The Next Morning.

Thursday, Sept. 12

Hermione had only realised how tired she was after she’d passed out the moment she laid in bed on Wednesday night, and for the first time since Harry told her the truth about Voldemort and Scabbers and everything else (which, as hard as it was to believe, was only last Friday, not even a week ago), she had a full, uninterrupted night of sleep.

Although, she wasn’t quite sure if that was because she didn’t have any dreams, or was just too tired to be woken by them.

Whichever it was, was irrelevant however, what mattered was that Hermione was well-rested in a way she hadn’t had the opportunity to be in too many days.

Thanks to her clearer mind and improved mood, her morning rituals took slightly less time than they usually did, but even so, when she went down to the common room some time later, Harry was already sitting there waiting for her.

He looked the same as he always did; bright eyes, a small smile, bird-nest hair, a neat uniform, and Hedwig within touching distance, but Hermione had to wonder how much sleep he could have gotten if he was already dressed and waiting by the time she came down.

“Ohayo,” Harry said in his customary greeting, even adding a little wave.

“Good morning,” Hermione said back as Harry rose and they walked down together to breakfast.

Breakfast was the mundane affair it usually was; they ate, talked about some trivial things, did some light studying, and Hedwig got them a paper from whatever mysterious place she acquired them.

Draco even approached their group while they headed for Transfiguration, although, unlike he usually did, this time he aimed his barbs at Ron instead of Harry.

Hermione suspected it was because the blonde boy had finally learned that he couldn’t match Harry in a verbal spar, while Ron, on the other hand, was—unfortunate, but true—an easy target. All Draco needed to do to make Ron spitting mad was say pretty much anything about the Weasleys’ financial situation, and the Slytherin was more than willing to take advantage of that.

“Hanging around Potter an awful lot, Weasley,” Draco said, smiling cruelly. “What? Hoping some change will fall from his pockets? Because everyone knows that’s how you Weasleys feed.”

A few of the Slytherins within earshot snickered, and Hermione scowled at them, even as Ron, and Neville, Ron’s closest friend of their group, went red with anger.

Before anyone could say anything, Harry asked aghast. “Draco, you’re picking on Ron now? How could you? I thought you and I had something special?”

Eyes turned to harry, mostly in confusion. Hermione just rolled hers.

“What are you on about, Potter?” Draco asked.

Harry looked hurt. “I’m talking about our thing; you know, where you try to pick on me and I turn it back on you and make you look silly—you have a bit of grease on your cheek, by the way. It’s disgusting.”

Draco’s eyes widened a bit and he immediately reached up to wipe his right cheek.

“No, the other one,” Harry said.

Draco wiped the left.

“A little lower.”

Draco went lower.

“Farther back.”

The Slytherin complied.

“More to the—ow!”

Hermione smacked Harry on the arm.

“Ignore him, Draco. There’s nothing on your cheek,” she said, and a few people, including Crabbe and Goyle, snickered.

Draco went redder than even Ron had, and his face twisted into an expression of anger so poignant that it stunned Hermione for a second, then he reached into his robes to pull out his wand, only to stop when the tip of Harry’s tapped his nose.

The hallway stilled.

“Now, Draco, you’ve got two choices,” Harry said calmly. “Choice no. 1—which I really advise you to take by the way—is you keep your wand back in your robes, and I become Switzerland; mind my own business. Choice no. 2 is you don’t keep your wand back in your robes, and I become North Korea.

“You really wouldn’t like North Korea.”

Draco looked around him, saw the faces of all the students watching, waiting for his reaction, and for a moment he actually looked like he would try to fight, but then the tip of Harry’s wand glowed red and the Slytherin panicked and backed away.

A few people snickered, but Draco had already made his choice; he stabbed his wand back into his robes.

“Good choice,” Harry said.

Needing to get the last word in, Draco growled: “My father will hear of this, Potter,” before storming off, his clique rushing to follow after him.

“Say hi for me,” Harry called after them, finally keeping his wand.

After the Gryffindor boys finished gushing over how cool Harry was for the simple act of drawing his wand and they finally continued heading towards class again, Hermione asked quietly: “You got that from a movie, didn’t you?”

Harry said nothing, but the sudden blush on his cheeks was all the answer she needed.

She shook her head fondly, Harry would never change.

He had been pretty cool though. Even if he had no business getting into fights in the first place.

Thankfully, Draco seemed content to do no more than shoot nasty looks at Harry during Transfiguration (probably from fear of Prof. McGonagall), so the lesson was normal enough. Things only changed when, after the lesson, Prof. McGonagall asked Harry to stay behind.

For a few days after the event with Prof. Snape last Friday, Prof. McGonagall had been somewhat cold-shouldered towards Hermione and Harry, but mostly Harry. It had given the girl the impression that the professor was displeased with them over what happened.

Hermione would have preferred to stay and hear the conversation, but she went out with everyone else. She told the other Gryffindors to head for lunch, that she would wait for Harry alone, and they agreed.

It took barely a minute before Harry came out. He looked... annoyed, yes, but mostly disappointed, and Hermione was on him in an instant, wanting to know what Prof. McGonagall had said to him.

Harry shrugged, trying to keep his tone light. “Apparently, I should count myself lucky that, against her wishes, Dumbledore has decided not to punish me for my unacceptable behaviour last Friday.”

Hermione frowned. “Was that exactly what she said?” She couldn’t help but ask.

Harry shrugged again. “Pretty much.”

Hermione’s frown deepened; she didn’t know how to feel about that. Prof. McGonagall was the first person from the Magical World she had ever met; her favourite teacher in the surprisingly short time she’d been at Hogwarts, the realization that the woman wasn’t on Harry’s side in this was... upsetting.

I mean, sure Hermione thought that Harry antagonizing Snape didn’t help matters much, but, as hard as it was for her to admit, Prof. Snape hadn’t been much better.

This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

No, he had been worse.

“What else did she say?” Hermione asked.

Harry shrugged yet again. “Nothing much, just how she’s expecting me to act in a manner befitting a Gryffindor from now on. Specifically tomorrow.”

Tomorrow? Oh, right, their second class with Snape was tomorrow. Hermione had been trying to not think about that.

Harry took her hand. “Don’t worry,” he said, “Snape won’t bother you again.”

He looked certain, so Hermione asked, “How do you know that?”

Harry stared at her, and something dark flashed in his eyes as he said, “Because I told Dumbledore that I would kill Snape if he hurt you.”

Hermione faltered. Her mouth worked soundlessly for several seconds before finally a strangled “what?” came out.

Harry started to answer her, then he stopped, let out a breath, and pulled her into the nearest unused classroom (how many of these did Hogwarts have anyway?).

Closing and locking the door with a Locking Spell behind them, Harry took another breath then started to speak.

His first words completely confused Hermione.

“I had it all set up, you know?

“Got a magical tent; bigger on the inside—a bedroom, a kitchen, a kickass bathroom. Got a broomstick—two broomsticks, just in case. Two invisibility cloaks too. Bought tons of non-perishables; every book that looked even remotely useful; would have bought an extra wand too, but Ollivander gave me a look that honestly scared me when I asked.

“The only thing that was left was to clean out my Gringotts vault.”

Realization had been slowly dawning as Harry spoke, but that last sentence sealed the deal; Harry been planning to run away.

A memory from long ago, back before Hermione learnt more truth than she knew what to do with, rose then. A memory of Harry telling her that he’d almost not come to Hogwarts.

“Why did you come? If you didn’t want to?” She’d asked, and Harry had replied: “To meet you. Why else would I come?”

Hermione repeated the question again now. “Why did you come to Hogwarts, Harry?”

Really, why had he come? Because despite how he acted, Harry wasn’t the kind of person who would do something like this, something he clearly would rather not have done, without a good reason.

So what was that reason? Did he hope it would make killing Voldemort easier? Was it to get easy access to the horcrux in The Room of Requirement?

What was it?

“Do you know how you and Ron and I became friends in the books?” Harry asked, but didn’t wait for an answer. “We saved you from a troll.”

Hermione blinked.

“And I kept telling myself that, of course such an event that relies on such a ridiculous amount of coincidences wouldn’t happen if I made a change as big as not going to Hogwarts. But the question was always there; what if it did?

“What if Ron was still an idiot? What if Quirrel still released the troll? What if you were still in that bathroom crying?

“What if I wasn’t there?”

Harry stared in her eyes as he said that last part, and Hermione stared back, utterly captivated by the boy and his words that she understood just enough to be chilled by.

“So, on the first of September, I got on The Hogwarts Express,” Harry continued. “And I met you. And you gave me something I hadn’t even realised I needed.

“So, at the risk of sounding like an overprotective psychopath and having you avoid me for the rest of my natural life, Hermione, if Snape—if anyone—hurts you, I’m going to fucking kill them.”

Hedwig swooped down from somewhere at that moment to perch on Harry’s shoulder, adding her own bark of agreement to the mix, and, for the longest time, Hermione Jane Granger had no idea what to do with the situation she found herself in.

*****

Hermione walked with Harry to The Room of Requirement after Defense Against the Dark Arts still feeling a little awkward.

Some of it was from the declaration Harry had made back in that empty classroom (which she’d avoided discussing, and Harry thankfully hadn’t either), but most of it was actually from the events that took place during Defense itself.

Apparently, Draco had decided that Voldemort’s class was the one he was willing to seek vengeance against Harry in. Granted the boy didn’t know the real identity of the stuttering professor, but even so.

Anyway, for the first time ever, Quirrel had let them practice a spell in the classroom, instead of droning on for the whole three hours in his irritating stutter (why he faked it Hermione would never know).

It was the Jelly-Legs Jinx, and the students had partnered up to practice, and since neither Harry nor Hermione much liked the idea of leaving themselves helpless in a classroom with Voldemort, they’d deliberately held back on the spell. And that was when Draco had ‘accidentally’ used the spell on her from behind.

The fact that he had targeted her, who he no doubt (accurately) considered an easier target, was not lost on Hermione, and it made her wonder, just for a second, if maybe there was an advantage to a show of strength after all. To being strong.

When she fell, and Harry saw who had caused it, he had looked so angry that Draco had actually staggered back in fear. But then Quirrel had intervened. He chastised Draco (t—that’s en—n—nough now, Mr. M—malfoy), talked Harry down (n—no need f—for violence, M—mr. Potter), and cast the counter-jinx on her. Then Voldemort had offered her a hand to help her up.

She’d taken it (couldn’t come up with a reason not to). And it had been warm, and soft, and very human. And it had made Hermione feel... awkward. Very awkward. And she wasn’t even sure why.

The girl pushed the feeling aside as Harry finished the ritual to activate the room and the door appeared, as unassuming as ever. Harry pushed it open, and they walked into a dark, misty, and very creepy forest.

Hermione and Harry stared at each other, then back at their surroundings. The trees around them were leafless and covered in webs, the air smelled... weird, but very real, and the skittering of very many legs sounded from all around them.

Along with hissing. A lot of hissing.

Dark shapes began to emerge from the mist, very real-looking dark shapes with venom-dripping fangs and too many red eyes. They came on the ground, from the trees, everywhere.

This was not feeling like a safe place to train.

“Harry,” Hermione whispered, “what did you ask the room to give us?”

“A place where we can learn to fight acromantulas,” he replied, just as quietly.

Hermione swallowed. “Did you add safely to that?” she asked, already dreading the answer.

Harry froze. “I think we should leave,” he said. “Now.”

It was three steps to the door, and the nearest spider was at least fifteen feet away.

They barely made it.

As they stood outside panting, backs pressed against the closed door, Hermione decided that, henceforth, she would be the one activating the room.

The second attempt (with ‘safe’ heavily emphasized), produced a beautiful, sunlit forest where everything was soft, almost like the world was made of foam.

They still walked in cautiously, wands held at the ready for an attack. An attack that came in the form of three giant, colourful, plushy spider dolls with the biggest, cutest eyes.

Hermione had to physically restrain herself from gasping with amazed joy.

“You’re messing with me, right?” Harry asked flatly. “I mean, I know we wanted safe, but dolls? Hermione, I can’t play with dolls; do you have any idea what that’ll do to my reputation if it got out?”

The girl rolled her eyes, and was beginning to answer when something large, soft, and very powerful slammed into her and sent her flying.

Hermione flew ten feet into the nearest tree, bounced off it’s spongy trunk with her side, slammed into the soft-ish ground, rolled twice, and then dazed, got covered from the neck down in what felt like very sticky cotton candy.

Thirty seconds later, when the world was upright again, she made out Harry screaming her name, and two very cute spiders staring down at her.

On that day, Hermione learned a life lesson; neither the word ‘safe’ nor the word ‘cute’ meant not terrifyingly dangerous.

Well, the first one did, but that wasn’t really the point.

*****

Despite how they looked, the dolls were just as fast, just as strong, and just as violent as actual acromantulas, and fighting against them was hell.

Fifteen minutes after they first stepped foot in the room, Hermione and Harry just had to call a timeout.

They curled up in a corner together, panting and sweaty and, despite how soft everything was, achy (apparently, getting repeatedly slammed into surfaces, even soft ones, was rough on the body. Who knew?).

Fortunately, they could control the room to an extent; they could make it reset, which made the spiders and all the webs they released poof out of existence, and they could choose when to start a new round, which made the spiders start appearing and attacking once more.

It was a bit like some of the videogames Hermione had seen, and she wondered if the room had taken it from her head, or if it had done so from Harry’s, since she knew that videogames weren’t things that she thought about all that much.

Then again, Harry had never talked about videogames either. He talked about movies, and music, and books, even science and future events, but never videogames.

At one point, Hermione might have theorized that maybe by 2021 people just didn’t play videogames anymore, because everyone had finally realised that they made you dull (much like they did Shawn from her old school), but after all the things Harry had told her of the future, Hermione simply decided now that Harry just didn’t like them.

“They’re too fast,” Harry said.

Hermione blinked. Had she missed something?

“The acromantulas,” Harry explained, “they’re too fast.”

Oh. She nodded. The giant arachnids could move so fast they almost seemed to blur. Usually, before she and Harry could even finish casting whatever spell they wanted, the creatures were already on them.

“Maybe we should learn silent casting,” Harry suggested.

That might work, Hermione thought. Unfortunately— “Silent casting is for N.E.W.T students, Harry. It’s very advanced. I don’t think we can learn it in time.”

Harry sighed and slumped. “Great,” he said. “At this point we might as well just carry torches for all the good our wands will do us.”

Hermione stared at him, her brain kicking into gear.

“What?” Harry asked, noticing her expression. “You got an idea?”

Hermione nodded energetically, her excitement building as her idea took solid shape in her mind. “We don’t need to learn silent casting, Harry. We can just cast the spells before we meet the spiders instead.”

Harry stared at her blankly. “I’m not following.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, then stood. “Remember the Hanging Flame Spell?”

Harry frowned. “The one that made the witch, what’s-her-face, invent the Lumos because it kept setting things on fire.”

“Geraldine Bierwagen, Harry. And yes, that one.”

“Okay, what about it?”

Hermione cast the spell, and like the name implied, it created a floating tongue of fire about the size of a man’s fist in the air before her. Then she cast the spell again, again, and again, and with every new one she created the look of realization in Harry’s eyes grew.

After the sixth one Hermione stopped, and then she began to direct all six flames around with her wand. It was clumsy, it was slow, and some of the flames guttered, threatening to go out, but it was working.

They could use this.