Morning.

Sunday, Sept. 15

“If you will come with me,” Prof. McGonagall said, and Hermione looked at Harry.

The boy shrugged; they’d both known this was coming, maybe not quite like this, but the point remained.

Looking back at Prof. McGonagall, Hermione nodded and spoke for the both of them: “Okay.”

Prof. McGonagall started to speak, but before she could say anything though, Harry cut in. “Can I use the loo before we go?”

Prof. McGonagall blinked at the interruption, mouth hanging open rather comically for a second, then she collected herself. “May I use the loo, Mr. Potter. And yes, you may,” she said, waving him off.

Harry rolled his eyes at the professor’s correction, but he got up and left without saying anything.

All three females watched the boy leave, Hedwig looking, Hermione thought, like she was considering following him. To be honest, Hermione felt the same, just a little, like Voldemort (or some other dangerous entity) might burst out of a toilet stall to attack Harry while she wasn’t there to protect him.

Hermione shook off the feeling. She was being silly, she told herself. Harry was perfectly safe.

‘Like he’d been in the common room, last night?’ A treacherous part of her mind queried, and the girl did her best to quieten it.

In an attempt to distract herself, Hermione latched onto the only available conversant in the room and asked the first question that came to mind. A question which, though she only now realized as she asked it, she was actually quite curious about.

“Professor, what happened in Hogsmeade? Is everyone okay?”

Prof. McGonagall gave Hermione a calculating look, like she was considering how much to tell the young Gryffindor. Finally though, the witch just closed her eyes and sighed tiredly.

“Thirteen people died, Miss Granger,” the Transfiguration professor admitted, and Hermione’s heart seized in her chest. “Dozens more were injured. And all of it in a dastardly attempt to lure The Headmaster from the castle, so that Death Eater could attack you and Mr. P—Harry, unopposed.”

Hermione grimaced. “I’m sorry,” she said, downcast eyes stinging with unshed tears. “If it wasn’t for us this wouldn’t have—”

“What? No, Hermione, you are not to blame for this,” Prof. McGonagall said, coming to kneel before the girl so as to be level with her. “You nor Harry. The blame rests at the feet of the vile men who did this, no one else’s.

“Do you understand?”

Hermione nodded, because she did understand; it was Prof. McGonagall who didn’t.

Prof. McGonagall, clearly not an affectionate woman by any margin, settled for nodding and giving Hermione a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder before she rose and pulled back.

Hedwig came in then and pressed her warm fluff into Hermione’s side. The girl petted the owl in appreciation.

After how the last attempt at conversation turned out, there seemed to be an unspoken agreement between the two witches to not try again. And they probably would not have if Prof. McGonagall hadn’t remembered something important.

“Oh, yes,” the older witch said, reaching into her robes and pulling out a wand. Hermione’s wand. “I believe this is yours?”

“You found it!” Hermione exclaimed, reaching for the object. As soon as her fingers came into contact with it, a pleasant and familiar warmth ran from the wand up her arm.

“The Aurors did actually,” Prof. McGonagall informed her. “It was hidden in the grass where you and Mr. Potter fell last night.”

Well, that didn’t really surprise Hermione, she’d suspected that that was where the wand was all along.

All the same, it was nice to have it back; there was a part of her that had worried that she would never see it again. Or, worse, that she would, but the wand would be irreparably broken.

“Thank you,” Hermione said, and Prof. McGonagall nodded quietly.

Rising from Harry’s bed, Hermione reached for the small nightstand next to her own bed, where she had placed her wand holster the night before.

Somehow, almost miraculously, the little, leather accessory had survived all the events of the day before with little more to show for the ordeal than a few scratches.

Hermione strapped the item to her wrist, then pushed her wand into the short, slim tube that logic demanded was much too small to fit the entire length of her wand.

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Her wand, of course, fit perfectly, because magic just does not give a damn about what logic thinks.

“You have a wand holster,” Prof. McGonagall stated, an unreadable tone in her voice.

Hermione nodded. “Yes, Harry gave it to me,” she said, then, because McGonagall’s eyebrow had ticked up a bit at the mention of Harry, she asked with some confusion: “Is that a problem?”

The older witch shook her head. “No,” she said, “simply atypical. I’ve never seen anyone but Aurors and Hit wizards use them before.

“Certainly not first-years,” she added, in a lower, but catchable, tone.

Oh, right. Harry had told her the woman he bought them from had said the same thing.

Silence settled between the two witches again, and when it was just starting to get awkward enough, for Hermione at least, that the girl began to feel the need to say anything, Harry returned.

The boy looked fresh-faced and bright-eyed, and there was some dampness in his hair that suggested that Harry may have stuck his head under a running tap.

Seeing Harry unharmed before her again caused a knot in her stomach that Hermione had forgotten was there to loosen, but the boy’s first words caused a completely different one to tighten.

“Did you know Parvati’s here?” he asked.

Hermione had not, but that was only to be expected; when Prof. Sprout had brought them to the infirmary yesterday, Madam Pomfrey had taken one look at the state they were in and sequestered them to these two beds, then forbidden everyone else from even thinking about approaching them.

“No, I didn’t,” Hermione said. “Is she okay?”

“I don’t know,” Harry said, face marred with a worried frown. “Fred and George told me that she hit her head on a stool yesterday. They say there was a lot of blood.”

Hermione’s eyes widened in horror, but before the chill running down her spine could even finish its journey, Madam Pomfrey interrupted, the portly matron having somehow approached without them noticing.

“Miss Patil is just fine, Mr. Potter,” the matron said. “She woke a few minutes ago. Though she’s still quite groggy.”

“Good morning, Poppy,” Prof. McGonagall said placidly.

To Hermione’s surprise, Madam Pomfrey’s lips pressed into a thin line of displeasure as she looked at The Deputy Headmistress. But then, after a few seconds, she sighed and said: “You’re here for them then.” It wasn’t a question.

McGonagall nodded.

Madam Pomfrey sighed again, then she waved her wand in intricate patterns over Harry’s head silently, causing the poor boy to flinch, before heading over to Hermione and doing the same over the confused young witch’s head.

As the matron worked, she muttered, seemingly to herself but, Hermione suspected, deliberately loudly enough that everyone present could hear. “An eleven-year-old girl dealing with basilisk venom and The Cruciatus Curse in one day, and they won’t even let her rest. Really, what is The Headmaster thinking?”

If anyone had been looking at Harry in that moment, they would have seen the look of gut-wrenching guilt that etched itself onto his face at Madam Pomfrey’s words, but no one was, so they missed it, and by the time anyone looked, it was gone.

“You can go,” Madam Pomfrey said, finishing whatever spellwork she’d been performing. “But do be careful, you two; this is the second time you’ve been here in less than a day, and that’s the second most hospital visits I’ve had from any student in the twenty-four years I’ve worked here.”

It took Hermione a moment to process that. “Second most?” she asked.

“How many times is number one?” Harry wondered.

“Four,” Madam Pomfrey replied.

Hermione blanched. How careless could a person be that they would need to go to the infirmary four times in one day?

“Who was this?” Hermione asked, and Madam Pomfrey gestured to Harry as she said, “James Potter. His father.”

Harry blinked. “Really? Huh.”

The boy seemed at a loss for words, at least until his expression turned thoughtful. “You know, they do say that the son shall surpass the father, so, I don’t know, Madam Pomfrey, but I think I may be on to something here.”

With deadly calm, Madam Pomfrey replied, “Mr. Potter, if you so much as step one foot in here for the next month, I will chain you to a bed.”

Then she left.

“Love you too, Madam Pomfrey,” Harry called after the departing matron, and Hermione rolled her eyes at the boy’s antics.

Prof. McGonagall spoke then: “Come with me, children,” she said, making her own prompt exit too.

The older witch led them out of the infirmary, though, before they left, they took a moment to say hello to Parvati, who was awake but a little groggy just as Madam Pomfrey had said.

Hermione was glad the girl was okay, she didn’t know what she would have done if Parvati had been injured worse.

Even just seeing the girl awake with bandages wrapped around her head had been awful. It made Hermione glad that no other of their friends were here.

When they were finally on their way to what Hermione assumed would be The Headmaster’s office, Prof. McGonagall said; “It was your mother who sent him there, Mr. Potter.”

“Professor?” Harry asked, before the words registered. “Wait, my mum sent my dad to the infirmary, four times in one day,” he said slowly, and when Prof. McGonagall nodded, he looked at Hermione.

The girl had no idea what to tell him.

“Valentine’s Day, 1975,” Prof. McGonagall said. “Your father sent your mother a pranked Valentine’s card; covered her and half her friends in pink, sticky foam.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. Harry’s dad had been a troublemaker!? she thought in surprise.

Then the girl took a moment to reconsider the boy in question.

Okay, she could see it.

“In retaliation,” Prof. McGonagall continued, “Lily spent the entire day hexing James in admittedly creative ways whenever she saw him.”

Hermione suppressed a giggle, while Harry smiled.

Prof. McGonagall was smiling too. A very small thing. Barely there.

“I had to give Lily detention, of course, but, I must admit, it wasn’t unpleasant to see James on the receiving end for once.”

Hermione giggled again, then asked: “So, Harry’s parents didn’t like each other while they were in school?”

“Well, Lily certainly had no love for James,” the professor replied. “It came as quite the surprise to everyone when in their seventh year... well, things changed.”

Huh.

It was strange, learning things about Harry like this (that is from someone else), but then again, Harry rarely spoke of his parents, and Hermione would have felt bad to make him.

Lost in thought as the girl was, she almost missed Harry’s quiet words.

“They were stupid,” the boy said.

Hermione looked at him. What? Who was stupid?

Prof. McGonagall must have heard Harry too, because she asked; “Beg your pardon, Mr. Potter?”

“They were stupid,” Harry said a little louder, his eyes brimming with tears. “If they hadn’t wasted all those years, then they would have had more time together.”

Professor McGonagall looked physically pained by Harry’s words, while with a “oh, Harry,” Hermione, and Hedwig who was already perched on the boy’s shoulder, hugged him as best as they were able, and for a time, all that could be heard were Harry’s sniffles echoing in the empty halls.