September 9th, 1993, Hogwarts Corridors, 8:17 AM
Harry had thought, naively perhaps, that the day after Mordred Slythra's attack would return to something approaching normalcy. Classes would resume. Teachers would pretend everything was fine whilst maintaining heightened vigilance. Students would gossip but settle back into routine.
He had not anticipated becoming the subject of what amounted to institutionalised stalking.
Professor McGonagall happened to be walking the same corridor Harry needed for Transfiguration. Professor Flitwick just so happened to have business near the Charms classroom that required him to arrive early and watch students file in. Professor Sprout seemed remarkably interested in the general wellbeing of students passing through the Entrance Hall.
And Percy Weasley—oh, Percy was the worst.
The Head Boy had apparently received direct orders from Molly Weasley, delivered via emergency owl, to ensure Harry Potter's continued survival through a combination of constant proximity and officious concern. Percy took to this duty with the zealous dedication he brought to all authority-adjacent responsibilities, following Harry everywhere with the persistence of a particularly loyal guard dog.
"Just checking you're heading to Potions, Harry," Percy said for the third time that morning, his prefect badge gleaming with fresh polish. "Can't be too careful with escaped Death Eaters about. I'll walk with you, shall I?"
"Percy, the dungeon is literally two corridors away—"
"Exactly! Two whole corridors where anything could happen. Come along."
Harry gritted his teeth and allowed himself to be escorted like a particularly valuable package that might explode if left unattended.
'They mean well,' he reminded himself for perhaps the dozenth time since breakfast. 'They're worried. They're trying to protect me. This is what caring looks like, even when it's annoying.'
Still, there had to be some advantage to this situation.
That afternoon, Harry retrieved his Invisibility Cloak from his satchel and spent an hour simply walking the corridors whilst invisible, testing how well he could move silently, how close he could get to patrolling teachers without detection, how effectively he could slip past Percy's increasingly elaborate guard routes.
The surveillance made genuine invisibility practice impossible during the day, but it also meant Harry had perfect knowledge of where teachers were at any given time. He could map their patterns, understand their responses, learn to predict their movements.
'Dad would call this turning disadvantage into opportunity,' Harry thought, successfully navigating past Professor McGonagall's classroom without the slightest creak of floorboard.
The only genuine frustration was Luna's situation.
Harry had planned—vaguely, without specific details he'd admit to anyone—to have a conversation with Bryce Thornton and his little gang. The sort of conversation that made clear exactly what happened to people who thought bullying Luna Lovegood was acceptable entertainment.
But constant surveillance made that impossible. Harry couldn't slip away to Ravenclaw Tower without an escort. Couldn't arrange a private meeting without teachers immediately appearing to ensure his safety. Couldn't even lurk threateningly in corridors Bryce frequented without Percy materialising to ask if everything was alright.
The situation required patience. Planning. Waiting for an opportunity when the surveillance inevitably loosened.
In the meantime, at least Luna had Astoria.
Harry had pulled the younger Greengrass aside after Transfiguration, and she'd listened to his careful explanation about Luna's situation with the cool focus that seemed to be a Greengrass family trait.
"I'll stay with her during classes," Astoria had said simply. "And if anyone tries anything, they'll answer to me."
The unspoken threat in that statement, delivered in Astoria's cultured tones and backed by the social weight of the Greengrass name, had been rather satisfying.
'Not a permanent solution,' Harry thought. 'But it'll do until I can arrange something more... direct.'
September 23rd, 1993, Grounds by the Lake, 3:47 PM
The tree had become their tree through repeated use—a massive beech whose spreading branches created cathedral-space beneath, whose roots were comfortable for sitting, whose position near the lake offered privacy without isolation.
Harry sat with his back against the trunk, Ron sprawled to his left, Hermione settled to his right with a book she wasn't actually reading. Draco had claimed a root slightly separated from the group, his posture suggesting aristocratic distance whilst his attention clearly focused on the conversation and Luna—Luna had simply materialised at some point and curled up beside Harry with the casual familiarity of a cat claiming its favourite spot.
Draco had been released from the Hospital Wing that morning, Madam Pomfrey finally satisfied that his magically bruised ribs had healed properly. He looked thinner, paler, but present—and Harry found himself genuinely relieved to have their group complete again.
"So," Ron said, picking at the grass, "Mordred Slythra broke into the castle, slashed the Fat Lady's portrait to ribbons, and then just... vanished? No trace? No idea where he went or how he got past the wards?"
"According to the teachers' extremely careful non-explanations, yes," Hermione confirmed. "Though Dumbledore's increased security suggests he's more worried than he's admitting."
"Great! The Dementors have been worse since the attack," Ron then added. "I can feel them when I'm near the edges of the grounds. Like everything happy just... drains away."
Everyone nodded. The Dementors' presence had intensified—whether from increased numbers or heightened alertness, the effect was unmistakable. Students walked the corridors with hunched shoulders and false smiles. Common rooms felt heavier. Even meals seemed less cheerful, conversation more forced.
"It's affecting Quidditch training," Ron said miserably. "Wood's trying to keep spirits up, but half the team just wants to hide in the common room where the Dementors' influence is weakest. I've never seen morale this low. Well, except Wood himself—the man's possessed. Actually possessed. I'm fairly certain he sold his soul to win the Cup and the transaction included immunity to despair."
Despite the grim topic, several people smiled.
"Scottish determination," Draco observed. "I've heard him in the corridors. The man gives motivational speeches to suits of armour."
"You're joking."
"I witnessed it personally. He was explaining Quidditch strategy to Sir Cadogan with the intensity of someone briefing troops before battle. The portrait was very enthusiastic."
This time, actual laughter broke through the heavy atmosphere.
Hermione shifted, reaching into her bag. "Harry, I finished with your father's book." She produced the leather-bound text carefully, handling it with the reverence reserved for genuinely valuable items. "It's brilliant. Genuinely, thoroughly brilliant. Also completely depressing if you're hoping to develop True Sight yourself."
"That bad?" Harry accepted the book, tucking it safely into his own bag.
"The requirements for genuine precognition are... extensive. Natural aptitude, obviously, but also specific magical signature markers, particular neural patterns that allow temporal perception, years of training to develop even further..." Hermione's expression mixed fascination with disappointment. "Most people who claim to be seers are either frauds or possess very minor intuitive abilities they've mistaken for prophetic vision. True Seers—like your father—are extraordinarily rare. Maybe one in a hundred thousand wizards."
"What about the price?" Luna asked, her voice carrying that dreamy quality that suggested she already knew the answer. "Father says all magic has prices."
"Divination's prices are particularly steep," Hermione confirmed. "Constant awareness of probability branches creates mental strain. Seeing possible futures where people you love die, repeatedly, in infinite variations. The psychological burden of knowing what might happen but being unable to prevent it all. True Seers tend toward either extreme detachment as coping mechanism, or they develop very specific focuses to avoid being overwhelmed."
"Dad focuses on immediate family and business," Harry said quietly. "He told me once that trying to See everything for everyone leads to madness. You have to choose what matters and accept you can't save everyone."
Silence settled over the group, broken only by the lake's gentle lapping against the shore.
"On a lighter note," Harry said, deliberately shifting mood, "I have someone for you to meet properly."
He reached into his bag and withdrew a small travel cage. Jasper immediately chirped recognition, his golden feathers catching late afternoon sun in ways that made him seem to glow.
"Jasper!" Luna's face lit with genuine delight. "You brought him to Hogwarts!"
Harry opened the cage, and the Golden Snidget shot out with the speed that made the species legendary. He did three rapid circuits of the tree before landing on Harry's shoulder with proprietary satisfaction, chirping at the assembled students as though greeting subjects.
"Bloody hell," Ron breathed. "That's a real Golden Snidget. That's—those are worth thousands of Galleons—"
"Hagrid's agreed to use him as a teaching aid for Care of Magical Creatures," Harry explained, whilst Jasper preened. "Students can learn proper handling of XXXX classified creatures in controlled environment. Plus, I get to have him here with me."
Luna extended her hand slowly, and Jasper hopped from Harry's shoulder to her palm with the ease of familiarity. Her smile was radiant.
Hermione watched with visible fascination but kept her hands carefully to herself. "I wouldn't know how to hold him properly. One wrong movement and he might be injured."
"Same," Ron agreed. "He's beautiful, but I'd be terrified I'd hurt him accidentally."
Draco observed with aristocratic appreciation. "My father has a stuffed Golden Snidget in his study. Seeing one alive and healthy is rather different. More... vital."
Jasper, apparently satisfied with the attention, returned to Harry's shoulder and settled there with clear intention to remain indefinitely.
"You realise," Hermione said carefully, "that walking around with a Golden Snidget on your shoulder will attract enormous attention? Everyone will want to see him. Touch him. Ask questions."
"I know," Harry said. "But having him here, with me—with Luna—it's worth it. And if the attention gets too much, I've always got the Cloak."
Luna's hand found Harry's beneath the tree's shadow, her fingers curling around his with gentle pressure that suggested gratitude beyond words.
Above them, autumn clouds drifted across September sky, and for just a moment, everything felt almost normal.
September 28th, 1993, Defence Against the Dark Arts Classroom, 2:15 PM
The absence of Professor Lupin was immediately evident.
In his place stood Severus Snape, his black robes billowing despite the complete absence of wind, his expression suggesting he'd been personally insulted by having to teach Defence rather than Potions.
"Professor Lupin," Snape said without preamble, "has been called away on urgent business for Atid Stella. Something about implementation statistics requiring immediate attention in London. How fortunate that private enterprise takes precedence over educating students."
The sarcasm was thick enough to spread on toast.
"In his absence, I will be teaching today's lesson. Turn to page 394 of your textbooks. We will be covering werewolves."
A rustle of confusion rippled through the classroom. Hermione raised her hand immediately.
"Professor, we're supposed to be studying Red Cap and Hinkypunk. Professor Lupin's syllabus—"
"—is irrelevant when Professor Lupin is not present to teach it," Snape interrupted smoothly. "I am teaching werewolves because the topic is timely, relevant, and significantly more important than Professor Lupin's theatrical demonstrations with Red Cap and Hinkypunk."
'He's doing this deliberately,' Harry thought, his jaw tightening. 'Lupin admits he's a werewolf, shows students the new Wolfsbane makes transformation safe, and now Snape's teaching a lesson specifically designed to undermine that.'
"Now," Snape continued, "can anyone tell me how to recognise a werewolf when not transformed?"
Silence. Hermione's hand shot up.
Snape ignored her. "No? How disappointing. The signs include: snout elongation, tufted tail, and preference for human flesh. A werewolf is distinguishable from a true wolf by several characteristics including—"
"The shape of the tail and pupils," Hermione said, not waiting to be called on. "But those signs only manifest shortly before transformation, and someone taking proper Wolfsbane Potion wouldn't display them at all because the potion prevents the loss of human consciousness that triggers the physical changes."
Snape's expression went very cold. "I do not recall giving you permission to speak, Miss Granger."
From the back of the classroom, Theodore Nott's voice carried clearly: "Know-it-all's at it again. Showing off instead of letting the Professor teach."
Hermione turned in her seat, and Harry saw something flash across her face—not hurt, but anger. The kind of controlled, focused anger that came from martial arts training and months of watching people dismiss her intelligence as showing off.
"I wasn't showing off," Hermione said, her voice carrying clear across the classroom with unexpected force. "I was correcting incomplete information that could lead to dangerous misunderstandings about lycanthropy. Professor Lupin's lesson plan covers werewolf recognition in two weeks, with appropriate context about the difference between transformed werewolves and those taking Wolfsbane. Teaching it now, without that context, perpetuates exactly the kind of misinformation that gets innocent people persecuted."
The classroom had gone silent. Harry, Ron, and Draco were staring at Hermione with expressions mixing shock and pride. Even Daphne Greengrass looked impressed, her usual Slytherin composure cracking into something approaching approval.
Snape's face was a study in controlled fury. "Detention, Miss Granger. For insubordination and speaking out of turn."
"Worth it," Hermione said, not quite under her breath.
Theodore Nott made a sound of disgust. "Mudblood doesn't know when to—"
"Finish that sentence, Nott, and you'll discover exactly how much Muggle karate I learned this summer," Hermione interrupted, her voice pleasant but her eyes promising violence.
Snape's wand moved fractionally. "That. Is. Enough. Both of you. Nott, fifty points from Slytherin for use of that particular slur. Miss Granger, another detention for threatening a student. Everyone else, write me a two-foot essay on recognising and killing werewolves, due next lesson."
The class groaned. Snape swept from the room with dramatic flair, leaving them to work in furious silence.
Harry leaned toward Hermione. "That was brilliant."
"I'm so angry I'm shaking," Hermione whispered back. "But yes. It felt good."
October 2nd, 1993, Quidditch Pitch, 2:47 PM
The weather had turned viciously against them.
Rain hammered the Quidditch pitch with the dedicated malice of Scottish autumn asserting its authority. Wind howled through the stadium stands, making banners snap and crack like whips. Thunder rumbled overhead, and occasional lightning flashes turned the world briefly, starkly white.
Harry sat in the Gryffindor section, hood pulled up against the downpour, watching his best friend prepare to play Seeker in conditions that would challenge professionals.
Ron looked terrified but determined on his broom—the new Nimbus Two Thousand—pristine and fast and currently being battered by weather that seemed personally offended by Quidditch's existence.
"This is mental," Hermione said from Harry's left, her voice barely audible over wind and rain. "They should cancel the match. This is dangerous."
"Wood would play through a hurricane," Harry said. "Again, the man's not human. He's some kind of Quidditch-obsessed elemental spirit."
Madam Hooch's whistle shrieked. The match began.
It was immediately chaotic. The Quaffle became slippery, difficult to grip. Bludgers flew erratically in the wind. Players struggled to maintain formation in gusts that threatened to throw them from their brooms.
Ron circled high above the pitch, eyes scanning desperately for the Snitch whilst trying not to be thrown sideways by wind.
Harry cheered every time Ron made a good save—which was often, actually.
Then, movement caught Harry's eye.
High in the stands, in the topmost row where no sane person would sit during a storm, was a dog.
Large. Black. Shaggier than seemed healthy. Sitting with eerie stillness whilst rain soaked its fur and wind whipped around it.
It looked exactly like the Grim.
Harry's blood went cold. The Grim—the omen of death, the spectral hound that appeared before tragedy—
'No,' Harry thought. 'That's not real. That's superstition. Dad's letter said grims are just large dogs mistaken for omens. That's just a dog. A very large, very wet, very oddly positioned dog, but just a dog—'
Then the temperature dropped.
Not gradually. Instantly. Brutally. Harry's breath misted. Frost formed on metal seats. The rain froze mid-fall, turning to sleet, to hail.
And onto the pitch drifted shapes in black robes.
Dementors.
Not just one or two—dozens, spreading across the stadium like oil across water. Their presence made the storm seem warm by comparison, made the rain seem cheerful.
Players faltered mid-flight. Spectators screamed.
And Ron—Ron went rigid on his broom, his face slack with horror, and simply fell.
He plummeted toward the pitch, his new Nimbus spinning away, his body limp and utterly uncontrolled.
Harry was on his feet, wand drawn, horror flooding his system—
Dumbledore moved.
The Headmaster's wand traced a complex pattern, and Ron's fall slowed—not stopped, but gentled, cushioned by magic that wrapped around him like invisible hands.
Ron hit the ground hard but survived. Harry heard the crack of breaking bones even from the stands, heard Ron's scream of pain cut off into unconsciousness.
Madam Pomfrey was already running onto the pitch. Teachers surrounded the Dementors, driving them back with jets of silver light.
The match continued—Hufflepuff's Seeker caught the Snitch two minutes later, ending Gryffindor's chances at the Cup in spectacular, painful fashion.
But Harry barely noticed. He was already shoving through crowds toward the Hospital Wing, where they'd taken Ron, where his best friend lay injured because the Ministry's "protection" had nearly killed him.
October 2nd, 1993, Hospital Wing, 4:23 PM
Ron woke to white ceiling and the particular smell of medicinal potions that meant the Hospital Wing.
"Oh good," he muttered. "I was worried I'd somehow survived without breaking something."
"Three ribs, your left arm, and your collarbone," Madam Pomfrey said briskly, appearing at his bedside with practiced efficiency. "All mended now, but you'll be sore for a few days. Drink this."
She pressed a goblet of something purple and foul-smelling into his functional hand.
"What happened?" Ron asked, then memory returned. "The match. The Dementors. Did we—"
"Hufflepuff won," Harry said from the chair beside Ron's bed. His expression suggested he'd rather be announcing a funeral. "Caught the Snitch two minutes after you fell. Cedric Diggory offered a rematch—said it wasn't fair you'd been attacked by Dementors. Wood declined."
"Of course he declined," Ron groaned. "Honour and fair play and all that rubbish that means we've probably lost our chance at the Cup for the seventh year running."
"Eighth year," Harry corrected. "If you count the year the Chamber business cancelled the Cup entirely."
"Even better."
Ron drank the potion—grimaced at the taste—and slumped back against his pillows. "So the Ministry's brilliant protection plan now includes Dementors attacking students during Quidditch matches? Excellent. Really feeling safe. Very protected."
"The Ministry's investigating how they got past the wards around the pitch," Hermione said from Ron's other side. "Dumbledore's furious. I heard him shouting at Fudge via Floo. Actual shouting. Dumbledore doesn't shout."
"He should shout more often if this is what passes for security," Ron muttered. "Escaped Death Eaters breaking into the castle, Dementors attacking students—what's next? Dragons in the Great Hall?"
The curtain around Ron's bed was pulled back, and Lavender Brown appeared, clutching a box of Chocolate Frogs with the determination of someone who'd navigated Madam Pomfrey's strict visitor policies through sheer force of will.
"Ron! You're awake! I was so worried—everyone was saying you'd broken your neck or died or been Kissed by the Dementors—" She set the Chocolate Frogs on his bedside table. "I know they're your favourite. Thought you might want some cheering up."
Ron's expression transformed from misery to something approaching pleasure. "Lavender. Thanks. That's—that's really kind of you."
"Well, we're friends, aren't we? Friends bring chocolate when friends nearly die falling from brooms."
They fell into easy conversation—Lavender recounting the match from her perspective, Ron describing what he'd seen before the Dementors arrived, both of them successfully avoiding any mention of serious injury or fear in favour of focusing on mundane details that made the experience less terrifying in retrospect.
Harry exchanged glances with Hermione, and by unspoken agreement, they quietly excused themselves, leaving Ron and Lavender to their increasingly cheerful discussion of Quidditch tactics and the unreasonable behaviour of Scottish weather.
"They're good for each other," Hermione observed once they'd reached the corridor. "She makes him feel valued. He appreciates her loyalty. It's nice."
"Yeah," Harry agreed. "It is."
October 9th, 1993, Defence Against the Dark Arts Classroom, 2:17 PM
Professor Lupin stood at the front of the classroom looking genuinely apologetic.
"I understand Professor Snape assigned you an essay on werewolves during my absence," he said. "I want to be clear—you do not need to complete that essay. It wasn't part of my syllabus, and I won't be grading it."
Collective relief swept the classroom.
"However," Lupin continued with the faintest smile, "if anyone did complete the essay and wishes to submit it for extra credit, I'm happy to review your work."
Hermione stood, crossed to Snape's desk where the completed essays had been left for collection, retrieved hers—two feet of parchment covered in her precise handwriting—and walked to the back of the classroom.
She dropped it directly on Theodore Nott's desk.
The parchment landed with a satisfying thump.
"Since you're so concerned about know-it-alls showing off," Hermione said sweetly, "I thought you might benefit from actually reading someone who knows what they're talking about. You'll find proper source citations, nuanced analysis of lycanthropy's social implications, and a thorough debunking of the misinformation Snape was perpetuating. Enjoy."
Nott's face went through several interesting colour changes—red, purple, something approaching grey—whilst the class watched with barely suppressed delight.
Hermione returned to her seat, expression serene, whilst Harry, Ron, and Draco gave her matching grins of approval.
After class, Harry lingered, waiting until the other students had filtered out before approaching Lupin's desk.
"Uncle Remus? Can I ask you something?"
"Of course." Lupin set down the parchment he'd been reviewing. "What's on your mind?"
"Dementors." Harry paused, organizing his thoughts. "I've read about how dangerous they are, and I know spells to repel them exist, but I don't really understand what they are. Why they're so terrifying. What makes them different from just... dark creatures."
Lupin's expression went serious. "That's a very good question, and one most people avoid asking because the answer is uncomfortable." He gestured for Harry to sit. "Dementors aren't just dark creatures, Harry. They're fear incarnate. Despair given form. They don't just make you frightened—they pull forth your worst memories, your deepest horrors, everything you've tried to bury or forget, and force you to relive it all while draining every happy thought you possess."
Harry felt cold just from the description. "And the Dementor's Kiss?"
"The ultimate horror. They lower their hood and literally suck out your soul, leaving you an empty shell—alive but not living, aware but unable to think or feel or be anything beyond a breathing husk." Lupin's voice was carefully controlled. "It's considered a fate worse than death. The Ministry uses it as punishment for the worst criminals, but even then, there are those who argue it's too cruel for any crime."
"Is there a spell to fight them? Something beyond just running away?"
"The Patronus Charm," Lupin confirmed. "It's advanced magic—most adult wizards struggle with it—but it creates a guardian of pure positive energy that Dementors can't stand against."
"Could you teach me?" Harry asked. "Private lessons, maybe? In case another Dementor shows up at a Quidditch match or—or anywhere Luna might be."
Lupin's expression softened with understanding. "I can, yes. But not until after the Christmas holidays. I'm swamped with Atid Stella implementation work—" he gestured at the mountain of parchment covering his desk, "—responses from students about the new heating system, statistics on the improved Wolfsbane distribution, reports from various departments about equipment performance. I barely have time to prepare regular lessons, let alone private instruction."
He paused, then added with wry amusement, "Your Dad's responsible for at least half of this paperwork. I may be employed by Atid Stella, but I'm fairly certain I'm actually working for Ethan's master plan to drown me in bureaucracy."
"He does seem to excel at delegation," Harry agreed diplomatically.
"That's one word for it." Lupin smiled. "But yes, after Christmas, we'll start Patronus lessons. I think it's an excellent idea, and frankly, anyone who's been attacked by Dementors twice deserves to know how to defend themselves properly."
December 18th, 1993, Entrance Hall, 8:47 AM
The Hogsmeade permission form had arrived three days ago, delivered by Hedwig along with Ethan's latest letter:
Harry—
Regarding the black dog you saw at the Quidditch match: you're correct to identify it as potentially a Grim, though I use "potentially" deliberately. Grims are spectral hounds associated with death omens, but nine times out of ten, what people mistake for Grims are simply large, black, shaggy dogs in unfortunate locations at unfortunate times.
True Grims do exist—I've Seen them—but they're extraordinarily rare and almost always connected to specific bloodlines with death-touched magic. The likelihood of you encountering a genuine Grim at a Quidditch match is vanishingly small.
My advice: don't obsess over it. Be aware, yes. Stay alert to danger, always. But don't let superstition make you paranoid. Death comes when it comes, regardless of omens. The only sensible response is to be prepared to face whatever challenges arrive.
Also enclosed: your signed Hogsmeade permission form. Enjoy the village. It's the first fully magical settlement most students ever visit, and it's worth appreciating properly.
Try the butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks. Avoid the dubious meat pies from the street vendor near the post office. And if you're shopping for Christmas presents, Honeydukes and Zonko's are traditional but Dervish and Banges occasionally has interesting finds.
—Dad
Harry had read the letter multiple times, the reassurance about the Grim settling his nerves whilst the permission for Hogsmeade built excitement he hadn't allowed himself to feel since third year began.
Now, standing in the Entrance Hall whilst Filch checked permission forms with paranoid thoroughness, Harry felt that excitement mixed with something else.
Self-consciousness.
He'd decided, after significant internal debate, to dress nicely for Hogsmeade. Not robes—robes were standard, expected, boring—but actual Muggle-style clothing chosen with deliberate care.
White cotton button-down shirt, crisply pressed. Dark grey trousers that actually fit properly. Leather shoes that Ethan had helped him select during a summer shopping trip. A mustard-red cable-knit jumper that Ethan insisted brought out his eyes. And over it all, a navy duffle coat that was both warm and, according to Ethan's dry assessment, "age-appropriately stylish."
The overall effect was considerably more put-together than his usual school robes.
He'd expected some teasing from Ron. Expected Hermione to comment on the unusual effort. Expected Draco to make some aristocratic observation about Muggle fashion versus wizarding robes.
He had not expected the staring.
Specifically, the female staring.
Fourth-year girls he'd never spoken to were watching him with expressions he couldn't quite interpret. Fifth-years whispered to each other whilst casting glances his direction. Even a few sixth-years seemed to notice his existence in ways that made Harry profoundly uncomfortable.
'This was a mistake,' Harry thought desperately. 'A horrible mistake. I should have worn robes. Normal, boring, completely uninteresting robes that don't make people stare—'
"Harry!" Luna appeared at his elbow with her characteristic perfect timing, Jasper perched on her shoulder and chirping greeting. "You look very handsome. The mustard jumper is particularly nice."
"T-thanks," Harry managed with a cough to hide his blush. 'It was worth it!'
"I'm leaving Jasper with you today—didn't want to bring him on my first Hogsmeade trip in case it's too crowded. Is that alright?"
"Of course. Jasper and I will have a lovely time, won't we?" Luna stroked the Snidget's golden head gently. "Astoria and I were planning to study in the library anyway."
Ron and Hermione approached—Ron in his usual comfortable jumper and jeans, Hermione was also in her comfy muggle clothes with a warm cloak.
"Blimey, Harry," Ron said. "You look like you're going to a Ministry function, not a village full of shops."
"Is it too much?" Harry asked anxiously.
"No!" Hermione said quickly. "You look lovely. Very—very put together. It's just different from usual."
A group of third-year Hufflepuff girls walked past, giggling and whispering whilst casting meaningful looks in Harry's direction.
Harry felt his face heat. "Right. We should go. Now. Immediately."
He positioned himself behind Hermione's slightly shorter frame, using her as a mobile shield against unwanted attention whilst they made their way through the crowd toward Filch's checkpoint.
"Are you hiding behind me?" Hermione asked, amused.
"Strategically positioning," Harry corrected. "There's a difference."
"If you say so."
They reached Filch, submitted their forms, and finally—finally—escaped into the crisp December air and the promise of Hogsmeade beyond.
Behind them, the castle settled into its weekend rhythms. Luna and Astoria headed toward the library, Jasper comfortable on Luna's shoulder. Teachers prepared for a quieter day with most third-years and above occupied in the village. And somewhere in the castle's shadows, pieces continued moving across boards most students couldn't see.
But for Harry, walking down the path toward his first glimpse of Hogsmeade with his best friends beside him and the promise of butterbeer ahead, the larger concerns could wait.
Just for today, he could be a normal third-year student enjoying a village trip.
The complications would still be there when he returned.
They always were.