licking her paw frantically while thumping her tail against the floor. She always did that when she was nervous, like a twitch. Harry thought it was cute.

“I hate not being able to get it right! There, I said it! I’ve read everything on the subject and it hasn’t helped one bit! It drives me mad, it’s frustrating and unbelievably irritating!” The growls and hisses tumbled out in a rush, so fast Harry could barely keep up as she bared her teeth.

“Hermione,” he purred her name, in a calm tone, “you know you can’t learn this sort of thing just by reading.”

She let out a long sigh.

“Yeah… I suppose that’s the problem.” Hermione murmured.

Harry knew how much she felt the need to prove herself when it came to the wizarding world.

She wanted to be the best, the example to follow, and above all the one with the answers to every question, and if she didn’t have them, she would certainly find them soon enough.

But Magical Sensitivity had become a personal torment—for the first time, she wasn’t progressing as quickly as she wanted. Even though few possessed the ability, and it demanded enormous practical effort rather than theory, it frustrated her.

“I don’t want to sound like a victim,” she went on, mewing low and unhappily, “but you know that, technically, sensing other people’s auras was already meant to be difficult. Now, hiding mine? Ten times worse! How on earth did you manage that before you’d even learnt to detect them?”

Harry shrugged.

“Necessity,” he mewed simply. “Professor McGonagall told me that spotting a contained aura is like noticing a bonfire in the middle of a forest. Whereas mine—well, I hate the comparison, but it’s like an entire tree’s gone up in flames, great tall blazing ones. Of course everyone notices the tree first, rather than the bonfires.”

Hermione watched him for a moment.

“That’s always bothered you, hasn’t it?” she purred softly.

“Yeah, but not so much now. Being suspected of being Slytherin’s heir was a good deal worse.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “At least they’ve forgotten the business with my aura—or at least I think they have.”

Just then, Madam Pomfrey approached with another dose of the Reversal Potion.

This one they took every four days, and they already knew what to expect: within minutes they’d be utterly drained, unable to do anything useful for a while. It was still early though, only three o’clock.

The best thing to do was talk until the exhaustion got the better of them and they were forced to sleep.

They sat side by side on the floor, on soft cushions, leaning their backs against Harry’s bed. They remained in a comfortable silence, simply enjoying each other’s company.

As always, their tails were touching. Harry had grown used to hers covering his like a blanket.

“You know, I was studying—”

“Don’t tell me,” Harry cut across her with an ironic mew. “Since when do you study?... Ouch!”

Hermione gave him a sharp poke in the arm.

“Idiot,” she hissed like an irritable cat. “Anyway, I found something interesting while I was reading for that History of Magic summary last week.”

“Out of all your subjects, you seriously find History of Magic the most exciting?”

Hermione sighed.

“I know you hate the subject, but do me a favour and keep quiet.” She gave an impatient growl.

Harry suspected she might be in one of those difficult moods, but he couldn’t prove it and wasn’t sure, so he just let her carry on.

“It’s about Salazar Slytherin and the Chamber of Secrets,” she explained.

Harry raised his eyebrows.

“Okay, now you’ve got my attention.” He mewed, curious.

“Back when Muggles began burning witches and wizards as heretics, Salazar promised to find a solution to the problem and set off on a journey around the world.”

Harry nodded.

“I remember that from class, strange as it sounds.”

“Right, but here’s where it gets odd.” Hermione leaned forward slightly, her eyes shining with the excitement of someone who’d just solved a puzzle. “Salazar wasn’t a pure-blood radical to begin with. He agreed with the other Founders that any witch or wizard should be welcome at Hogwarts, regardless of parentage. There are even records saying he prided himself on ‘converting’ Muggles into wizards. A fanatical Muggle would never send his own child to the stake for being a half-blood or Muggle-born—the idea was to make him bite his tongue, you see? Salazar’s ideology seemed more about assimilation between Muggles and wizards than annihilation. But when he came back from a trip to Greece… everything changed. Suddenly, he was a completely different man. The records say it was as though he’d been bewitched.”

Harry shivered.

“And the solution he found was…” He didn’t finish.

He swallowed, casting Hermione a wary glance.

“Yes.” Her voice faltered for an instant, but she quickly composed herself. “Exterminating all Muggle-borns. As I said, in his view, and the radicals’ even today, we’re the problem in the wizarding world.”

There was a moment’s silence before Hermione continued.

“But the point is, when he came back, he brought with him an ‘immeasurably ancient relic’, in his own words. From what I read, it was a staff he discovered on the island of Crete.”

“A staff?” Harry frowned. “And what’s that got to do with him coming back madder than ever?”

“Well, to begin with, wizards don’t use staves. At least, not by then.” Hermione explained in a matter-of-fact way. “And Salazar not only stopped using his wand altogether, but he never let go of that staff again. He carried it everywhere, even into the Great Hall, propped up beside him while he ate. And if anyone dared ask about it, Salazar reacted aggressively. I read that a student innocently asked him about the staff and was punished with a whole week alone in the Forbidden Forest.”

Harry shuddered. He knew all too well what it was like in that forest, and the thought of spending a week lost there sounded infinitely worse than polishing trophies or scrubbing toilets.

“What a prat.” Harry sighed with an unhappy mew. “But he was a Slytherin, what did I expect…”

“He grew crueler after that,” Hermione went on. “Even towards wizards of his own House. Even some pure-bloods. It’s believed it was during this period that he built the Chamber of Secrets.”

She paused, giving a crooked smile.

“In short? He basically found the One Ring and went mad. All that was missing was him turning into Gollum and calling it ‘my precious’.” She mewed with a laugh more nervous than amused.

Harry blinked.

“Gollum?” he purred softly.

Hermione stared at him in surprise.

“You’ve never read The Lord of the Rings?” she mewed, incredulous.

Harry shook his head.

“No, sorry.” He murmured quietly.

She sighed, standing as tiredness began to overtake her.

“Well, there’s a reading tip for you.” She purred. “But anyway, it’s all rather… odd, don’t you think?”

Harry shrugged.

“Everything here’s odd, Hermione. We’re in a place where people believe in unicorns.”

“But unicorns are real!” she shot back with a mew of genuine indignation that made Harry burst out laughing.

“All right, all right. You believe in unicorns too, got it.” He cooed, brushing his tail teasingly against her nose with a mischievous grin.

She opened her mouth to protest, to say that unicorns existed and he himself had seen one

“Harry—plftrt!”

Hermione pushed his tail away with a light swat, but not before sneezing in a tiny, muffled way.

“That’s for last week.” He mewed with a laugh. “I lost the mouse because of you—your tail’s far too bushy.”

“I’ll remember that tonight…” she muttered in a weak hiss, folding her arms and pretending to sulk.

 

---

 

February arrived with ever more colourful days and increasingly warm sunshine. It was only a week until Valentine’s Day when Harry and Hermione had finally returned to their human forms.

No more fur covering their bodies, no sharp teeth or claws.

When they woke that morning, they noticed that their eyes had returned to their usual appearance and that, overnight, all remaining fur had vanished. It left them incredibly cold, trembling and needing extra layers of clothing they weren’t accustomed to—including two scarves and hats.

“This will pass, dears, until then, stay somewhere cosy.” The nurse explained with a maternal smile.

Madam Pomfrey, satisfied with the outcome, examined them carefully and confirmed that there were no lasting side effects.

After making a few notes and giving the usual recommendations, she left the infirmary, leaving them alone.

For a moment, the two simply looked at each other, and then celebrated with enthusiasm, laughing and smiling with relief.

Their eyes fell on the faithful brown and green balls of wool beside the bed—which, until recently, had seemed the most fascinating things in the world.

Now, they didn’t feel the same urge to play with them. Not even the little mouse they had so often competed to catch held the same allure as before.

“Finally!” Hermione exclaimed, throwing her hands into the air.

Harry laughed, sharing the same joy, but after the initial euphoria, they looked at each other and, almost instantly, blushed like ripe tomatoes before looking away.

What they had experienced there…

Well, it was hard to explain. But it had been strange, calm, peaceful—and somehow special.

In that place, they didn’t have to worry about lurking monsters, suspicious glances, or overwhelming problems. Even with petrified bodies resting in the same infirmary—a detail they both made a point of ignoring—Harry could simply be Harry, and Hermione didn’t have to be the brightest witch of your year all the time.

Even in a physically unhealthy state, that private time had been good for both of them.

Harry cleared his throat, breaking the silence.

“What happened here, you know,” he said softly, “the whole thing about being cats and doing those things, like playing and…” He didn’t need to mention the part about rubbing and licking.

Hermione nodded slowly.

“I… I think I’m going to miss my tail. Is that strange?” She furrowed her brow, as if even the confession surprised her. “I was used to it swishing from side to side. I even liked stroking it, honestly.”

“Do you feel like licking something, your hand or… well, scratching something?” Harry asked, trying to seem casual.

Hermione shook her head.

“No, not anymore.” She said, still a little confused looking at her hairless hands. “At least not so much, maybe… maybe a little still, but Madam Pomfrey said it will pass, and you?”

Harry raised an eyebrow and ran his hand through his hair.

“Oh, me neither.” He replied in equal measure. “Not so much.”

Another brief silence settled.

Both were sitting on Hermione’s bed at a respectable distance, no longer so close together, no longer excusing proximity as normal for felines, that touching and licking were instinct. That playing so near each other had been a necessity.

Now, they had returned to “civility.”

And though they were relieved to be normal humans again, they could not deny that they felt an inner chill at the absence of the closeness that had been built over so long. Now, it was set aside.

Their auras were sad, as if someone special had left and it would take a long time to return home; as if they needed each other’s warmth to heat themselves again, but could do nothing to change it.

At least, not in that moment.

But then, suddenly, as if it did not want this experience to be forgotten, as if what they had lived there had been special in some way, Harry tilted his head slightly towards Hermione:

“MaMaew?” he mewed softly.

Hermione blinked, surprised, but soon a playful smile curved her lips before she replied quietly.

“MeawMew,” she gave a cute meow “brrr”

“Mprrr,” he purred back.

The two looked at each other for a second—and smiled at one another, with soft little laughs. They could no longer fully understand each other in those mews, but deep down, one understood what the other meant for the last time in the language of cats.

Closing their trunks, they packed their things and left the infirmary together, like two normal children.

 

---

 

The professors were relieved to see them well, full of energy for study and cheerful once more—except for Snape, of course, who made a point of grumbling that his “peace” had finally come to an end.

Everything normal, as expected.

Neville and Ron seemed equally satisfied.

“Merlin, I couldn’t take it any longer! It’s finally good to see you lot here,” said Ron between mouthfuls of lunch, pointing his fork at Neville. “You’re my mate, Nev, but if I have to hear one more word about what some damned Montrose Magpies chaser did that was ‘amazing’, I swear I’ll have a fit!”

“Oi! You were the one bringing up Quidditch, not me!” Neville protested, raising his hands in surrender. “What fault is it of mine if your team—”

“Don’t you dare!” Ron interrupted immediately.

Harry and Hermione burst into laughter.

“Alright, alright,” Neville surrendered, smiling.

Harry had to admit: it was good to be with them again, sharing meals and study sessions.

When the notorious Valentine’s Day finally arrived, Harry realised, with a deep sense of resignation, that Professor Lockhart’s absurd ideas had indeed taken shape. Unfortunately.

Apparently, no one had had the good sense to stop the man, and the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor had not been bluffing when he announced, with his customary pomp, that he wanted to do “something truly special” for the occasion.

He had transformed the entire castle into a spectacle of vibrant pinks and reds, an explosion of colour that even made the darkest corridors feel strangely cheerful.

Small clouds of whitish smoke, enchanted never to dissipate, floated through the corridors and hovered beneath the decorated ceiling of the Great Hall, simulating a romantic, dreamlike sky. Illusions of gleaming white doves flew past from time to time, vanishing into the air with a final silvery glimmer before reappearing elsewhere.

To the general dismay of the single students, the lonely, the broken‑hearted, the unloved—and those who simply had a shred of common sense—the couples appeared even more… excessive than usual.

Instead of revising useful spells or practising Transfiguration, or simply behaving as normal witches and wizards in the corridors as always happened, the older students were scattered across benches and corners, taking advantage of the excuse of artificial romance to cling in the least discreet manner wherever they could.

No corner of the castle seemed free from this epidemic of affection. Common rooms, courtyards, open areas, corridors, empty classrooms, the trophy room, the Astronomy Tower, the Quidditch pitch, the north, south, east—even the west towers were not spared, with snogging even at the edge of the abandoned well!

And the Black Lake?

Don’t even think that the lakeside would be without someone swapping saliva with someone else.

Not even the prefects, most of whom were far too occupied kissing to enforce any order, nor Filch, with all his perpetual scowl and his rancour towards any sign of youthful joy, could contain the tide of excessive, saccharine public displays of affection. And the Aurors were hardly interested in bothering with extremely soppy juvenile relationships.

Even Peeves, who had elaborate plans to play a bloody trick on one of the clingiest couples, gave up when confronted with two particularly enthusiastic Hufflepuff students in a nook near the kitchen.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake!” the poltergeist complained loudly, floating indignantly.

The couple separated for a millisecond, lips swollen, staring at him with empty, dazed expressions, hair dishevelled.

He let out an exaggerated huff of disgust and floated away slowly, grumbling to himself about “second‑hand embarrassment” and “this generation of soppy degenerates.”

And when Peeves, chaos incarnate, gave up on a prank and retreated grumbling, it was because, as Ron liked to say at times, “something wrong, it wasn't right.”

It was in this surreal scene that Harry, Neville, Ron and Hermione were wandering absentmindedly along the first‑floor corridor, trying to ignore the oppressively romantic atmosphere as much as possible, when they spotted a particularly engrossed couple in a dark recess near a statue of a fully armoured knight.

The kiss was so intense and noisy that the very statue, in an act of pure magical embarrassment, took a subtle but perceptible step aside, moving slowly to keep a safe distance and preserve some dignity.

“Ugh, disgusting…” Hermione murmured, shaking her head disapprovingly while clutching her pile of books to her chest and quickening her pace, trying to leave the scene behind.

“Thank your dear Defence Against the Dark Arts professor for that,” Ron grumbled, making a point of emphasising Lockhart’s title with a tone heavy with sarcasm.

“I’m not trying to defend or support him,” Neville began, hesitant, clearly attempting to avoid igniting an argument, “but last year was pretty much the same. With decorations or not, people… well, they behave like that anyway.”

“That’s not behaviour, Neville, that’s depravity!” Hermione retorted, wrinkling her nose as if she had smelled something foul. “It has nothing to do with love!”

Neville looked at another entwined couple on a bench, but did not show any sign of disgust. In fact, he seemed more intrigued, as if those two were some rare lip‑slugs he was studying for Herbology class.

“But… if you were with someone you liked today,” he asked, turning to Hermione with genuine curiosity, “would you still be complaining or more… occupied with pleasing your partner?”

Harry and Ron raised their eyebrows at the pointed question and nudged each other on the shoulder as if Neville had hit the mark perfectly. They could not suppress a simultaneous laugh, while Hermione’s face flared redder and redder, rivaling the brightest decorations in the corridor.

“W‑what? No way! I mean… it’s obvious I’d be complaining!” Hermione stumbled over her words, her voice growing higher pitched. “You know perfectly well I’d be the first to separate these couples! It’s expressly against the rules to be kissing and… and snogging in public like that! Totally contrary to the decorum of Hogwarts!”

It was true, she certainly would do that. But none of the scattered couples seemed to care in the slightest about rules or decorum. And for a day like that, trying to patrol the corridors to enforce rules seemed the purest waste of time.

“Uh‑huh,” Ron agreed, his tone heavy with sarcasm. “Sure, Hermione, Sure. We’ll have this same chat again in about five years, alright?”

Neville remained thoughtful while Harry laughed along with Ron, but when he looked at Hermione again and met her deadly glare—a look promising a slow and painful death via heavy books—he immediately looked away and stopped laughing, suddenly very interested in his own shoes.

She lifted her chin silently, a gesture of wounded dignity, and said nothing further, trying to overcome the embarrassment burning on her face, tossing her thick hair back.

Upon arriving at the Great Hall for breakfast, they noticed that Lockhart once more wished to be the centre of attention.

This time, he wore a long, dazzling shock‑pink robe, matching perfectly with the over‑romantic scene around him. His wide, gleaming smile seemed more radiant than ever.

“Ah, love is in the air, my young ones!” he exclaimed, spreading his arms dramatically. “Nothing like warming this cold castle with a little romance!”

Harry rolled his eyes.

It was obvious it was all just another excuse for Lockhart to show off.

Breakfast began as usual, with owls flying overhead delivering post—newspapers, packages, letters from family.

But that day, the quantity of perfumed notes and cards was absurd.

Older boys and girls—the prettiest and most popular—received love letters by the dozen.

Some girls sighed upon opening pink envelopes decorated with shimmering hearts, while others burst into hysterical giggles upon reading overblown or clumsy declarations, clearly leaving the sender visibly uncomfortable and heartbroken across the hall.

There were also those who, with a bored look, tossed the letters aside without ceremony, as if the sentiments within were utterly worthless.

Cedric Diggory, for example, received five letters.

All, it seemed, from the same girls who could not stop staring at him from the other side of the table as if he were a sugar‑iced sweet.

Harry was sure it would be a long day.

Neither Neville nor Ron seemed to mind not receiving a single letter. They shrugged and continued eating with their usual ferocity.

Hermione also received nothing, and though she made a point of declaring she did not care in the slightest about “this sort of nonsense,” a more attentive observer could have noticed the slight tension in her shoulders.

“These trifles only hinder academic performance,” she declared, poking her porridge with some force. “Love letters do not improve grades!” It was like a mantra she repeated to herself.

Despite her stance, she felt an inner, heavy, silent disappointment—which she managed to contain with remarkable willpower—upon realising that not even a poorly written note had been sent to her, while some colleagues were receiving one or two letters from anonymous admirers.

Harry would have liked to feel as calm as his friends, but to his misfortune, he received a letter.

If you looked more at the Hufflepuff table, perhaps we could sneak off to the kitchens or greenhouses together. I could show you the flavor of peppermint…

Harry read softly but audibly, and pushed the parchment aside with a grimace of discomfort. He would definitely avoid looking at the Hufflepuff table for the next few days.

“You’re a lucky fellow, mate,” Ron joked, with a half‑smile.

“Well… they say Hufflepuff is famous for having the kindest girls of the four houses.” Neville tried to help with a small smile. “Not to mention educating the best witch cooks,”

“Lost my appetite, thanks.” He murmured softly, resting his elbows on the table.

But, to their astonishment, another letter arrived.

And then another.

And another.

And then five more.

Until it became impossible to ignore the fact that Harry was being buried under messages of “love.”

It was then that Hermione, who had so far maintained a stern silence, could no longer contain herself.

Her eyes swept over the mountain of scented parchments beside Harry’s plate, and an audible tsk escaped her lips. She felt her aura grow warmer with indignation, and uncomfortably so, for some reason.

“Looks like someone’s going to need a secretary soon enough,” she commented, her voice sharper than usual, and immediately plunged her nose into Advanced Transfiguration Theory, turning the pages with slightly more force than necessary. “It’s a colossal distraction from the curriculum. Someone ought to remind everyone that we have end-of-year assessments. But it seems they’d rather waste their time sending nonsense.”

“Nonsense, I’m not so sure,” Ron said casually, mouth full, “but I wouldn’t mind getting a few letters myself.”

The messages varied between the bizarre and the frankly disturbing. Many still suspected he was the Heir of Slytherin, and that he was the school’s desired Dark wizard.

I don't care that you are the Heir, it must be an honor, and I can help you with whatever you need, I would stay by your side forever, if you allow me.

Anonymous admirer of Slytherin.

“Urgh... I think I might catch some disease reading these,” Harry wrinkled his nose in pure disgust.

“There are always someone who are attracted to bad people,” Neville commented. “I'm not saying you're bad, Harry, but the Heir thing... you know.”

“Yeah, I know,” Harry replied, resigned as he avoided looking at the stack of letters.

“If only a normal witch had come,” Ron said, placing another disturbing letter on the pile. “They all seem like a bunch of weirdos.”

“Some girls like the bad boy, Ron,” Hermione replied dryly, her lip pursed. She found it completely ridiculous. “Believe it or not, some fantasize about it.”

“Merlin save me...” Ron muttered, looking strangely at all the girls in the Hall. “Could it be any of those?”

“That's why I prefer to stay in the greenhouses...” Neville spoke softly, sighing. “Plants are easier to understand.”

Some seemed genuinely romantic, but all referred to the Boy-Who-Lived or Harry Potter, as if he were some sort of powerful hero, and not just Harry.

They all spoke of a hero who did not exist, and not of him himself.

None of them noticed Ginny casting furtive glances at Harry that morning, her face lightly flushed as she smiled shyly. One of her letters—one he had discarded among the pile of romantic notes—was hers, even if written in a strange manner, like all the others.

In total, Harry had received thirteen declarations from witches he didn’t even know existed.

Without a second thought, he took them all outside, onto the castle grounds, and cast a precise Incendio.

The flames consumed the parchments rapidly, reducing every trace of embarrassment to ash.

“The worst part is none of them even know me,” he murmured, watching the remains turn to charcoal. “That’s what makes it all the more terrifying.”

Neville and Ron, who had followed him, could not disagree.

Hermione stood a little further back, watching the brief bonfire with a complex expression—a mixture of relief and a hint of remorse for her earlier comment.

She finally nodded, silently agreeing with Harry’s assessment.

But the day was far from over.

For a rare moment, Harry was alone—or almost.

Hermione had gone to fetch some books from the library, Neville was busy pruning mandrakes, and Ron had vanished, racing to the lavatory as if his life depended on it, after overindulging in that spicy meat sauce at lunch.

Even so, the inner courtyard was full of students; after the attacks, no one walked alone for long.

While waiting for his friends, he sat on the edge of the fountain adorned with stone mermaids, which spouted jets of crystal-clear water. He had a good view of both the entrance to Hogwarts—which led to the main courtyard—and the greenhouses on the opposite side, the book Professor McGonagall had given him for Christmas open on his lap.

Harry read idly while practising his conjuration of specific birds and fowl, attempting the exercises from the book.

“Avis!” he said, twirling his wand with precision, the tail of his long, faithful scarf swaying behind him.

A chick appeared at the tip of his wand, scurrying cheerfully around him, softly chirping.

Harry smiled, pleased with his progress after so many hours of practice.

Hermione had remarked while they were practising some Transfiguration spells for an assignment, that he could conjure not just birds, but any bird he wished—so long as he had sufficient focus and concentration. And, apparently, she was right... as always.

And it was at that moment he saw something that made his spine chill.

A sulky dwarf, dressed as Cupid and holding a harp, was on the other side of the courtyard, questioning a few students.

He was exposing his hairy chest through the pink costume, and the sight was rather unpleasant.

“You’re Harry Potter?” he asked. “You know, that chap with the scar on his forehead.”

The dwarf’s voice was hoarse, as if he drank too much, and his teeth were yellowed and gappy.

The students shook their heads quickly, denying any involvement.

Harry’s stomach churned.

If it was what he was thinking, he definitely did not want to be Harry Potter at that moment.

Without wasting time, he closed the book and tried to get away as fast as possible.

Unfortunately for him, he did not notice Draco Malfoy nearby.

The blond muttered something to Crabbe and Goyle, who laughed before he raised his wand and whispered a spell. Suddenly, Harry’s shoelaces tied themselves into a tight knot, and he tripped in the middle of the corridor, face-first to the floor, all eyes upon him.

Even his conjured chick jumped onto him, chirping.

“Looking for Harry Potter?” Malfoy announced, loud enough to be heard by the dwarf across the courtyard. “That’s him, fallen on the floor like a sack of shite!”

Harry, still on the ground, ground his teeth.

“Malfoy, you fucking bastard...” he muttered, a mix of anger and embarrassment.

But it was already too late.

The dwarf was already marching towards him with a look of mission accomplished.

The chick, seeing the approach, widened its eyes and vanished with a faint pop.

Harry stood and tried, unsuccessfully, to untie his laces in haste.

“Look, mate,” he hurried to say, “I don’t know any Harry Potter.”

The messenger sighed heavily, looking at the lightning-shaped scar barely visible after the fall on his forehead.

“Listen, lad, it’s my job, alright? I sing the message, you listen, and that’s it. Then we go about our lives. Sound good?”

Harry began shaking his head frantically.

“No need to sing! Just tell me what—”

But the dwarf was already plucking the harp.

Too late.

“Ah, blast...” Harry swore in his thoughts.

The Cupid dwarf raised his voice, loud enough to echo across the entire courtyard and attract the attention of everyone nearby, along with other students drawn by the off-key melody:

“His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad,
His hair is as dark as a blackboard.
I wish he was mine, he's really divine,
The hero who conquered the Dark Lord.”

The silence that followed was overwhelming.

Harry wished with all his might—if it were possible—that he could throw himself out of the nearest window, even if not very far, since he was on the ground floor.

His face burned with shame as he pulled the scarf up, trying to hide.

Among the students who witnessed the spectacle, Tonks passed by on her patrol route and winced. Her hair, which was a deep blue at that moment, turned pale yellow—an involuntary reaction to second-hand embarrassment.

“Done. Hope you find the love of your life and all that, blah, blah, blah,” the dwarf muttered, dragging his feet away with not a shred of enthusiasm. “Good day to you.”

Malfoy was the first to break the silence, laughing loudly, followed by Crabbe and Goyle.

“Didn’t know you were so popular, Potter!” he sneered, followed by laughter spreading through the courtyard.

Then the Slytherin turned his head and spotted Ginny Weasley, who was trying to hide behind a corner of the wall, flushed to the roots of her hair.

A malicious grin spread across Malfoy’s face.

“Right, Weasley?” he pointed at her. “Going to have another dwarf do the job for you, or will you find courage next time?”

Ginny turned as red as a tomato and, unable to utter a word, ran off at full speed.

Harry untied his shoelaces as fast as he could and disappeared from there without looking at anyone.

He had endured more than enough humiliation for one day.

Tonks, observing the scene, sighed.

“Valentine’s Day only gets good with kisses... and that still seems a while off,” she murmured, casting a sympathetic glance at the boy.

 

---

 

Ron’s birthday came quickly, and he got a small celebration from his friends, from Ginny and from the twins—who, as usual, had already pulled their annual prank before he was even awake.

This time, it was an enchanted toy snake that writhed about under the covers.

Ron didn’t even have time to shout.

Startled, he kicked the snake so hard it flew straight out of the window.

“There go ten Sickles out the window...” sighed George, watching with regret as the object vanished into the morning sky.

“You could’ve given it back if you didn’t like the present!” said Fred, hands on hips, feigning deep indignation.

“Piss off, the pair of you!” Ron burst out, his blue eyes seeming to catch fire with sheer fury as his face matched the colour of his hair perfectly.

After lessons that day, they stayed in the common room, accompanied by Trevor, who was resting while Neville stroked him, and Scabbers, who snored lazily on Ron’s lap.

Harry had let Hedwig out to hunt.

Neville was attempting—with a Herculean effort doomed to failure—to run a serious game of Hero Path with the twins. It was, as everyone knew, an impossible mission. Playing anything with Fred and George together without their turning it into an arena of chaos and jokes was like trying to teach Quidditch to a log.

Yet, against all expectations, the game swiftly became far more entertaining than any of them could have anticipated.

In no time, they were all crying with laughter at the over-the-top character acting—both the twins’ characters were cheating gnomes who lived off eating hallucinogenic mushrooms and selling blatantly illegal wares across the realms—and at the absurd situations they kept inventing, turning the game into a competition to see who could be the most ridiculous and inventive.

It was in this atmosphere of infectious laughter that Percy appeared, emerging in the common room doorway with his usual upright posture.

“I’ve come to wish you a happy birthday, Ron,” he said formally, though with a small smile on his lips.

He didn’t stay long, however.

“I’ve got to finish my rounds as Prefect.”

“Yeah... right, off you go,” Ron said with pursed lips, turning his attention back to the game.

“We’ll talk later,” Percy announced, adjusting the bright, perfectly polished badge on his chest with an automatic gesture before turning and striding away.

Ron tried not to show he cared, but his expression soured at once, making it clear to everyone that his older brother’s haste had hurt him.

Fortunately, Fred and George, noticing the dark cloud hanging over the birthday boy, didn’t let him stew for long.

Soon, more laughter filled the room, with the three of them recalling the countless pranks they’d pulled at the Burrow when they were younger—most of them ending with well-aimed smacks from Mrs Weasley.

“Remember that time we tried to play Quidditch indoors?” Ron remarked.

George winced.

“Merlin, that was by far the worst thrashing of our lives.”

“I can still feel it in my left buttock,” Fred commented casually, rubbing his backside.

“She got my right,” George laughed. “Thought it’d stop people mixing us up.”

“I got both...” Ron grumbled, casting the twins a dark look.

“Because it was your idea.” The twins said in unison, while Ron muttered that they were the ones who egged him on afterwards.

Ginny, more reserved, tried to join the conversation, but she was clearly distracted.

Every time her eyes landed on Harry, her face went so red that even Ron—who usually noticed none of this sort of thing—rolled his eyes.

“Merlin, Ginny!” he exclaimed with a laugh.

“What?” She frowned, eyeing him suspiciously.

“I know it’s a family trait, but you look like a tomato just being here.” He gestured at his ears and those of the others, slightly pink from the fire’s heat. “What is it? Is Harry on fire and we’ve not noticed?”

Ginny squeaked, eyes wide, and in a matter of seconds shot out of the room so fast that nobody quite caught whatever excuse she’d offered.

“Ronald, you can’t say that!” Hermione scolded him, scandalised.

“After that business with the dwarf, everyone knows,” Ron shrugged. “Hardly news.”

Harry went scarlet at once.

The mere memory of that day still made him want to change his name, hide on another continent, and vanish entirely from the sight of any living being.

He didn't think much of Ginny's crush on him, because it wasn't him. She was just one of many who imagined a swashbuckling hero, not just someone who wanted to live in peace.

Harry liked Ginny, but he didn't pay much attention to her feelings about it.

Time dragged on until the sun was beginning to set and, all of a sudden, Hermione noticed Harry staring fixedly at the floor with a strange look.

“What is it, Harry?” she asked, frowning as she clocked her friend’s worried expression.

“Something bothering you?” Neville ventured, looking at Harry with genuine concern etched across his round face.

Harry let out a long, deep sigh, as though he were carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

“It sounds ridiculous, I know,” he began, hesitant, “but do you remember that book I borrowed from the library? That guide to basic Potion ingredients, The Manual of Magical Miscellanies?”

Hermione’s eyes widened, immediately aware of the abyss of trouble into which Harry was about to sink.

“Just don’t tell me you still haven’t found it...” she said, trying to contain the panic already rising at the mere thought of the epic telling-off he’d get from Madam Pince.

Harry ran his hands through his already untidy hair, visibly frustrated.

“Yeah... I’ve sort of not found it yet,” he admitted, shrugging with an air of defeat.

Before they’d put the audacious Polyjuice plan into practice, he’d borrowed that specific book to finish an endless essay for Professor Snape’s class. And if the plan had gone perfectly—which, as they all knew, was asking far too much—he ought to have returned the book three days after the assignment was completed.

The problem was that, between the feline transformation, the stay in the hospital wing, and the general chaos that always seemed to pursue him, Harry had completely forgotten where he’d left it and, up to that moment, hadn’t found it. The return deadline, which had been extended because of his hospitalisation, had expired nearly a month before, and he hadn’t even set foot in the library since, fearing the librarian’s wrath.

“Mate, Madam Pince is going ter want your hide!” said Neville, swallowing hard as he imagined the silent, terrifying fury of the guardian of books.

Harry would probably get a telling-off that would echo down the corridors for quite a while.

“Bloody hell,” Ron muttered, shaking his head with a mixture of pity and disbelief. “Was that before the whole cat thing?”

“It was,” said Harry with an exasperated sigh, running his hand through his hair again. “And I don’t know what to do! I swear I’ve looked everywhere and... nothing!”

Hermione arched an eyebrow, her expression growing profoundly sceptical. She knew Harry far too well after weeks glued to him, and how easily he could misplace things right under his nose.

“Absolutely certain you checked everywhere? Everywhere?”

Harry rolled his eyes, exasperated.

“Yes, Hermione! Three times in each place!”

She was never going to be satisfied with that answer, especially when it came to books and the sacred responsibilities owed to the library. For her, failing Madam Pince was almost heresy.

Hermione herself, with her methodical mind, had already found several of their missing items scattered around the dormitory, because the boys seemed magnetically drawn to mess—but there was also something mysterious and inexplicable about their losses.

She folded her arms and fixed him with a stare, beginning her usual interrogation.

“Wardrobe?”

“Yes.”

“Under the bed?”

“Yes.”

“Bottom of your trunk?”

“Yes...”

“Dropped behind the bedside table?”

“Yes!”

“Bottom of your book-bag, between all those crumpled parchments?”

“For Merlin’s sake, I said I looked everywhere—I didn’t find it!” Harry exclaimed, his voice growing a pitch higher with irritation.

Hermione, however, was unmoved.

She raised her other eyebrow, a final glint of suspicion flashing in her eyes.

“Did you, really? What about Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom? We’ve never been back there.”

Harry, who had been about to snap back, offended by Hermione’s lack of faith in his searching skills, froze on the spot.

The blood seemed to stop in his veins. Silence claimed his face as thoughts whirled in a frenzy.

“Maybe... maybe I didn’t go there...” Harry muttered to himself, eyes widening at the sudden possibility.

Hermione crossed her arms firmly, an incontestable, triumphant gleam lighting her gaze.

‘“I looked everywhere”... honestly, Harry!’

Ron leaned towards Harry, stroking Scabbers, who was still snoring away in his lap.

“It’d better be there,” he murmured, in a tone of sombre foreboding, “or I reckon she’ll seriously suggest you try the Forbidden Forest.”

“Or never set foot in the library again...” Neville added, with a look that foresaw apocalypses.

A few minutes later, Harry and Neville were making their way through the castle’s quiet corridors, heading for the bathroom.

Curfew was approaching, and the castle was almost deserted, except for a few students wandering about in small groups or the occasional Auror on patrol.

One of them stopped the boys and asked where they were going.

Without hesitation, they told the truth.

“We were going to the bathroom, sir,” Harry answered.

The Auror merely grunted his assent, but watched them until they turned the corner.

Sensing Neville’s discomfort, Harry set a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

“It’ll be quick, Nev. Just return the book and get out.”

“I know,” Neville murmured, without much conviction. “It’s just that I didn’t want—”

“To leave the common room with a monster on the loose that’s petrifying people and nobody knows what it is? Yeah, me neither, but if I leave this till tomorrow, it’ll be even worse.”

Neville nodded and cast a nervous look around the bathroom.

The place was exactly as they remembered it: abandoned, damp, and faintly unpleasant. It wasn’t filthy, but nor could it be called clean.

The floor was wet in several places, the result of Moaning Myrtle’s bouts of rage and sorrow.

Then they heard the ghost’s characteristic sobbing.

With little time to rummage about looking for the book, asking someone who spent an eternity there seemed the best option. Myrtle was floating in a dark corner of the bathroom, back to the wall, hands covering her spotty face, as usual.

“Myrtle?” Harry called softly.

“Go away!” she snapped. “Leave me alone!”

Harry sighed.

“Myrtle, it’s me—Harry.”

She stopped crying abruptly and turned.

“Harry?” she repeated dreamily, breaking into a wide smile.

“Er... yes.”

“I knew you’d come back!” She drifted closer, floating with enthusiasm. “And you brought Neville too.”

Since he’d had to spend so much time there brewing the Polyjuice Potion, Harry had always tried to be kind to Myrtle.

He hated seeing people cry—because he never quite knew what to do: say something, keep quiet, or simply give a hug. But as she was a ghost, that last option was out. Even so, his effort had made her fond of him, and Hermione had once mentioned that Myrtle seemed to have a crush on him.

Not that you had to be a genius to notice.

“Why were you crying, uh... this time?” Neville asked, not wanting to pry.

“Boys! Wretched boys!” she exploded, fury clear in her voice. “They said I’m ugly and annoying! That I never stop crying and ought to keep quiet in my ‘complete insignificance’!” Myrtle mimicked the phrase in a posh, affected tone. “And of course they had to be Slytherins! Now they’ve found out where I haunt, they’ve decided to pester me!”

“Slytherins. What a surprise,” Harry muttered. “Don’t listen to them. You know none of it’s true.”

Her eyes sparkled and, in an instant, she swooped dangerously close, fluttering her lashes and clasping her hands before her chest.

He regretted offering any advice.

“Oh, Harry, you’re sooo sweet!” she cried in an affectedly lovestruck voice. “Have I told you your eyes light up this bathroom like green-apple liquid soap?”

Harry shot Neville a look—Neville clearly had no idea what to say, just as confused as he was.

Harry cleared his throat and raked a hand through his hair.

“Not really, but anyway,” Harry got straight to the point, “I wanted to ask you something, if it’s not a bother.”

“Ah, you’d never bother me!”

“Did you see my Potions book? I think I might have left it here a few months ago.”

“Ah, that one there?” She pointed to a window ledge on the other side of the bathroom.

“That’s it! Thanks!” Harry hurried to fetch it.

When they were beginning to say goodbye to her and leave the bathroom, the ghost’s ethereal, tearful voice caught their attention once more.

“You know, there’s another book here as well,” she added, drifting through a cubicle with a dramatic air.

“Another one?” Neville repeated, confused. “Someone left another? But we only had that one...”

“It wasn’t one of your books from that ‘secret mission’,” said Myrtle, making exaggerated air quotes with her fingers, still resentful that they’d never told her anything. “No. This one was thrown at me! At me! By a rude girl! If it’s from the library, you ought to return it as well.”

“Okay...” Harry murmured, intrigued. “But why do you care so much?”

“I wanted to be a Prefect when I got to fifth year,” she said, folding her translucent arms with a deeply unhappy face. “But, well, I died first. Some habits never die, I suppose.”

“Ah... that explains it,” Neville smiled, somewhat shyly.

Harry approached the second book cautiously, almost hidden inside an empty, shadowed urinal.

The black, worn cover looked strangely familiar. As he picked it up, feeling the cold, slightly damp leather under his fingers, he recognised it at once.

It was Ginny’s diary.

Harry frowned, a wave of perplexity washing over him.

“But here?” he thought, his mind working quickly. “Did Ginny come here? To Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom? To do what?”

The instant his fingers touched the diary’s cover, a strange, cold sensation coursed through his body, a shiver that had nothing to do with the dampness of the place. For some obscure, immediate reason, he felt a strong urge to keep the book with him. Perhaps there was no need to tell Neville about it either.

Why?

It made no sense at all. It was only an old diary. He could simply give it back to Ginny, couldn’t he?

Neville, already near the door, was watching him with a curious look.

“All right there, Harry?”

“Yeah. All— all right,” Harry said, shaking his head as though to dispel the muddled thoughts, his voice sounding a little distant.

When he rejoined Neville, he saw his friend staring fixedly at the book now in his hands, with a puzzled expression.

“Isn’t that Ginny’s diary? The one she’s been carrying everywhere?” Neville asked, perplexed. “Why would she throw that at Myrtle? And why would she come here, of all places?”

Harry shook his head, as intrigued as he was.

“I don’t know... I wondered exactly the same thing. But don’t worry, I’ll give it back to her.”

“And tell her not to throw books at people!” Myrtle exclaimed, plunging dramatically into one of the toilets with a ghostly splash. “If she doesn’t like her life, she needn’t disturb those who no longer have one!”

“When did this happen?” Neville asked, ignoring the theatrics. “I mean... when did she throw that at you, Myrtle?”

“Oh, ages ago,” Myrtle replied, reappearing with water—or tears—streaming down her ghostly face. “It was on the same horrible day that Hufflepuff boy was Petrified. Right after the news spread, she came here, all worked up, hit me with that book and ran off! The idiot...”

Harry and Neville exchanged a look, the same uneasy suspicion passing between them.

It was deeply odd. Ginny was not, by any means, the sort to lash out at others without reason. But Ron had been insisting for months that she hadn’t been acting normal. He and the older brothers had even tried to talk to her, but Ginny had been evasive and distant.

In the end, they’d all put her strange behaviour down to first-year nerves at Hogwarts.

Ron, however, had never seemed entirely convinced.

And now, neither was Harry.

“Come on,” Harry said, his voice firm, masking the unease he felt. “We need to hand this,” he raised the Potions book, “back to the library before Madam Pince closes and turns me into book-bindings. Thanks, Myrtle!” he said, already turning to hurry out.

“See you later, Neville... and Harry,” Myrtle murmured, a dreamy, melancholy gaze fixed on Harry, “come and visit me, won’t you? Promise?”

“Er... uh... sure,” he answered, feeling a familiar discomfort creep up his spine.

The two of them shot along the dark corridors, their footsteps echoing off the stone walls, but not before being intercepted and given a firm telling-off by a Hufflepuff Prefect who was patrolling the area, suspicious of their hurried, furtive behaviour after nightfall.

When they reached the library, Harry breathed a sigh of relief to see it was still open.

Madam Pince, wearing her usual severe expression, was scribbling something on a parchment behind the desk. As soon as she saw them, she looked up and raised her eyebrows.

“Mr Potter!” she said stiffly. “I was beginning to wonder when you’d show up. You haven’t forgotten something, by any chance?”

“Yes, Madam Pince... I’m terribly sorry, I lost the book—”

“‘Lost’ is a weak word for what happened!” she cut in, pressing her lips together. “I’ve been waiting for its return for weeks!”

Neville, who could already feel the tension in the air, flinched at the librarian’s piercing stare.

Harry hunched a little and stepped forward hesitantly, holding out the book.

“Here it is. I only just found it and rushed to bring it back.”

Madam Pince took the volume, flicked a quick spell, and watched as the pages turned of their own accord, inspecting its condition.

“At least it isn’t in worse shape,” she said coldly, setting it on the desk. “But that is the bare minimum, as you very well know.”

Harry crossed his fingers behind his back.

“Do I... need to do anything? I know I was late, but I swear it wasn’t on purpose.”

“He looked everywhere at least three times, even behind the bedside table,” Neville added quickly.

Harry gave his shoulder a jab to shut him up and not make things worse.

Madam Pince narrowed her eyes at the pair of them, then sighed and set the book aside.

“I’ll let it pass today because I’m in a good mood,” she said slowly. “But let this be clear, Potter: this was the first and only time I shall accept such an absurd delay, and I only did so because of your situation in the hospital wing. If it happens again, I can assure you you’ll spend a lovely afternoon alphabetising the Latin section! Understood?”

Harry’s shoulders loosened as relief spread through him.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Excellent. Now be off with you.” She pointed to the exit.

As soon as they had moved away and left the library, Harry felt an immense weight lift from his shoulders, as if an invisible hand had been removed from his neck.

“Bloody hell, I thought she was going to give me detention for the rest of term,” Harry sighed in relief, adjusting his glasses.

“I thought she’d give me detention just for standing there by association...” Neville replied, scratching his arm nervously. “She looked at me as if I were a grass stain on the carpet.”

They had begun chatting idly as they headed towards the staircases up to the Gryffindor common room when, turning into a narrower corridor, someone barged into Harry hard and on purpose, wrenching something from his hand with a quick movement.

“Lost something, Potter?”

Harry spun round to face Draco Malfoy, who was holding Ginny’s diary with a malicious, self-satisfied grin on his pale face.

Harry could feel his blood boiling already at the mere sight of that face which filled him with such disgust.

“Give it back, Malfoy!” he burst out, his patience—already thin—snapping completely.

“What? Your diary?” Draco sneered, feigning surprise. “Well, well... I think it would be most interesting to share what’s in here. Can you imagine? All the deepest, soppiest thoughts of the ‘Boy-Who-Uses-Diaries-Like-A-Little-Girl’.” He laughed, a loud, unpleasant sound that echoed off the stone walls.

“It’s not my diary!” Harry shot back, taking a threatening step forward, his body taut.

“Na-na-na...” Malfoy sing-songed, amused, backing away a few paces and waving the diary in his hand like a trophy. “If you come any closer, I swear you’ll never see this stupid diary of yours again.”

He gestured theatrically to the open window beside him, threatening to hurl it away. From where they stood, the book would fall straight into the dark, deep waters of the Great Lake.

“You ought to hand that—” Neville began, trying to intervene.

“Shut it, Squib,” Malfoy snapped quickly and harshly, his disdainful gaze sweeping over Neville as though he were rubbish.

“Don’t call him that!” Harry growled, clenching his fists so hard his nails bit into his palms. His aura began to thrash with anger, but he kept it in check.

“My, how aggressive,” Draco said with icy venom in his voice, clearly remembering the beating he’d taken at Halloween in first year. “What are you going to do? Punch me again like a cowardly animal who can’t duel like a proper wizard?”

“You deserved it—and you still do,” Harry said firmly, keeping eye contact. “I’d do it again without thinking twice, if I had to.”

“Bloody hell, you’re really dreadful at bargaining,” Draco snorted, letting out a mirthless little laugh.

Malfoy twirled the diary between his thin fingers and tilted his head, putting on a show of fake reflection.

“Yeah, unfortunately... I don’t think I’m going to give it back,” he said, as if it were an option he’d weighed carefully. “I mean, it’d make a splendid present for the Bathroom Wailer. Does throwing books at her annoy her? She doesn’t feel anything physical, of course, but it’s good to try new things.”

Harry’s fist clenched; his jaw was so tight it hurt.

Beside him, Neville shifted uneasily, his hand going instinctively to the pocket where he used to keep his broken wand.

“Was it you?!” Neville asked, his courage surprising even himself.

“What? The one who shut Myrtle up? Obviously me, Squib!” Malfoy declared, almost boasting. “That spotty, nosy spook pokes around everyone in the loos—even us!” He jabbed a thumb at himself with perverse pride.

“I’ve never seen her outside her girls’ bathroom,” Harry retorted, trying to find a flaw in the story.

“I don’t doubt that. Those with tiny pricks don’t use urinals—you must only use the cubicles,” Draco shot back acidly, his smile growing crueller.

“Merlin’s beard, are you the willy inspector now, Malfoy?” Harry retorted, not holding his tongue. “Want me to get mine out so you can measure it, is that it? Jealous, are you?”

“Right, that’s quite enough of that nonsense,” Draco cut across him, his face turning serious. “Say goodbye to your little-girly diary.”

“Do that and I’ll end you!” Harry snapped, whipping his wand from inside his robe in one smooth movement.

“I’m not—”

“What’s going on here?”

A firm, authoritative voice sliced through the tension, and Malfoy turned, his expression instantly irritated.

Nymphadora Tonks was approaching, arms folded and a severe look on her face, her short hair a striking shock of pink.

“Getting yourself into trouble again, Malfoy?” she asked, lifting an inquisitive eyebrow.

“I don’t get into trouble,” he hissed, closing his robe over the diary in a furtive movement.

“Don’t you?” she said, sceptical, her gaze fixed on the hidden volume. “Then take that out of your robe. Now.”

Malfoy hesitated, visibly grinding his teeth. A confrontation with an Auror—and a Metamorphmagus, who, unfortunately for him, was also his cousin—wasn’t part of his plan.

“Now, Malfoy,” Tonks repeated in a tone that allowed no argument, holding out her hand.

Huffing with anger and defeat, he yanked the diary from inside his robe and shoved it towards Harry with a rough push.

“I’d better be off,” he muttered, his pale face blotched with rage. “This impure air makes me sick... see you, Nymphadora.” He spat the last word with pure contempt and swept off towards the dungeons, his black robes billowing behind him.

Tonks watched him disappear into the gloom before turning to Harry and Neville, her face breaking into a casual, friendly smile.

“I imagine this is yours,” she said, holding the diary out to Harry.

Harry took the book, feeling such an intense wave of relief that his legs almost gave way.

“Yes. Thank you, Tonks!”

“Not at all. It’s getting late, and curfew will be on soon. Come on, I’ll walk you to the common room.” She cast a tired look at the staircase. “Merlin’s beard, it’s at times like this I’m grateful I was a Hufflepuff in my school days... Must be a real pain having to climb up there every day to sleep.”

“You’ve no idea...” Neville groaned, disheartened.

Tonks accompanied them along the corridor, cheerful as she told a story from her school days.

“I was a right menace as a student—the professors were always getting cross with me,” she said, laughing. “Once, in my fourth year, I nicked a Venomous Tentacula from the greenhouses and tried to put it on Filch’s desk. Only, on the way, I tripped and the thing fell right on Professor Snape.”

Harry and Neville’s eyes widened—Venomous Tentacula were known to stun or even kill in some cases.

“And the twins think they pull heavy pranks...” Harry thought, amused.

“To make it worse, I’ve got this dreadful habit of laughing when I’m nervous,” she declared, remembering the good—and not so very old—times. “And, well... you can imagine he didn’t see the funny side. They were considering daily detentions till I left school, but luckily Professor Sprout was in a good mood that day. She told me that if I was so inclined to fiddle with dangerous plants, I ought to sit a special Herbology test. Luckily, I passed—or those lavatories would still be gleaming from how much I’d have scrubbed them.”

Harry laughed while Neville pondered what might have happened if McGonagall hadn’t been his saviour when he’d caused that whole scene over Polyjuice Potion ingredients.

“At least you didn’t throw up on his shoes...” Neville murmured under his breath, shrugging.

She widened her eyes and burst out laughing.

“What? No chance!” she said, amused. “You threw up on Snape’s shoes? I’ve got ter hear this one!”

The talk stayed light and funny as Neville gave his account and Harry helped fill in the details.

When they finally reached the Fat Lady’s portrait, Tonks bade them goodbye and headed back to her patrol.

“Uh... I forgot the password... again.” Neville gave a timid, sheepish smile.

Harry rolled his eyes.

“Acacia-bird,” he said in a mechanical tone.

The portrait swung open, and the three of them entered the common room.

The room was emptier than usual, as some students had gone to bed early.

However, Hermione and Ron were still awake, seated near the fire. Hermione was correcting one of Ron’s essays, precisely pointing out the parts that needed improvement.

“You’ve forgotten to explain how the Reparifarge works,” she said, pushing a parchment towards the redhead. “It’s the de-transfiguration charm that neutralises the effects of botched transfigurations. Here, have a look at what I wrote and try to rephrase it in your own words.”

Ron, who seemed to be paying real attention, nodded and smiled.

“Cheers, Hermione! I owe you one.”

She shook her head.

“You don’t owe me anything.” She smiled, pleased to help. “It’s your birthday, after all. I’d be a dreadful friend if I charged you today. Now, hand over your Astronomy work. I know you struggle to identify constellations, but you might not even need to rewrite much.”

Ron passed the parchment, and at that moment Harry and Neville came over.

Hermione stayed focused on the reading, not looking up.

“Did you find the book? Return it?” she asked, raising an eyebrow and pursing her lips at what she was reading.

“Yes, all sorted. At least I don’t think I landed any detention,” said Harry, relieved. “Perhaps Madam Pince took into account that I spend a lot of time with you in the library.”

“She can be exacting, but she’s a professional librarian,” Hermione replied matter-of-factly. “That wouldn’t have influenced her decision.”

It was then Ron frowned as he noticed what Harry was holding.

“Wasn’t that Ginny’s diary? Why are you carrying it?”

Harry and Neville explained how they had found it. For the first time, Hermione lifted her eyes from the parchment.

“It’s odd,” said Neville. “I mean, she wouldn’t throw a personal diary at Moaning Myrtle without a reason...”

Ron let out a sigh.

“’Course she’s acting weird, but she won’t talk to us! I’ve been suspicious for ages—you lot know that.” He folded his arms, looking towards the window. “But I reckon only when we get home she’ll open her mouth and tell us what’s going on—Mum might help with that.”

“Strange. I didn’t notice the diary there before,” Hermione remarked, twirling the quill in her hand.

“We were so focused on the potion that we ignored it. Happens,” said Harry, shrugging.

“Could be...” Hermione nodded. “Either way, give me the diary. I’ll hand it to her.”

Harry felt a strange urge to keep the book.

Why would he need to give it to Hermione?

It made no sense for her to go into the first-years’ girls’ dormitory just to return a diary.

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep it,” said Harry. “I’ll give it to her tomorrow.”

Hermione frowned slightly, puzzled.

“But I can give it to her now,” she explained in a gentle voice. “I think she’s not asleep yet—if she is, I’ll give it to her in the morning or leave it on her bedside table.”

Harry felt a slight discomfort at her insistence, but tried not to show it.

“She threw the diary at Moaning Myrtle, right? So she must have a reason for that. I don’t think she should get it back before she explains why.” It was a convincing excuse that came to him at just the right moment.

Hermione sighed.

“Harry, honestly.” She put her hands on her hips. “You don’t just walk around with, or keep, other people’s diaries. Hand it—”

“No!” Harry spoke louder than he meant to, and a note of irritation crept into his voice.

Ron, Hermione, and Neville started at his sudden change of mood.

“You’re implying I’m going to read her diary, is that it?” Harry accused.

“I didn’t say that—”

“But you suggested it,” he cut across. “Ginny must have her reasons for acting like this, and it’s up to her to explain them. Ron’s right to say she’s acting odd—I’ve noticed it too. So her diary stays with me. And no, I’m not going to read it,” he lied—he felt he needed to open it and see what was inside, but he wasn’t going to tell them that.

Hermione went tense. Harry was more agitated than usual, but she decided not to comment. He had never raised his voice to her like that before.

Ron stood and tried to defuse things.

“Take it easy, mate.” He put a hand on Harry’s shoulder.

Harry forced himself not to show discomfort at the touch.

He looked with distaste at his friend’s hand.

“I’m calm,” he said coldly.

“Well... we could go to bed, what d’you reckon?” Neville cleared his throat and looked towards the window, not quite sure how to break the ice.

Hermione was still watching Harry closely, studying him.

“Yes, you’re right,” she said after a pause. “And Ron, for the record, if you don’t want to get a Troll, you’ll have to redo this Astronomy essay. I’d suggest doing it today—there won’t be much time tomorrow.”

“Oh, come on, Hermione!” He threw his hands up. “Only you would talk me into opening my bag on my birthday to revise homework!”

“I do it to avoid hearing you complain afterwards that you didn’t have enough time,” she shot back quickly.

The redhead huffed, but nodded, resigned.

“Yeah, all right—but I reckon I can do it tomorrow. I think I can scrape an Acceptable or Poor—not that bad, I’ve got marks to spare,” he admitted, yawning and stretching as he headed for the stairs, when he noticed Harry was still standing where he was. “You coming, mate?”

“Go on,” he tried to sound casual, “I’ve got that Fluxweed assignment to hand in to Professor Sprout—I want to get it done tonight.”

“You can use my notes if you like,” Neville offered.

“Cheers, Nev,” he said in thanks. “Good night.”

Neville and Ron wished them good night and went up the stairs to the dormitory.

Harry walked to one of the empty tables and sat down.

He felt Hermione’s gaze—silent—on his back before she too went up to the girls’ dormitory, without wishing him good night.

He even tried to focus on the Herbology work—fortunately Fluxweed was one of the ingredients of the Polyjuice Potion, so he knew enough to write an acceptable text without consulting many books. Neville’s notes, even with his almost illegible scrawl, helped too.

When he was sure he was alone, he took the black-covered diary out of his pocket and stared at it for a moment. The insistent curiosity clamouring inside him seemed to call him to see what was within.

Harry opened it, expecting to see Ginny’s notes, her deepest thoughts—not because he wanted to know them; he just couldn’t explain why he felt such a need to open it.

But what he found was... nothing.

The diary was completely blank.

Harry frowned and turned page after page.

Frustrated, he rifled all the pages quickly with his fingers and shook the diary to see if anything fell out.

Nothing. Not a single word. Nothing inside.

“But she wrote in it all the time...” he murmured to himself.

Ginny never let go of that diary, so where was everything she’d written? She couldn’t have erased it all without leaving a trace.

An idea occurred to him, remembering the secret passage in the Philosopher’s Stone chamber, in Professor Flitwick’s spell test.

Harry drew his wand and ran it lightly over the pages, murmuring in an almost inaudible tone:

“Revelio.”

Nothing happened. No hidden ink appeared, no secret message revealed itself.

He huffed, more irritated than he would normally be over something so silly.

“Brilliant thinking, Potter,” he scolded himself mentally. “As if a first-year could cast advanced concealment charms on a diary.”

He didn't stop to notice that he too was once a first year and knew about the spell back then.

For a moment, Harry hesitated, wondering why, after all, he was so interested in that diary. But before he could think too much about it, a strange impulse took hold of him.

Without thinking, he dipped the quill in the inkwell, leaned over the blank page and wrote the first thing that came into his head—something that had tormented him for months, reflected in the suspicious looks of his classmates, in the whispered doubt in the corridors. Something he wanted to shout, as if it might make some difference:

I am not the Heir.

The sentence appeared on the paper in his rather scrawly handwriting.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Harry frowned, feeling a complete idiot.

What was he doing? Writing nonsense in a diary that wasn’t even his, just because Ginny seemed to be acting strangely?

Yes, she never let anyone see what she wrote there... but that proved nothing.

He sighed, already preparing to close the diary, when his words began to vanish. The ink was absorbed by the paper in seconds, as if it had never been there.

Harry’s heart gave a leap.

Then, before his wide eyes, the ink reappeared—hesitant at first, disconnected letters forming and dissolving, as if trying to find the right shape.

Until, at last, a clear, elegant sentence took its place on the page:

Hello, Harry Potter.

His stomach turned. The diary was answering.

But how? What kind of spell was that?

His mind raced, searching for some explanation in the little he knew about magic, but nothing came.

With a slightly trembling hand, he dipped the quill in the ink again and wrote:

Do you understand me? Who are you?

The ink disappeared again. There was a pause. Then an answer slowly appeared, as if the words were being written by an invisible hand:

My name is Tom Riddle.

A shiver ran up Harry’s spine.

He knew that name... from somewhere. But from where?

How are you writing back?

He scribbled the question quickly, his handwriting a little crooked.

I am only a memory, a shadow of what I once was. This diary keeps my memories and the secrets I discovered.

Harry felt a knot in his stomach. Part of him wanted to close the diary and throw it into the nearest fireplace. But something stopped him: curiosity.

That enigmatic answer didn’t explain how the diary knew his name... but it did explain why Ginny seemed so obsessed with it.

Did she talk to the diary? Is that why there was never anything written there?

What kind of secrets?

The answer appeared slowly, as if the words were being whispered before they were written:

Secrets about the true Heir of Slytherin. About who opened the Chamber of Secrets fifty years ago, on 13 June 1943.

Harry held his breath. His fingers were sweaty around the quill.

A noise behind him made him spin on his heels, heart pounding.

Was someone coming down the stairs? Watching him? But it was only an owl that had flown a little too close to the window during a night hunt.

He wet his lips before writing:

And who is the Heir?

The answer came almost instantly.

Better than telling you, I can show you.

Harry frowned as he felt the diary grow warm under his palm and drew back instinctively, eyeing the page with suspicion.

Then, suddenly, the pages shone brightly.

Before he could react, he felt an invisible force pulling him into the diary.

He fell, as if he were being sucked into an endless maelstrom, into infinity.

The world around him dissolved into darkness.

And then, everything vanished.

When Harry opened his eyes again, he blinked a few times, confused.

It took a moment to realise where he was, but the familiarity of the corridor soon brought clarity. It was the second floor of Hogwarts—he recognised the paintings along the walls, the statues of knights... He had spent so much time there, hiding in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom while brewing the Polyjuice Potion, that he knew that floor like the back of his hand.

But something was wrong.

The scene looked misted over, as if a shadow hung over everything. The colours were greyer, without the usual glow of the candles.

The air felt heavier, laden with an unsettling discomfort.

The torches on the walls were lit, casting flickering shadows along the deserted corridor. It was probably past curfew.

At the end of the corridor, a boy was moving furtively, glancing to either side. He was older—perhaps a fifth- or sixth-year. Harry had never seen him before, but he was sure he would have remembered if he had.

The youth wore Hogwarts uniform, his cloak showing off Slytherin’s green and silver. On his chest, a Prefect’s badge gleamed. He was tall, with handsome, almost aristocratic features, dark, well-combed hair and eyes just as black.

“Hi... uh... hey” Harry called hesitantly.

But the boy didn’t answer.

In fact, he didn’t seem to hear him at all. He passed straight by, as if Harry were invisible. Then it dawned on him.

Harry remembered he was inside the diary.

This was a memory. He was no more than a spectator.

The young Prefect hurried down the stairs towards the entrance to the Great Hall. Down there, four wizards were walking in silence, wands raised as they levitated a covered stretcher towards the castle doors.

Harry held his breath.

A pale, limp hand slipped out from beneath the white cloth covering the stretcher.

Someone had died.

His stomach churned as he realised the weight of the scene he was witnessing.

Nearby, two figures watched with heavy expressions.

One of them was Dumbledore—much younger.

He wasn’t yet wearing glasses, his beard wasn’t long, and his hair, instead of the familiar silver, was a dark auburn that had begun to lose its shine. Beside him, an older man, frail looking and with few strands of hair on his head, sighed heavily.

“I think this is the end, Albus. Hogwarts will be closed,” he said, his voice laden with sorrow.

Dumbledore pinched the bridge of his nose, as if to ease a headache.

“I fear there’s little we can do about that,” he replied calmly, nodding.

“Oh, Mr Riddle,” called the old man, looking over Harry’s shoulder, “what are you doing here at this hour?”

Harry turned at the name.

The young Slytherin was approaching calmly, hands clasped behind his back, expression polite and respectful, his bearing almost impeccable, were it not for a face lightly marked by concern.

“I was finishing my patrol of the corridors, Headmaster Dippet,” Tom Riddle answered politely. “I’ve just heard from the Head Boy that Hogwarts will be closed. Is that true?”

“That’s what the Board of Governors has decided,” Dippet confirmed, shaking his head. “Many students have been Petrified—they’re targets, sadly, and now, with the death of a Muggle-born girl as well... there is no choice.”

Tom nodded slowly, as if absorbing the information.

Harry swallowed; his thoughts shot straight to Hermione—frozen, even dead.

He pushed the thought away quickly, unsettled by it, and felt as though someone could read this thought of his—this feeling and emotion—but he couldn’t explain how.

“I understand, sir...” said Tom. “But I’d like to ask you a question, if it’s not an inconvenience.”

Dippet gestured for him to continue.

“Could I remain at Hogwarts over the summer holidays?”

The Headmaster sighed and folded his hands before him.

“I’m afraid not, Mr Riddle. The Board has decided that the school will remain closed until the matter of the Chamber of Secrets is completely resolved.”

Tom’s posture grew slightly tenser.

“But... that means I’ll have to go back to the orphanage, and I’ll be there...” he murmured, barely able to hide the anguish in his voice. “I... I can’t...”

Dippet gave him a sympathetic look and set a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Tom, but that decision is beyond my control.” His voice sounded tired, the years seeming to weigh on his stooped shoulders. He hesitated a moment before adding, “I also didn’t know you were Muggle-born.”

Tom shook his head, his expression remaining impassive.

“Actually, I’m a half-blood, sir. My mother was a witch. Before she died, she chose my name: Tom, after my Muggle father, and Marvolo, for my wizard grandfather.”

“I see...” murmured Dippet, observing him with a faintly melancholic look. “A pity your mother passed so suddenly—my condolences.”

“Thank you, Headmaster,” Tom said, thoughtful.

There was a brief silence before the Headmaster straightened his shoulders, as if remembering his responsibilities.

“If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen—after what’s happened today, I must organise the pupils’ early departure. There are also bureaucratic matters to be dealt with before we close the gates.” He then turned to Dumbledore. “Albus, come by my office tonight. There’s much to discuss.”

Dumbledore nodded silently.

With a final inclination of his head to them both, Armando Dippet moved off, leaving the corridor steeped in tense silence.

With one last long sigh, the Headmaster withdrew towards the Great Hall, where some professors were murmuring together at a distant table.

Tom remained still for a moment, fists clenched at his sides.

“Professor Dumbledore,” he called, turning to the wizard. “Is there nothing that can be done?”

Dumbledore studied him for a long moment, blue eyes shining with intensity, as if they could read his soul.

“Not until the real culprit is found and brought to justice, Tom,” he said, practical and direct. “Not only does the Board want to close the school, but we received several letters earlier today—once the news spread—from concerned parents unwilling to let their children return until this is resolved. I know you dislike that orphanage, but, as the Headmaster said, this is beyond our powers, and we couldn’t risk your safety either, do you not agree? With the Chamber of Secrets open, I fear none of us is truly safe.”

Tom nodded, lingering there hesitantly, as though thinking of something.

Dumbledore’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“If I may ask—is there something you wish to tell me?” he asked, his voice gentle but weighted.

Tom held his gaze and shook his head, expressionless.

“No, sir.”

Dumbledore watched him for a few seconds more, then nodded.

“Then off you go.”

Tom pressed his lips together, gave a polite bow, and moved away.

Harry noticed Dumbledore didn’t take his eyes off him, even when he was distant but still within sight.

Without hesitating, Harry ran to catch up.

Tom was striding quickly towards the dungeons, his steps echoing along the corridor. The rhythmic sound of sole on stone, along with his taut breathing, was all Harry could hear.

Then, suddenly, Tom entered a room, pushing the door without hesitation.

Inside, Harry saw Hagrid—fifty years younger. His size was already impressive, his head almost brushing the ceiling. He had no beard and wore school uniform, though his cloak looked large enough to serve as a window curtain.

“It’s over, Hagrid. End of the line.” Tom’s voice was cold as he drew his wand.

“No! Aragog didn’ do none o’ what they’re sayin’, Riddle!” Hagrid planted himself in front o’ a cupboard, his colossal body near coverin’ it whole. “Yeh’ve got ter believe me! I told yeh the truth!”

Tom shook his head and raised his chin.

“You opened the Chamber of Secrets and released that... that thing!” he hissed. “Now, because of you, it has killed someone. Stand aside. I’m going to take it to the Headmaster and you’re coming with me.”

The cupboard behind Hagrid began to tremble. Something inside desperately wanted out, thumping against the doors hard enough to make a racket.

“I didn’ open the Chamber!” Hagrid pleaded. “Please, leave ’er be!”

“I’ll say it once more,” said Tom, his voice low and threatening. “Stand aside—the easy way or the hard way—and let me finish this creature.”

“No!”

BANG!

At once, the cupboard door burst open.

Harry jumped back as Aragog—much smaller than the version he knew—scuttled across the floor, racing in panic towards an open window in the ceiling.

Tom cast a non-verbal spell but missed by inches.

The spider escaped, vanishing into the darkness.

“You’ll pay for this!” Tom snarled, eyes blazing with fury at Hagrid.

Harry was still trying to process what he was seeing when, suddenly, the world around him seemed to freeze.

Tom and Hagrid were motionless as statues, and even the trembling torch-flame on the wall hung suspended.

Then Harry saw another Tom Riddle. He moved calmly about the room, his appearance different from that young, frozen version—his colours were as vivid as Harry’s.

“You can see me?” Harry asked.

“Of course.” Tom glanced around with indifference. “This is only one of my memories.” His eyes drifted to the frozen scene. “Now you understand? Rubeus Hagrid was the Heir of Slytherin all along, and that thing...” He gestured towards the window. “It was what killed that girl.”

Harry frowned. His mind was racing, trying to piece it together. He trusted Hagrid.

Yes, Hagrid loved monsters and dangerous creatures, but... something didn’t add up. Hagrid avoided talking about the Chamber of Secrets, but it didn’t seem to be because he was the Heir.

“What happened after?” Harry asked.

“I handed him over to the Headmaster. He was expelled from Hogwarts for his involvement with the Chamber of Secrets and, luckily, I managed to prevent the school from being closed.” Tom cast a look of contempt at the frozen Hagrid. “He deserved the burden he carried.”

Harry shook his head. Something was wrong.

“No... that doesn’t make sense. Hagrid can’t have been the Heir. You turned in the wrong person!” He spoke quickly, heart pounding. “Peeves described the monster to us! Said it had green skin! Aragog’s got hair and he’s grey! And there was the sound of something dragging... Acromantulas don’t make that sort of noise! I heard it myself! And how could he have kept up the attacks if he’s been in the Forbidden Forest all this time? He ran and stayed there! There’s no way he could come back without anyone noticing a creature that size climbing walls!”

Remembering the encounter with Aragog still gave him shivers, but at that moment, it didn’t matter.

Tom Riddle was silent for a moment, then smiled at Harry—not a smile of amusement. Something cold. Something dangerous.

“You’re too clever for your own good, Harry Potter.” His voice was ice-cold.

And then, as if a veil had been torn away, his calm expression vanished. The look turned to pure hatred.

Harry swallowed, a chill running down his spine.

He stepped back.

That sudden change could only mean one thing.

“It was you...” Harry’s voice came out almost a whisper. “You’re the one who opened the Chamber! You’re the one who released the monster, aren’t you?” He looked straight into Tom’s eyes. “You’re the Heir!”

Tom lifted his chin, proud.

“Yes, I am.” His voice brimmed with arrogance. “Hagrid needed to go anyway. Hogwarts was not made for freaks like him. It was my mission to finish what Salazar began! I was honouring my ancestor by trying to rid our school of that filthy Mudblood rabble.”

Harry’s heart hammered. He stepped back again, but his nape hit the wall.

Tom was advancing slowly, his presence crushing.

With sweaty, trembling hands, Harry drew his wand and tried to cast a spell.

Nothing happened.

As though his magic simply didn’t exist there.

Tom let out a mirthless laugh. A cold, sarcastic sound.

“Did you really think you could do anything inside my own memory?” He leaned closer, his eyes black as abysses. “No. You cannot.”

“Keep away from me!” Harry shouted, his voice trembling with desperation.

Tom only laughed more, and then, without warning, laid his hand on Harry’s forehead.

Harry screamed.

A searing pain exploded in his scar, as if his head were on fire. His chest heaved, his vision blurred.

Panic locked him in place.

“You and I shall be spending a good deal of time together...” His voice came out a cruel, spiteful hiss.

The world spun, sounds grew ever more muffled, his breathing harsher.

Then everything went black.