Chapter Text
The problem with being the last Bones anyone could name was that people looked at Susan as if she were a monument. For most of her life, she had tried very hard not to give them anything to look at. At Hogwarts, before everything went mad, “Bones” had meant Aunt Amelia: stern Madam Bones of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, thick square glasses and no-nonsense bun, a name people lowered their voices for. Susan had been the other one, the little one. The Hufflepuff who knew her Herbology and did her homework on time and tried not to draw attention to herself in case someone decided to measure her against the real Bones and find her inadequate. She had learnt early the art of soft colors and second-row seats. She had shrunken in photographs. Her laughter was quiet, her robes a size too big, jumpers deliberately shapeless. It was easier that way. Easier to be the girl with ink on her fingers than the girl everyone watched to see if she would grow into her aunt’s shadow. In a way, she had been lucky. There was always some drama going on at Hogwarts, always something louder and stranger to draw attention elsewhere. A dead professor. A giant snake in the walls. Students being petrified. Dementors on the train and an escaped mass-murderer trying to get into the castle. Then the Triwizard Tournament, with its dragons and merpeople and glittering foreign champions.
And then, everything went downhill.
Cedric’s death. Harry Potter claiming that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had returned. The Daily Prophet calling him a lunatic, an attention-seeker. But Susan believed she understood Harry Potter better than most. He too was a monument. She had the impression that, even more than her, he would have done anything, as long as people stopped looking at him and seeing only a glorious surname or, worse, that damned scar. Harry Potter wasn’t a liar. Susan had believed him, even against her aunt’s first judgment. She had destroyed the childish Potter-Stinks pin, not without feeling ashamed for wearing it. She asked her friends to do the same: Hannah, Ernie and Justin. Quietly, stubbornly, and against her own rule she joined his clandestine group dedicated to Defence Against the Dark Arts. A decision that, in hindsight, was probably the only reason she stayed afloat at all in the short term.
Then the Daily Prophet had put Aunt Amelia’s photograph on the front page, edged in black, and reduced her end to four cold words: murdered in her home. She had been rumored to be the strongest candidate to replace Fudge as Minister of Magic. Her personality and willpower was something needed in times like that. But Voldemort had other ideas. For a long time afterwards, people had looked at Susan not as if they expected something from her, but as if she might break. She hadn’t broken. That would have required more energy than she had. For weeks after the funeral, everything felt muffled. Lessons blurred together. She moved through the castle as if wrapped in wool, nodding when people spoke to her, smiling when they told her how brave her aunt had been, how terrible, how shocking, how unfair. She knew she was supposed to cry; sometimes she did, in ragged, guilty bursts that left her empty and cold. Mostly she just went quieter. Smaller. If she blended into the Hufflepuff common room walls, maybe the ache in her chest would stop pulsing every time someone said the name Bones.
But then, Headmaster Dumbledore was killed too. Fog, darkness and un-natural coldness had come. Voldemort took the Ministry almost without a fight. He did it in the summer, when Hogwarts was far away and the air in little wizarding villages should have felt lazy and safe. Instead, the news came in jolts: a rumor in the Leaky Cauldron, a neighbor’s letter with half its lines hastily blacked out, a Prophet headline that seemed to hiss when you looked at it. New Minister. New laws. New “measures for public safety”. There was no photograph of Voldemort on the front page, of course. There never was. Instead, there were smiling, stiff faces at the Ministry podium and, beneath them, words like registration and Muggle-born and protection of the wizarding community. There were notices about dangerous elements and a moving picture of Harry Potter labelled Undesirable No. 1, as if Harry, not the Dark Lord, were the danger everyone ought to fear. Her aunt had spent a lifetime trying to stop something like that. She had given her life for it, in the end. If hiding had not saved Amelia, Susan thought, then what exactly, was the point of staying small?
The answer came when she returned to Hogwarts and found it changed. Snape as Headmaster. The Carrows siblings, stalking the corridors like vultures. The tables in the Great Hall had been shorter by faces that had fled or disappeared or simply did not come back. Defence Against the Dark Arts printed on her timetable but crossed out on the classroom door; just Dark Arts now, in a heavy, ugly script. Lessons were no longer about shield charms and counter-curses. They were demonstrations, punishments, theatre. Muggle-born students hauled to the front. Hexes practised on live targets. The first time Amycus Carrow made a boy from Ravenclaw try the Cruciatus on a classmate for dropping his wand, Susan had felt sick for hours. The second time, he picked from the Hufflepuff.
“Girl,” he drawled at her, his tongue testing the air like a lazy serpent. “You’re up. Let’s see what you have got? Wand out. On your feet. The first-year there will do.” The boy he indicated couldn’t have been more than eleven, his robes too big, eyes wide and wet. Susan’s hand tightened around her wand so hard her knuckles hurt. She could have obeyed. She knew how fear worked; it told you to survive first and think about shame later. For most of her life she had listened to that voice and made herself smaller. But she saw, in that moment, the Dark Mark over Hogwarts when Dumbledore was killed. She saw Aunt Amelia’s stern, kind face. She saw Harry Potter’s picture stamped Undesirable, as if truth itself could be outlawed by ink. Harry Potter who was still wanted by those scoundrels, and yet still eluded them. If only people had listened to him when it was time.
Her heart hammered. Her legs shook. She stood up anyway. “No,” she heard herself say. Her voice wasn’t loud, but it was steady. “I won’t.” The class went very still. Amycus’s smile thinned. “Won’t you?” he purred. “And who d’you think you are, girl, to tell me no?”
She could have said nothing. But the same stubbornness that had once made her triple-check every footnote in an essay lifted her chin. “B-Bones,” she said, not without a hint of fear in her voice. “I am Susan Bones. In case you were wondering who’s refusing and who’s you have to report to your masters.” The way his expression curdled at her surname was almost satisfying enough, for a heartbeat, to make her forget what came next.
“Crucio.”
The curse hit like white fire, tearing through every nerve. She hit the floor, dimly aware of her own scream, of desks scraping as someone flinched back. Pain blotted out thought; there was nothing but the burning, clawing insistence that her body could not possibly contain this much agony and remain whole. When he lifted it at last, she lay shaking, sweat-soaked and gulping air, the stone cold against her cheek. There would be bruises on her ribs from the way she’d seized. There would be detentions, too, and more chances for the Carrows to make examples of her. But somewhere under the pain, something had settled instead of shrinking. If she had to be the last Bones, she decided as she forced herself back onto her knees, then she would be one people remembered for more than standing very still and hoping not to be noticed. Hannah had rushed to her when class had been dismissed, but she was not alone. Neville Longbottom had helped her get up, a grim look and a lip already split for not having complied with the new teaching guidelines. But in his eyes there was respect for her courage and a fire that the Carrows would not easily extinguish.
Hufflepuff had fought that year too. They had smuggled food, passed messages, and tended bruises. Susan had been in the thick of it more often than not, running alongside Longbottom and his lot, doing what they could to keep the spark of resistance alive. The D.A. had not lost hope, even when everything else seemed to be crumbling. They had no real plan except for being a pain in Snape and the Carrows’s arse, resisting until something happened. The Gryffindor’s in their group were certain of it. Harry Potter must have had a plan. He was the chosen one. He wouldn’t abandon them. Susan had to admit that believing it was not an easy job. There were hard days, more than others. But in the end, Harry Potter had come back like they had hooes—from what she later learned had been a long, mad hunt to bring Voldemort down—and they had fought together: students, professors, and the people from the surrounding village. Hogwarts had become a battlefield. A living nightmare pulsing of magic, defensive spells, cruel jinxes and wild creatures. Thinking about how everything ended was still difficult, as chaos and tiredness and desperation in the final moments mingled together. But exactly when defeat was starting to embrace them all, the tide had turned. The war was won even if grief was all around them. The Boy Who Lived, lived up to his name. Voldemort was no more.
Even so, she hadn’t quite known what to do with herself once the war was over. Victory felt raw and exposed. The castle was in ruins; the great names were either dead or disgraced. And she was still just a girl without NEWTs and a ghost where her family should have been. Somewhere between May and September, she decided she was done apologizing for taking up space. The hair grew out, and she let it—thick waves of copper rather than the tight, sensible braid her aunt had favored. She learnt how to wield a makeup brush with the same precision she used for a wand, turning eyeliner into armor. She chose skirts that swished when she walked and rings that flashed when she gestured. She painted her nails in herb-green and honey-gold and refused to be embarrassed for trying to stand out. If people were going to look at her as if she were a monument, she thought, then she would choose the shape of it. It was in that time of change that the letter from Hogwarts reached her. Given the extraordinary circumstances of the civil war, all students were invited to repeat the academic year.
“Susan,” Hannah Abbott said gently. “You’ve been holding that sock for a full five minutes. I’m starting to worry… is everything ok?”
Susan blinked down at her hands. A single, rolled-up sock was indeed clenched between her fingers as if it were a Portkey about to go off. The open trunk at her knees yawned up at her, half-packed: new skirts, carefully folded cardigans, a little wooden box with Aunt Amelia’s brooch tucked safely inside. She let out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding and dropped the sock into the trunk. “Sorry,” she said. “Got lost in my own head.”
“I could tell,” Hannah replied.
She was perched cross-legged on Susan’s narrow bed, the yellow quilt bunched around her knees, a copy of the Daily Prophet spread open in front of her. Hannah Abbott looked as she always did and yet not quite: soft blonde hair gathered into a loose plait over one shoulder, round, open face dusted with freckles, Hufflepuff-solid in a way that made people instinctively relax when she walked into a room. There was a faint ink smudge on the side of her thumb from the crossword, and the hem of her shirt was slightly frayed where she’d been worrying it between her fingers. Her blue eyes, usually warm and a little dreamy, were sharp now as they moved over the print. Hannah was her best friend, even before they started Hogwarts. For a shy person like her, she had been a lifeline throughout the past years. They had been through a lot behind those ancient walls: from getting lost in the corridors, to drinking hot chocolates in the castle kitchen after curfew, gossiping like only two teenagers could and finally fighting shoulder to shoulder for their very lives. They were sisters by choice. Forever.
“It’s today’s?” Susan asked, nodding at the paper as she got up and brushed dust from her knees.
“Hot off the owl,” Hannah said. “Your post arrived with it, I left it on the mantlepiece in the kitchen.” She flipped the Prophet around so Susan could see the front page.
POTTER SPEAKS FOR MALFOYS IN WIZENGAMOT DRAMA
The Boy Who Lived Calls for Leniency in High-Profile War Trial
Under the headline, Harry’s moving photograph looked out at them, blinking under the pale light of the courtroom. He was in plain dress robes that didn’t quite seem to know what to do with his shoulders. His expression shifted between wary and determined, jaw tightening every few moments as if he were in the middle of an argument the camera couldn’t hear. Susan stepped closer, the floorboard under her right foot giving its familiar creak.
“What did he do?” she asked.
“Testified,” Hannah said. “Again. This time at the Malfoy trial. Narcissa and Draco, specifically.” She cleared her throat and read aloud, her voice slipping into the clipped cadence of the article.
“Mr Potter emphasised the complexity of individual actions during the war, drawing particular attention to Mrs Narcissa Malfoy’s role in falsely reporting his death to You-Know-Who, and to Draco Malfoy’s failure to identify Mr Potter at Malfoy Manor.”
She glanced up, then back down at the column.
“He argued that, while the Malfoy family undoubtedly supported the previous regime, these actions contributed directly to the Dark Lord’s downfall and should be taken into account when determining sentence.’
Susan could almost see it: the cavernous chamber of the Wizengamot, the tiered benches full of plum-robed witches and wizards, and Harry Potter, small and stubborn in the middle of all that history, insisting that the people who had once hunted him deserved something other than Azkaban for life.
Of course he would.
Hannah’s finger traced the next lines. ‘Mr Potter further stated that not all former Death Eaters and collaborators pose an equal threat to the stability of post-war wizarding society, and that clemency in selected cases might better serve long-term unity than indiscriminate punishment.”
She made a face at the word unity, then skimmed ahead.
“Blah blah, ‘shook hands with the defendants’… ‘left the courtroom flanked by senior Aurors and the Chief Warlock’… ‘sources inside the Ministry report mixed reactions among traditionalist factions’.”
Her nose wrinkled as she even rolled her eyes for good measure. “Of course…” Susan folded her arms, staring at Harry’s photo. The looping script beneath it referred to him as The Saviour in one sentence and Mr Potter in the next, as if the paper itself couldn’t decide how much awe to apply. Part of her wanted to feel something simple and bright. Pride, maybe, that Harry Potter was using his ridiculous, unwanted influence to keep things from turning into a bloodbath. Another part, older and more tired, remembered her aunt’s name carved into a Wizengamot chair, remembered the way the chamber had echoed when verdicts were passed.
“Do you think he’s right?” Hannah asked softly. “About leniency.”
Susan sat down on the edge of the trunk, the wood giving a faint groan. The cardigan squashed under her, but she didn’t move. “I think,” she said slowly, “that he’s trying to make sure we don’t become what we fought. That sounds like him alright. And I think… he’s also eighteen and exhausted and still having to clean up a war that half the people in that room helped cause by pretending not to see it coming.”
Hannah worried her lower lip between her teeth. “That’s not a yes.”
“It’s not a no, either.” Susan dragged a hand through her hair, fingers catching in a knot she hadn’t noticed. “You know what that chamber meant to my aunt. She believed in it. In the law. In… in consequences that meant something. If she were here, she’d probably be the first to say we can’t just throw everyone into Azkaban and call it a day.”
“It’s such a fucking mess…” Hannah said, “not to mention what to be done with fucking Dementors!”
Susan gave a short, humorless laugh. Two times magic Britain was at war in the last twenty years, and two times they had been with the enemy. Just hearing their names again gave her the shivers, and bitterly reminded her of how weak her patronum charm was. Silence settled between them for a moment, broken only by the soft rustle of the Prophet and the distant ticking of the old clock downstairs. Somewhere a neighbor’s owl hooted; the sound carried faintly through the open window. Susan looked again at Harry’s photograph. The way his jaw clenched between frames, the way his hand moved as if he were mid-sentence. She imagined him standing in the centre of the Wizengamot floor, under all those watching eyes, and felt an odd pang of sympathy. “He’s walking into a nest of vipers,” she said. “Again. Only this time they’re wearing respectable plum-colored robes.”
“Do you think they listen to him because he’s Harry Potter,” Hannah asked, “or because they’re afraid of what it would look like if they didn’t for the millionth time?”
“Probably both,” Susan said promptly, and they both smiled, quick and conspiratorial.
Hannah folded the newspaper carefully, smoothing the edges. “They mention us, you know.”
Susan blinked. “What?”
“Not by name.” Hannah tapped a paragraph halfway down the page. “But there’s a bit at the end about ‘the symbolic presence of certain war-affected families returning to Hogwarts to complete their education’ and how it ‘represents a bridge between the Ministry and the new generation.’” She pulled a face.
“Oh, Merlin,” Susan groaned, flopping backwards onto the floor beside her trunk. “That’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard.”
Susan stared up at the ceiling for a moment, at the faint cracks in the whitewash, at the little moving postcard of Hogwarts she’d pinned up near the window years ago. Tiny owls swooped around the castle, endlessly delivering tiny letters. In less than a day, she’d be there again. This time not just as the quiet girl in second-row seats, but as something else. A bridge, maybe. A monument of her own making. A Hufflepuff who didn’t step back. Someone who was not afraid of the consequences in choosing what was right instead of what was easy.
“Do you really want to go?” Hannah’s voice floated down to her, small and serious. “Back, I mean. After everything.”
Susan thought of the Great Hall with its repaired roof, of the Hufflepuff common room with its barrel entrance and earth-scented air. Of the scars on the walls and the ones no one could see. “Yes,” she said, surprised to find how true it felt. “I think I do.”
Susan moved to the bed and reached for Hannah's hand. Her skin was soft and warm. “ It won't be easy, after everything that's happened. But Hogwarts is more than the horrors that have happened in the last few years... We have fond memories there. I can't wait to gather new ones, with you by my side. As always.”
Hannah’s sharp gaze instantly melted, replaced by a wide, watery warmth. She launched herself forward from the bed, dropping the Daily Prophet unceremoniously, and tackled Susan in a fierce, clumsy embrace that nearly sent them both tumbling back onto the pillows.
“Oh, you absolute softy, Susan Bones!” Hannah muffled the words into Susan’s shoulder, squeezing her tight. “You cannot drop truth bombs like that on a Monday morning when I haven't even finished my coffee! If you make my mascara run before we even get to the platform, I swear, I will tell everyone about that time you accidentally charmed Snape’s robes pink!”
Susan burst out laughing, holding her friend tight. “Don’t you dare!”
Hannah pulled back, her blue eyes shining with genuine emotion despite the playful threat. She gave Susan a final, heartfelt squeeze. “I know it’s hard, but you’re right. It’s home, Susie. And I wouldn’t go back without you for anything.” Hannah beamed, picking up the Prophet and tossing it aside once more. “I can’t wait either.”
Susan had no problem showing herself emotional or vulnerable in front of the blonde, but she really felt like she was going to start crying like a fountain if she didn't do something to distract herself. Leaving the bed, she resumed her work. She picked up a white cardigan from the bed, smoothing it before folding it neatly into the trunk. Then she added another skirt, and the good boots with the charmworked soles. Behind her, Hannah must have picked up the newspaper again, judging by the sound of the pages being crumpled.
“You realise,” Hannah said, watching her with a glint in her eye, “that if your grand plan is to reinvent yourself, you’re going to have to do more than buy new clothes.”
“Oh, I know,” Susan said lightly. “I fully intend to talk too much in class and glare openly at anyone who insults Hufflepuff. Possibly… even flirt a little.”
Even saying it out loud made her blush.
Hannah’s eyebrows shot up. “Flirt. You? With who?”
Susan closed the trunk with a decisive click and met her friend’s gaze, a slow, dangerous amusement curling at the corner of her mouth. “We’ll see,” she said.
🌿🌱🌿
The station was louder than she remembered. Steam billowed around the scarlet engine of the Hogwarts Express, swallowing up scraps of conversation and the shriek of the whistle. Owls hooted crossly in their cages, trolleys rattled, someone’s cat yowled in offence as a trunk clipped its carrier. Voices rose and fell in overlapping waves: goodbyes, last-minute reminders, the clatter of an entire world packing itself into a single train. Susan stepped out of the barrier at Hannah’s side and had to pause for a heartbeat just to take it in. Platform Nine and Three-Quarters looked almost exactly as it always had. That was the first unsettling thing. The black-and-gold “Hogwarts Express” plate gleamed as if it had been polished within an inch of its life. The brickwork stood solid, unmarked, as though no one had ever thought of breaching it with Dark magic. Parents pressed handkerchiefs into reluctant hands. First-years clung to trolleys and tried not to look too terrified. If you squinted, you could almost pretend there hadn’t been a war.
Then you looked properly.
There were more Aurors at the edges, for one thing—robes plain but unmistakable, eyes sharp as they scanned the crowd. Some families clustered together a little too tightly, as if afraid of losing one another in the crush. Here and there, a black band on a sleeve or a small, discreet charm pinned to a lapel marked someone who had lost somebody and wanted the world to remember. And the gaps. There were gaps where there shouldn’t have been: familiar groups missing a face, or two, or all of them. Hannah let out a breath, misting the air. “Well,” she said. “We’re really doing this.”
Susan adjusted her grip on her trunk handle and nodded. Her stomach was doing something complicated and twisty that she refused to call nerves. “Of course we are,” she said. That earned a huff of laughter from Hannah. She was wearing a bright yellow sundress that clashed a little with her pale skin, fair hair half-tucked into a plait that already had wisps escaping. Her blue eyes darted around the platform, taking everything in—parents, prefect badges, the slight way a younger girl was crowding behind her older brother.
“Look,” she said suddenly, nudging Susan with her elbow. “There’s Ernie. And Justin. Oh, and—Merlin, is that Seamus Finnigan? He’s grown an entire beard.”
“Not bad at all,” Susan muttered. “Smart way to cover that awful scar from last term…”
“Smart or sexy?” But Hannah wasn't watching him anymore, her eyes fixed on her.
“Sexy is not a word I’d use for him, you know…”
“Well, new year, new Susie… maybe you’d change your mind…”
Susan spared another glance his way. No, nothing against the bloke or his brand new beard, just not her taste. Thank you very much. Hannah giggled, the sound sharp and quick. “Don’t worry, Susie. I’m with you on that one. Seamus is lovely, but frankly, if I wanted a face full of ginger fuzz and nowhere to put my hands, I'd just hug a Niffler.”
Susan snorted, finally loosening her grip on the trunk handle. “Hannah! You’re awful!”
Hannah just grinned, leaning in conspiratorially. “It’s just… you know me. I like things soft and curvy. I prefer a good pair of boobies over a beard any day.” She winked. “So yeah, Seamus is definitely not on the menu for me either.”
They hadn’t taken more than a few steps before someone called her name. “Susan! Hannah!”
Neville Longbottom waved from a little knot of people halfway down the platform, his arm windmilling above the crowd. His Gran was nowhere in sight for once; instead he stood with a battered trunk, a pot with something leafy sticking out of it, and an expression that was still a bit bewildered by the fact he’d turned into someone people waved at. Beside him, Luna Lovegood looked much the same as ever: long pale hair, dreamy gaze, wand tucked behind one ear like a quill. There was a new necklace around her throat—tiny glass beads shaped like crescent moons—and a travel cloak that seemed just a fraction too big. It made her look as if she belonged on some old, illustrated card of “Witch, Traveller.” Between them, with her arms folded and her back to the train, stood Ginny Weasley.
“Come on,” Hannah said, beaming, already in motion. She slipped through a gap between two families with the easy, apologetic charm of someone who had spent years diffusing minor crises in the Hufflepuff common room. “Neville! Luna! Ginny!”
Neville’s whole face lit up when he saw them properly. “Hannah! Susan!” he called back again. “You made it!”
“Obviously,” Hannah said, abandoning her trunk for a moment to fling her arms around him. “You didn’t think we’d let you be the only one suffering through NEWTs, did you?”
Neville laughed, a little embarrassed but pleased, and patted her awkwardly on the back before reaching out to Susan. They exchanged a solid, wordless hug, the kind that said we survived the same things and we’re still here, without needing to say it.
“You’ve cut your hair,” Susan said when they stepped back, eyeing the shorter, rougher style he wore now. It suited him, somehow; less of the shy boy who’d lost his toffees and more of the bad-ass boy who’d killed Nagini with a fucking sword.
“Gran said it was about time I stopped hiding behind it,” Neville admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “She’s… proud. Which is terrifying.”
“As well as she should be,” Hannah said briskly. “We’re proud too. You were brilliant.”
Neville went pink to the tips of his ears, but before he could protest, Luna stepped forward and folded Susan into one of her soft, oddly intense embraces.
“I like your hair,” Luna said serenely, stepping back to look at her. “It looks like sunlight through a jar of jam.”
“Thank… you?” Susan said, not sure whether to laugh or blush. “You look lovely too, Luna.”
“I found these in Sweden,” Luna said, touching the little moon beads. “They’re supposed to ward off post-war bureaucratic interference. Daddy says that’s almost as dangerous as Nargles.”
“That sounds about right,” Hannah murmured.
Susan’s gaze slid, drawn almost against her will, to Ginny. For a second, the other girl seemed not to see them. Her eyes were turned towards the far end of the platform, searching the crowd, mouth set in a line that had too much effort in it to be careless. Then she blinked, focused, and magic snapped back into place.
“Susan,” Ginny said, and there was genuine warmth in the way she said it. She stepped forward and pulled her into a quick, fierce hug that smelled of woodsmoke and the faintest whisper of something floral—Mum Weasley’s washing powder, maybe. “Hufflepuff’s finest. Ready to go back to the madhouse?”
“Absolutely not,” Susan said promptly. “And you?”
“Not even slightly.” Ginny pulled back with a crooked grin. “But I’m going anyway, so I might as well pretend.”
To anyone watching from a distance, she probably looked like the picture of a Weasley: bright, alive, a little too loud. Up close, Susan saw the shadows. They sat under Ginny’s eyes like smudged thumbprints, purplish half-moons that hadn’t been there last term. Her cheeks were hollower; the smile tugging at her mouth didn’t quite reach her eyes. When the laughter faded, her face seemed to sag for a heartbeat, as if someone had turned down an internal light, before she hauled the expression back into place again.
“If we’re all pretending together, it might actually work,” Hannah chimed in. She’d somehow inserted herself neatly between Neville and Ginny, one hand resting lightly on Ginny’s elbow, as though she could hold everyone in orbit with sheer Hufflepuff gravity. “We can form a study group. Or a support group. Or possibly a snack group, I’m flexible.”
“We already had a support group,” Neville pointed out. “It was called the D.A., and we mostly spent it trying not to die.”
“That’s true,” Hannah said. “But this time we can try not to have nervous breakdowns and we can bring cookies.”
“If only you’d be the head of operation last year, Hannah…” said Luna with a dreamy voice.
“We could have brought down the Carrow regime with the power of hugs and hot chocolate…”
Everyone laughed heartily. It was ridiculous how much lighter the air felt when she said things like that. Susan watched the tension ease fractionally out of Neville’s shoulders, saw Luna’s dreamy smile turn more anchored, saw even Ginny’s mouth soften at the corners. Hannah Abbott, social glue. If the Ministry had any sense, they’d have given her a medal.
The train whistle shrieked again, closer this time, and the crowd shifted as families began their last rounds of hugging and scolding. Susan felt the hollow where her own family ought to be, and, as usual, it arrived more as a dull ache than a sharp stab. There was no-one to smooth her hair or tell her she’d write, no stern aunt checking her trunk for contraband dungbombs. Bones House had seen her off in its own way that morning: the quiet creak of the front door, the smell of old parchment and polish, the tick of the clock in the hall. The portrait of some long-dead ancestor had wished her a stiff “Good term,” and that had been that. She was used to it by now. You could get used to almost anything.
“Oi! Ginny!”
The shout cut across her thoughts. She turned with the others just as three familiar figures emerged from the thinning steam near the barrier. Ron Weasley was in the lead, face flushed and put-upon, dragging his trunk as if it had personally offended him. Hermione Granger walked at his side, already talking quietly and gesturing with one hand, her hair pulled back in a practical twist that did nothing to make it look less riotous. They were both wearing muggle jeans and a shirt. Granger, as expected, was already showing her glittering Headgirl pin across her chest. Harry Potter brought up the rear a half-step behind them, one hand on the handle of his own trunk, the other automatically reaching to steady Hermione’s shoulder when someone jostled past.
“There you are!” Ginny called, relief snapping her posture straighter. “I was beginning to think Mum was going to send out a search party.”
“We would have been here sooner,” Ron grumbled, “if people on this platform could go five seconds without wanting to shake Harry’s hand.” He flexed his fingers as if they hurt. “I’ve shaken more hands this morning than in the rest of my life combined.”
“It wasn’t that bad,” Hermione said, though her mouth twitched. “And most of them were just saying thank you, Ron. And I don't think you were complaining that much when those two witches asked for your autograph.”
Susan could sense the annoyance in the girl's tone of voice. Behind him, Ron was addressing Neville, miming his signature in the air over what must have been a pair of very large breasts.
“Now there's no need to be jealous,” Ron muttered. “They were just a little bit exuberant.” Hermione huffed, but she decided to shield her annoyance by rolling her eyes instead. They reached the little knot of them by the train. Up close, the changes were clearer. Hermione looked older in a way that had nothing to do with age—more composed, with a steadiness around the eyes that made Susan think of someone who had already taken charge of entire rooms full of panicking adults. Ron had shot up again; he seemed to be mostly limbs and exasperation, but there was a new, quiet confidence under it, like he was less surprised to find himself being listened to. And Harry Potter— Harry was still Harry. The hair was as stubbornly untidy as ever, the round glasses still a fraction crooked. But he’d filled out a little since May: shoulders broader, his stance less like someone bracing for a blow and more like someone who knew he could stay on his feet when it came. The haunted hollowness she remembered from the days immediately after the battle had eased, though the shadows under his eyes hadn’t vanished entirely. A few full meals must have run their course, restoring him to a healthy weight. There was something else, too, and it had nothing to do with food. A kind of quiet pull, as if the air paid attention to him. No wonder half the platform wouldn’t leave him alone.
“Hi,” Hermione said brightly, her gaze flicking over them all in quick, efficient relief-checks. “Neville, Luna—Susan, Hannah. It’s good to see you.”
Ron gave Neville a quick hug, clapped Luna on the shoulder with the air of someone who still wasn’t sure what dimension she operated in but was fond of her anyway, then nodded at the two Hufflepuffs. “All right, Hannah, Susan?”
His tone was friendly, if less warm; they weren’t part of the inner circle of theirs. Susan didn’t take it personally. You earned that sort of closeness in particular kinds of fire.
“Hi, Ron,” Hannah said easily, rescuing the moment before it could turn awkward. “It’s good to see you.” Susan just smiled and nodded. She couldn't remember having really talked to him before. Harry had stepped in closer to Ginny, and she immediately slid into the empty space at his side, looping an arm through his in a way that was half-claiming, half-clinging. He leaned into her instinctively, shoulder against hers. For a moment his attention seemed entirely on her: the quiet word he murmured, the way his hand gave her arm a quick squeeze.
Then his gaze lifted, almost absently, scanning the small group— and snagged on Susan. It was just a second too long to be nothing. His eyes widened a fraction, like he hadn't immediately recognized her, but now was taking her in: the copper waves of her hair, the fall of her rust-coloured skirt, the glint of rings at her fingers wrapped around the trunk handle. She felt the look hit her like a mild jolt, somewhere between surprise and appraisal. Heat crawled up the back of her neck. For one alarming instant, she had the ridiculous impression she’d turned up to the station wearing something inappropriate. Which was absurd; her shirt buttoned to a perfectly respectable point was hardly indecent. Still, her fingers itched to smooth her skirt.
“Hi, Susan,” Harry said, and there was a new, slight roughness to his voice, as if he wasn’t quite used to how it sounded now. “Hannah. Good to see you.”
“Good to see you too,” Susan managed, pleased that her voice came out steady. “You look…” less like you’re about to fall over was perhaps not the thing to say. “…like you’ve actually slept since May.”
A flicker of wry amusement tugged at his mouth. “That’s mostly Mrs Weasley,” he said. “She keeps making me stop doing things, and feed me dream-less potion with my tea ”
“It’s a full-time job,” Hermione said under her breath.
Ginny’s grip on his arm tightened almost imperceptibly at Susan’s remark. Her smile didn’t falter, but the tiredness around her eyes seemed to thicken, as if just being upright and cheerful in front of this many people was a strain. Hannah, who apparently could feel the temperature in a conversation the way some witches felt changes in the weather, clapped her hands together softly.
“Right,” she said. “Now that the Assorted Heroes are all accounted for, shall we get on that train before it leaves without us? I, for one, would like to secure a compartment that isn’t entirely overrun by exploding sweets.”
“Excellent idea,” Hermione said at once, seizing on the practical suggestion. “We should find seats before everywhere fills up. Do you guys want to join us? We can push two compartments together if it’s crowded.”
Susan blinked. Of all the things she had expected at the start of Eighth Year, being casually invited to share a compartment with the Trio was not high on the list. For a half-second, old instincts whispered that she was intruding, that this was for people who had stood closer to the centre of the story. But then she remembered she had been there, fighting. It had been her war also. The centre of the story had been everywhere, in the end. She glanced at Hannah. Her friend’s eyes were bright, her smile already spreading.
“We’d love to,” Hannah said blithely, answering for both of them, because of course she would. “We promise to provide snacks and moral support, free of charge.”
“Perfect,” Hermione said, brisk and sincere. “Come on, then.”
They all turned towards the train together, a loose knot of people and trunks and pots and owls, and Susan found herself moving in step with them: Harry and Ginny a pace ahead, Ron and Hermione bickering lightly about the autograph anecdote, Neville manoeuvring his plant, Luna humming something that might have been a song and might have been an incantation, Hannah at Susan’s shoulder like a small, determined sun. The steam curled around their ankles as they went, and for the first time since stepping onto the platform, the twist in Susan’s stomach began to feel less like dread and more like anticipation.
🌿🌱🌿
The Eighth-Year common room was not what Susan had expected. For one thing, it was higher up than she’d imagined. After the feast, when McGonagall had gathered them“Our Eighth-Year cohort, if you will”and led them away from the usual stream of students, Susan had assumed they’d be given some reclaimed classroom near the ground floor. Something sensible and slightly damp.
Instead, they climbed.
Stone staircases turned underfoot; torches guttered and then flared as the Headmistress passed. At last, they stopped before a half-moon archway with no portrait, no obvious door, just a smooth stretch of stone. McGonagall lifted her wand and spoke very quietly; the password fizzled in the air and then sank into the wall like ink into parchment. The stone rippled and folded away, forming moving bricks that revealed a large, circular room beyond.
Susan stepped through with the others and felt a little breath catch in her throat. It didn’t look like any of the House common rooms. It looked—she realised, with a faint start—like someone had tried very hard to merge different styles all together, and had made it beautifully. High, arched windows lined one curve of the wall. The landscape was dark now, but she could already imagine what the sight might be, over the valley and the Forbidden Forest. A broad fireplace occupied the opposite side, its mantle carved with the Hogwarts crest and the four tiny animals picked out in subtle brass. The ceiling was low enough to feel cosy but high enough not to suffocate, beams of old dark wood crossing in gentle arcs overhead.
The colours were soft and mixed: warm honey and deep charcoal, with touches of blue, red, green, and yellow woven through rugs and cushions. Squashy armchairs and long sofas formed islands around low tables. There were bookcases. Lots of bookcases. Someone—Minerva McGonagall, or whoever had designed this place—had understood that if you stuck all the Eighth Years together, you’d better give them somewhere to put their reading.
On one side, a spiral staircase led up to what a discreet little sign announced as Eighth-Year Girls’ Dormitory; a matching one on the other side pointed to the boys’ rooms. Between them stood a large notice board, blank for now, waiting to be colonised by timetables, Hogsmeade announcements, and passive-aggressive appeals for people to wash their own mugs.
Students spilled slowly into the room, fanning out in cautious clusters. Susan watched the instinctive gravitation: Gryffindors shading towards one another, Slytherins drifting like a muted green current, Ravenclaws already eyeing the bookcases, Hufflepuffs finding the cosiest-looking arrangement of chairs closest to the fire.
“Welcome,” McGonagall said, her voice carrying easily over the murmurs. “This will be your common room for the duration of the year. Eighth-Year students of all Houses will share this space and the dormitory levels above.” Her gaze swept the room, sharp but not unkind. “I trust you to behave accordingly.”
There was a rustle at that—derisive from a couple of Slytherin corners, faintly anxious from some Gryffindors. Hannah, beside Susan, drew herself up a little and folded her arms, as if daring anyone to misbehave in her vicinity.
“Your trunks have already been brought up and placed by your beds,” McGonagall continued. “You’ll find the dormitories arranged by gender, not House. I suggest you spend some time this evening making yourselves at home. Tomorrow morning, you’ll receive further instructions regarding your adjusted timetable and responsibilities.”
The word responsibilities sent a tiny collective shiver through the room. Susan wasn’t sure whether it was anticipation or dread. “Professor Flitwick and Professor Sprout will be on duty for the first few nights,” McGonagall added. “Should any issues arise, you may send word to them. I expect,” her mouth twitched, “that there will be no need.”
With that, she tilted her head, “ I am happy to have you back at Hogwarts” and stepped back through the archway. The stone reformed behind her with a soft sigh, shutting them all in together. For a moment, no one moved. Then the room exploded into sound.
“Beds!” someone shouted.
“Called it, I want the one near the window—”
“We’re not thirteen anymore, Michael, you can cope with the second-best bed—”
“Oh, look, books on NEWT-level Arithmancy—”
“Is there a kettle? Please tell me there’s a kettle—”
Hannah let out a delighted little laugh. “Oh, this is going to be fun,” she said. “Come on, let’s at least look at where we’re sleeping before you start policing kettle usage.”
“Who says I’m policing it?” Susan asked, even as she let herself be steered towards the girls’ staircase. “I fully intend to abuse it.”
They climbed into a dormitory that mirrored the room below: circular, high-windowed, with a ring of beds around the wall. Four-poster beds, similar to their old House ones, hangings in a soft, neutral cream rather than specific House colours. At the foot of each bed, a trunk. At the head, a small shelf and a hook for robes.
Susan spotted her trunk almost immediately. Her name—S. Bones—had been neatly inked on a tag and tied to the handle. The sight steadied her in a way she hadn’t expected.
Hannah’s bed turned out to be the one at her left. Like the house-elves knew the natural order of things. On the other side was a Ravenclaw girl Susan recognised vaguely from DA meetings; further along still, two Slytherin girls whispered together. Pansy Parkinson was testing the mattress and looked satisfied. The other one was sitting on the edge, but turned around towards her and Hannah. She glanced up, and their eyes met.
Tracey Davis’s smile unfurled like a slow, private joke. “Bones,” she drawled, as if they were meeting in an unexpected circumstance. “Didn’t know they let war heroes into the penthouse.”
“Davis,” Susan said, pleased to find that her answering smile felt natural. “Didn’t know they let snakes this high up without a permit.”
The Slytherin girl huffed a laugh and swung her legs off the bed, sauntering over with the easy, contained confidence of someone who had survived last year by making sure everyone underestimated her. Tall, with her blonde hair in a sharp bob and a mouth made for smirking. Up close, Tracey was very much Tracey: dark eyeliner winged just so, plump red lips, a small silver ring glinting in one ear.
“So, Susan” she said, rolling the name like she was tasting it. “Still making bad choices and sitting with Gryffindors on the train, I hear.”
“Still spying on carriage seating arrangements, I see,” Susan replied. “Surprised you have time, what with all the Purebloods needing their tea leaves read.”
“Oh, the tea leaves can wait,” Tracey said, eyes sparkling. “The real story’s down here. We’ve got the Chosen One, the Ministry’s Favourite Witness, half a Quidditch team, three DA mascots, and…” Her gaze flicked pointedly over Susan’s hair, her curves, her unapologetically rust-coloured skirt. “…a Hufflepuff who’s discovered tailoring. Hogwarts is going to be unbearable.”
“Don’t forget Hannah,” Hannah said cheerfully, appearing at Susan’s shoulder with a pillow hugged to her chest. “I’ve been promoted to Emotional Support Badger. It’s an important role.”
“Oh, I'll never forget Hannah,” Tracey said, biting her lower lip. “She’s the only thing standing between this place and a complete nervous breakdown.”
“You’re not wrong,” Hannah said comfortably. “Now, are we putting our things away like responsible adults, or are we going to loiter and judge everyone’s sleepwear choices?”
“Why not both?” Tracey suggested.
They made a show of unpacking—folding pyjamas, tucking books into shelves, stowing boxes of quills—while surreptitiously keeping an eye on who claimed which bed, which alliances formed. A Ravenclaw witch with a Prefect badge politely staked out the spot nearest the door; two Gryffindor girls threw their things on adjacent beds with the air of people who had already decided they were going to stay up all night talking; Pansy unpacked methodically in silence, her expression giving nothing away. She looked like she had yet to decide whether going back to school was a good idea or not. Susan couldn't help but feel a little sympathetic. For some of the Slytherins, in particular, things couldn't have been so easy. She promised herself to try not to be too judgmental. When the novelty of cupboards and hooks had worn off, the general drift turned back towards the common room. Curiosity won out over territoriality.
By the time Susan, Hannah and Tracey descended the spiral staircase again, the Eighth-Year lounge had settled into rough orbits. Some students were already sprawled on the sofas, others standing in loose circles. A kettle had been found and was doing its best on a small side table, steam puffing hopefully from its spout.
Ron Weasley had claimed a seat near the fire and was in a heated discussion with Ernie Macmillan, their voices rising and falling over the ethics of leniency for Death Eaters. Granger hovered with a cup of tea, punctuating the argument with the occasional precise comment that somehow managed to make both boys stop and think.
Hannah’s hand found her forearm, a light, grounding touch. “Tea?” she asked, as if that weren’t code for do you need something to do with your hands before you hex someone?
“Tea,” Susan agreed.
They made their way to the kettle. It wobbled a bit when Hannah tried to pour, so Susan steadied it with one hand, the steam curling over her knuckles. Around them, snippets of conversation tangled and broke apart.
“…can’t just forgive everything because Potter says so—”
“…I’m not saying forgive, I’m saying look at the evidence—”
“…do you think McGonagall will really let us help teach the younger years? I’d be a disaster—”
“…I heard there’s a new curse-breaker coming in for guest lectures—”
Hannah passed her a mug. Their fingers brushed; both of them were a little too warm.
“You all right?” Hannah murmured.
“Yes,” Susan said. Then, because she could feel Hannah’s sceptical stare even without looking, she added, “Mostly.”
She risked a glance towards the window. Harry Potter was standing a little off-centre, talking quietly to Neville and Michael Corner. The firelight carved soft lines down his face, catching on his glasses. He had his hands tucked into his pockets in a way that made him look almost like any other boy his age, except for the way the room’s awareness seemed to bend around him. People knew exactly where he was even when they weren’t looking. Susan felt it, the little prickle at the back of her neck, the awareness of his outline at the edge of her vision. She tried not to look. Managed it for all of ten seconds.
“Subtle,” Tracey murmured at her elbow, following her line of sight with lazy accuracy. “Very subtle. I almost didn’t notice the way your eyeballs just gravitated towards him like he’s the last Cauldron Cake at the feast.”
“Sod off,” Susan whispered back, but without much venom.
As if some invisible thread tugged at him, Harry looked up at the same moment. His attention, which had been on whatever his companions were saying, flicked across the room. Their eyes met. It wasn’t long. A little jolt went through her, a ghost of the feeling she’d had on the platform. His expression shifted—recognition, a flicker of something almost like surprise again, and then a small, tired but genuine smile. Susan’s mouth curved before she could stop it. She lifted her mug a fraction, a silent cheer across the room. Harry gave an almost imperceptible nod, as if acknowledging some shared secret, then let Neville tug his attention back to the question he might have asked.
“Mm-hm,” Tracey said softly, appearing at her other side like a commentary spirit. “We are going to have fun this year.”
“Tracey,” Hannah warned, though she was smiling.
They eventually claimed a corner of the common room that felt, if not private, then at least a little tucked away: a curved bit of sofa by one of the windows, half-hidden behind a bookcase. Someone had abandoned a chessboard on the low table; Hannah nudged it aside to make room for their mugs. Tracey dropped into the corner like she owned it, slinging one arm along the back of the sofa, her skirt riding up just enough to show a length of stockinged thigh. Hannah flopped down beside her, knees up, tucking her feet under herself so she ended up half-leaning into Tracey’s side. Susan took the other end, closest to the glass, shoulder brushing Hannah’s, the cool pane at her back and the heat of the room in front of her.
From here, she could still see Harry in slices of reflection and firelight. It was infuriating how her gaze kept finding him, like there was a tiny magnetic charm lodged somewhere under her ribs. Tracey followed the line of her eyes and made a low, appreciative sound. “He really is, objectively, stupidly fit,” she said.
Hannah snorted into her tea. “Going straight for the throat, are we?”
“I’m just starting the conversation the rest of you are too repressed to have,” Tracey replied, tipping her head back against the cushions. Her fingers drifted idly to the hem of Hannah’s cardigan, rubbing the frayed edge between thumb and forefinger. “Look at him. That’s at least an eight and a half on the ‘would climb like a tree’ scale.”
Hannah choked. “Tracey.”
“What?” Tracey’s mouth curved. “I’m being conservative.”
“I never said—” Susan began, already regretting it.
“Sweetheart,” Tracey cut in, turning her head lazily towards her, “your pupils dilated when he said hello. It was like watching someone cast Lumos behind your eyes. Own it.”
“You weren't even there…” Susan half growled, her eyes like daggers.
Hannah’s blue gaze bounced between them, alight with mischief. “It’s a safe space,” she said solemnly, pulling out her wand from her sleeves. She didn't need to say the spell, Hannah had always been very good at non-verbal charms. Susan knew perfectly well the combination of the clockwise movement and the little flutter of the wrist: the Muffliato charm would provide them with privacy. “Hufflepuff-certified. No judgement. Only weaponised teasing.”
Susan stared into her mug for a moment, watching the ripples on the surface. Her cheeks were unhelpfully warm. “Fine,” she said at last, exhaling. “He’s… attractive.”
Tracey made a rolling gesture with her free hand. “Try again.”
“Very attractive,” Susan amended.
Hannah bumped her shoulder, grin widening. “You can do better than that.”
Susan pushed a hand through her hair, feeling the copper waves catch against her fingers. “All right. He’s… painfully attractive. Obscenely attractive.” Her mouth twitched. “Fucking hot. There. Are you two satisfied now, old gossips?”
Tracey’s grin turned positively feral. “There she is.” Hannah let out a delighted little squeak and squeezed Susan’s wrist. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”
“Speak for yourself,” Susan muttered, but she was smiling despite herself, playing with a lock of hair.
Tracey lifted her mug in a tiny toast. “To Harry Potter, then. National hero, walking thirst trap, and—” her eyes slid towards the sofa where he was now seated at Neville’s side, “—tragically, gloriously, fucking taken.”
“I’m aware,” she said dryly. “I was there when Ginny practically welded herself to his arm.”
“Just checking your eyesight,” Tracey replied. “Some girls go temporarily blind when confronted with that much jawline.”
Hannah tilted her head, studying Harry as if he were an academic problem. “Mm,” she said. “Good forearms. Better posture than last year. That ‘I’ve seen too much’ stare… it’s a whole thing.”
Tracey bumped her knee. “Look at you, Abbott. I always knew there was a menace hiding under that cardigan.”
Hannah shot her a sideways look, lips curving. “Please. Just because I know how to colour-code my notes doesn’t mean I don’t have eyes.”
Tracey’s arm, still draped along the sofa, slipped a little lower so her fingers brushed the bare skin at the back of Hannah’s neck where her hair had come loose. “I’ve noticed,” she murmured. A faint blush climbed Hannah’s cheeks, but she didn’t move away. Instead, she nudged Tracey’s shin with her foot. “Careful, Davis. People will start thinking you like us.”
“Oh, I definitely like you,” Tracey said. “I like everyone who makes my life more entertaining. Gryffindors for drama, Slytherins for gossip, Ravenclaws for plagiarism emergencies…” Her gaze flicked back to Susan, slow and assessing. “And Hufflepuffs for when things get really interesting.”
Susan arched a brow. “Is that our official House role now?”
“Please,” Tracey said. “Last year you lot ran half the resistance, baked for the other half, and still had the energy to hex Deatheater behind the greenhouses.” She lifted Hannah’s hand from her mug and inspected her nails with exaggerated seriousness. “Everyone thinks Hufflepuff means ‘soft’ and ‘rules’. Meanwhile, you’re all out here hiding knives under your kindness.”
Hannah wriggled her fingers free and tapped Tracey lightly on the nose. “Maybe it’s time people stopped assuming we only know how to follow the rules,” she said. Her tone was light, but there was steel under it. “We know what the game is. We just don’t always advertise when we’re playing.”
Susan felt like a spark catching kindling. Her lip found its way between her teeth again, an old habit, and she worried it slowly as her gaze drifted—for the fourth, fifth, tenth time—back to Harry.
“Anyway,” Hannah said, as if ticking off a list, “he’s hot. He’s occupied. Those are facts.” She shrugged one shoulder. “Doesn’t mean the rest of us shrivel up and pretend we don’t notice. Or that we can’t… nudge the narrative.”
Tracey made a pleased noise. “Merlin, marry me,” she said, dropping her head briefly onto Hannah’s shoulder in a theatrical swoon. “A Hufflepuff after my own black little heart.”
Hannah laughed and turned her head just enough that the tips of their noses almost brushed. “You couldn’t handle full-time Hufflepuff,” she said. “We’d insist on communication and feelings charts.”
“That’s the sexiest thing you’ve ever said to me,” Tracey replied.
Susan rolled her eyes, but the warmth in her chest was real. This, too, was something new: being part of this easy, wicked orbit, where jokes about hot boys and bad decisions sat comfortably alongside war scars and Wizengamot headlines.
“I’m not planning to do anything,” she said, half to convince herself. “I just… noticed him. That’s all.”
“Sure,” Tracey said. “You just noticed his arms. And his eyes. And the way he said your name like he’d swallowed a pebble.”
Hannah’s brows crept up. “He did talk to you a bit differently on the platform,” she mused. “Less ‘Oh, hello, general fellow survivor,’ more…” She waggled her fingers vaguely. “Charged. I almost felt sorry for Ginny. Almost.”
Hannah was watching her, head tilted, mouth soft but eyes very sharp. “You know,” she said slowly, “we should probably also stop pretending you and Ginny are… friends.”
Susan blinked. “We fought a war together.”
“So did half of wizarding Britain,” Hannah said, shrugging one shoulder. “If sharing a battlefield made everyone family, we’d need a much bigger Christmas table.”
Tracey snorted. “She has a point.”
“I like Ginny,” Hannah went on, honest as ever. “Mostly. She’s brave, she fought, she’s… a lot.” Her gaze flicked briefly to the redhead, Ron, by the fire, then back to Susan. “But you don’t owe her your life, or your crushes, or your silence. You’re not her sister. You’re not her therapist. You’re a girl who nearly died three times before NEWTs and would quite like something pretty—and complicated—for herself.” The words landed with a quiet, seismic thud in Susan’s chest.
Hannah took a sip of tea, then added, almost conversationally, “So if you want to know my official opinion? Sod Ginny Weasley.”
Susan choked. “Hannah.”
“What?” The blondy’s lips twitched. “She is poular. She has a family. She has a professional Quidditch career waiting if she doesn’t explode first. She’ll be fine. If you…” Her fingers squeezed Susan’s hand again, firm this time. “…want to try something with Potter, you have my support.”
Tracey let out a low, delighted whistle. “Merlin’s saggy—Abbott just gave you permission to poach the Chosen One. I feel like we should carve this date into a wall somewhere.”
“It’s not poaching,” Hannah said calmly. “It’s… exploring market options in a post-war economy.”
Tracey stared at her, then burst out laughing. “I am so in love with you.”
Hannah nudged her knee with her own. “Get in line.”
Susan could feel her pulse in her fingertips, in her throat, in the spot just below her ribs where something wild and reckless was stretching its wings. And yet.
You don’t owe her your silence.
Her teeth were on her lower lip again before she noticed. She made herself release it slowly, tongue smoothing over the faint sting. Her thumb stroked once over the fabric of her skirt in a small, decisive line. “Girls,” she said, voice low. “I’ve just realised something… and it made me think.”
Tracey didn’t miss a beat. “You need to change your soaked knickers?”
Hannah pressed her lips together, clearly fighting not to burst out laughing.
Susan rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth curled. “Ginny Weasley,” she said, savouring the words, “is just a regular seventh-year. She’s not allowed in here.”
Tracey’s eyebrows shot up, then she grinned, slow and sharp. “Oh, would you look at that,” she murmured. “Our Susie can do maths.”
Hannah gave a small, approving hum. “Eighth-Year common room,” she said. “Eighth-Year dorms. Eighth-Year study tables.” Her gaze slid towards the other side of the room. “Which means if you and Potter happen to spend time together up here… no one’s going to be hovering on his arm.”
Across the room, as if summoned by the weight of three girls’ attention, Harry glanced over. His gaze skimmed the common room and snagged, just for a heartbeat, on the trio by the window. Susan met his eyes and, this time, let the corner of her mouth tilt into a small, knowing smile. Let the rest of the world worry about who should look at whom. Susan Bones knew what she wanted.