Chapter 2Notes:
Here is a new chapter. I hope you like it.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Hermione I
The sharp, metallic shriek of the alarm clock tore her from sleep as it did every morning; it rang precisely at seven o'clock, as it had done every day for the last six years. There was no vacation, flu, or weekend that altered that ritual in her life.
A cool stream of morning air drifted through the open window, washing over her bare skin in a gentle tide that left a trail of tiny goosebumps in its wake. Hermione felt a pronounced shiver trace a path down her arms and across her body, tightening her skin. For several long moments, she remained utterly still, her gaze fixed on the white ceiling of her new room. It was perfect—spotless—like everything else in her life. Not a single crack marred its surface, no small imperfection into which her imagination could wander.
Despite being on summer vacations, her mind was already on track, calculating the hours of study that awaited her. 7:00 to 8:30: she got maths problems that her mother gave her. 9:00 to 10:30: Piano practice. 10:30 to 12:00: more study. A routine that had shaped her since she was five years old.
After several minutes, she finally sat up. Her long brown hair, a tangle of soft, silky curls, fell over the bare skin of her back. When she placed her bare feet on the wooden floor, a sharp shiver ran down her spine. The chill from the boards raised every tiny hair on her body. Instinctively, she glanced down; her nipples had hardened, forming two small, sensitive peaks. Closing her eyes, she drew in a deep breath, bracing herself for the long morning ahead. Her small feet twisted against the cold floor, as if seeking something solid to hold on to in a world that constantly demanded perfection.
Her whole life had been sculpted towards perfection. Before she had even babbled her first word, she had already been enrolled in early stimulation classes. By the age of three, she owned a piano and had a private tutor. After school, there were never afternoons in the park or games with friends. Her childhood had been an endless procession of lessons—music, ballet, horse riding, French—each one meant to polish her into something flawless. She would return home as the sun sank low, her legs aching, her mind heavy with facts, yet her heart remained inexplicably hollow.
Her parents had never struck her. They had never even raised their voices. Their control was subtler, more elegant, but no less cruel. "You must be perfect, Hermione," they would say, smiling softly as their fingers smoothed her hair. Or the infallible, "Mediocrity is not an option for you, my dear." Sweet words, wrapped in tenderness, yet laced with a quiet poison she had long since learnt to recognise. They were invisible chains, binding her to a life where she must always be impeccable, always the best—never wrong, never tired, never allowed to simply be.
The morning sun filtered through the half-open window, drawing faint golden lines across her sheets. Hermione sat up slowly, the mattress creaking under her slight weight. She stretched, and a cool breeze drifted through the room, brushing against her bare skin—a fleeting comfort in a life where warmth was always measured, never freely given.
She walked slowly to the centre of the room, the faint light from the window brushing across her bare skin. She was naked—completely exposed to anyone who might have entered—but in the silence of her room, that thought no longer frightened her. Here, behind a closed door, she could finally shed the weight of being the model daughter, the flawless pupil, the promise of perfection her parents had so carefully built.
She stopped in front of the full-length mirror fixed to the wardrobe door and met her own gaze. The reflection staring back at her wasn't the prodigy, nor the girl her teachers praised and her parents displayed like a medal. It was simply Hermione—an ordinary eleven-years old-girl. Her hazel eyes traced her reflection with curiosity, and for a moment she thought of covering herself, ashamed of her own nudity. Yet the impulse faded. The air against her skin felt liberating, and the cool morning light made her shiver with a strange, quiet joy.
Her face still carried the delicate roundness of early adolescence, though her features were beginning to sharpen with the quiet promise of womanhood. Her lips had grown fuller, her cheekbones more defined, and her curls—once a wild halo of childhood—now framed her face with an elegance she neither sought nor understood. Her mother often told her she was becoming very pretty, the sort of compliment that sounded less like affection and more like an expectation.
Her teachers, too, remarked that she would "grow into a beautiful young woman one day," as if that were another subject to excel in, another mark to achieve. Hermione, staring at her reflection, could not see what they saw. She only saw a girl caught between worlds—still too young to be free, too old to be innocent.
She looked at her light, smooth skin with a slight blush on her cheeks and shoulders. Her skin was the skin of a girl who spent more time indoors, among books, than under the sun playing in the park with friends. Her gaze inevitably descended over her own body. She looked at her breasts that were nothing more than two small mounds in development, soft protrusions that barely altered the flat line of her torso. They were small and just taking shape, like buds that had not yet decided to bloom. Her nipples, pale pink, contracted under the cold and under the weight of her gaze, hardening into two small sensitive buds.
Hermione slid her hand down her smooth, flat belly, caressing her hips that barely had soft curves that announced her future femininity. She turned around and stroked her small, firm bottom and gently squeezed her tight, pale buttocks that were still simple in shape, with a slight little roundness. And finally, she stood facing the mirror again, and her fingers landed on her mound of Venus. It was soft and completely smooth, with no trace of hair, only her delicate and pale skin. Lower down she touched her lips that had lost their soft childlike innocence a few months ago with her fingers in her bath.
She moved away from her mirror and looked around. Her room was not like that of other girls her age. There were no posters of singers on the walls, no stuffed animals on the bed, and no make-up hidden in the drawers. The walls were not painted pink or purple, but a cold blue. The furniture, bed, curtains and decorations had been chosen by her mother, not by her. Instead of a drawer with dolls, there was a shelf overflowing with books; instead of a television, there was an electric piano.
Her room had always felt like a cell, but today, for the first time in a long time, a crack had opened in that wall of perfection. Thanks to Harry Potter and the magic they shared. Today, her routine would not be just another day; finally, in her eleven years of life, she had gotten up for a purpose.
Without the slightest intention of covering her nudity, Hermione made her bed and stepped out of her room. Her parents had been working long hours ever since they had lived in London, leaving her alone at home from the age of nine. Both had become increasingly devoted to their practice, determined to earn more and secure a higher standard of living. If there was one thing the Grangers valued as much as perfection, it was money — the tangible proof of their success.
They hadn't moved to Surrey out of pleasure but out of practicality. The new location offered a larger clientele, lower expenses, and the promise of a more profitable life. It was a quiet suburb of order and ambition, much like them. And though the move had been driven by adult concerns, it had changed Hermione's world as well. For the first time, amid her solitude and routine, she met someone who was like her — another child who could perform magic. In a single afternoon, she had found her first friend in all her life.
Hermione still remembered the day she met Harry. He had stood up for her when his cousin and friends began to bully her after seeing her leap from the swing and drift down slowly, as though she were floating through the air. He hadn't just defended her; he had told her the truth — that she was a witch. He had confessed that he was a wizard himself and explained everything about a school called Hogwarts. Now, as she walked downstairs, she wasn't surprised to find the house empty, just as she had expected. The thought of Hogwarts filled her with quiet relief. According to Harry, she would spend ten months of the year there, returning home only for the holidays. Ten whole months away from her parents. In that castle, she could be herself — not the flawless little doll everyone wanted her to be, but simply Hermione.
When she entered the kitchen, Hermione glanced at the breakfast her mother had left for her, waiting inside the microwave. As always, it was perfectly balanced and entirely free of sugar. Her mother often reminded her that she didn't want her to end up "as fat as her cousin," words Hermione had learned to ignore but never quite forgotten. In the Granger household, there were no sugary cereals, no fizzy drinks, and certainly no sweets that might spoil her teeth or figure. Her parents' obsession with health — and with appearances — ran deep, but her mother's in particular was relentless. A dentist by trade and a perfectionist by nature, Mrs Granger treated food as both medicine and punishment. She spoke critically of others' weight with the same cold precision she used when examining a patient's teeth.
The silence in the kitchen was so absolute that the only thing that could be heard in her house was the faint hum of the microwave. Naked, her skin still throbbing from the coldness of dawn, the glass plate was slowly rotating inside it. When the bell rang, she took out the food. The steam rose, briefly blurring her reflection in the black door of the oven.
She sat down at the table, and as every morning, she broke her fast alone, eating the insipid food. But today, everything was different; every hour that passed was one less she would have to endure before she saw Harry, before she immersed herself in the magic books.
When she finished her breakfast, she went ups stairs with long steps; her feet, now accustomed to the cold of the wood, barely felt the touch. In the bathroom, in front of the mirror in the sink, she brushed her teeth; everything that morning seemed wonderful to her. And then, through the reflection, she saw that she was smiling. A genuine smile, not the tight lip curl she offered her parents or teachers. Her eyes, normally heavy with sadness, now shone with a light. She couldn't remember the last time she had felt this elated. Knowing that she had a friend, someone who understood her without the need for explanations, someone who shared her deepest oddity, made her feel... special. Not because of her grades, but because of what she was.
She put down the brush and got into the shower. The hot water fell on her body, making her sigh deeply, letting the heat relax her muscles. The drops slid down her skin, caressing her hair, face, and shoulders, tracing paths down her back, cascading down her small breasts. Because of her euphoric state, she felt a familiar tingle in her lower belly that spread like concentrated warmth between her legs. It was the same feeling that had led her to explore herself months ago, but today she was not going to do it to de-stress. Her excitement today was mixed with the happiness of friendship and the anticipation of freedom.
She slid across the smooth surface of the bathtub until she was seated, her knees bent and open. The hot water fell on her head and shoulders, dripping down her body. With a trembling hand, she took the shower hose, one of those flexible ones with different modes. With her fingers clumsy with excitement, she turned the selector to an option that offered a firm stream. Hermione took a deep breath and guided the jet directly against her core. The sensation of the hot water against her femininity sent a wave of pleasure that ran through her entire body, making her arch her back against the cold shower wall. She let out a moan, her toes curled, and her head began to spin.
She let the sensation flood her, closed her eyes and let herself get lost in pleasure. Her mind, for once, was not in books or expectations. It was in the park, in Harry's smile and his green eyes, in the memory that she would go to Hogwarts. Each pulsation of the jet of water against her clitoris, sensitive and swollen, was a heartbeat of freedom; it was not just physical pleasure, it was a silent rebellion against the absolute control they exercised over her life.
Between her heated moans, she remembered the afternoon she discovered masturbation. "It's the best thing you can do, girls," Aimee had said, her cheerful voice echoing from the ballet studio bathrooms. After a gruelling class, they were all crammed into a circle, a group of girls between the ages of eleven and sixteen. Aimee, a blonde girl of sixteen who always wore a mischievous smile, was sitting on the edge of the sink, with her legs extended. With a naturalness that Hermione had found both shocking and fascinating, she was showing them her femininity without shame or embarrassment.
"My father is a cunt to my mother," Aimee had spat, her fingers working in a slow, circular motion against her clit in front of all the girls. "I have to listen to them screaming and fighting every night. And after every row, I'm the one who has to deal with my mother, after she's been beaten by him." She held their gaze, her own sharp and unflinching. "This... this is called masturbation. And it's as relaxing as a cigarette or a beer, but it doesn't leave your breath stinking or destroy your lungs."
Hermione, then ten years old, looked at the blonde girl with wide eyes, a mixture of horror and curiosity, while Aimee sighed with pleasure. There she had realised that many girls were going through situations similar to hers. In that bathroom, together with other girls, she found an escape valve. Aimee, during her last months in London, had been a kind of underground teacher for many girls. Hermione had tried smoking once, hiding with them, but the violent cough and the fear that the smell would permeate her clothes and that her teeth would turn yellow dissuaded her. But this... This was different. This was a secret that could be carried on her back, a consolation that left no trace.
Back in the shower, Hermione no longer held back the sounds; her moans and gasps echoed audibly on the walls and filtered through the bathroom door, flooding the empty hallway of the house with lewd sounds. With a trembling hand she drew circles with the jet of water against her swollen clit; the initial tingling had transformed into a growing wave of heat that coiled around her lower abdomen, a delicious tension that expanded with each beat of her heart.
She twisted on the slippery floor of the bathtub, contorting to maintain precise contact with the water. Her toes curled and twitched against the bottom of the bathtub, gripping the smooth surface like anchors. With her free hand she clung to the corner of the tub. She had had dozens of orgasms in the solitude of her bathroom, room and living room, but this one was different. It wasn't just the release after hours of study; this new orgasm was liberating and filled with a new pleasure she'd never experienced.
When she was about to climax, a dark and exciting thought crossed her mind: what if they heard her? What if her mother, forgetting some documents, returned home and went upstairs to find her perfect daughter, fingers desperately sliding on her slid, and the water jet massaging her swollen flesh, her body writhing against the cold tub as lewd, unbidden moans spilled from her lips? To imagine her mother with an expression of horror on her face, looking at her, her masterpiece, masturbating like a vulgar person, as she tended to call people she didn't like... it gave her a shiver of perverse pleasure.
With that image in her mind, her orgasm came, but this time it wasn't like the other times, which had been a couple of almost embarrassing spasms, a brief burst that she contained with a muffled moan on the pillow. A release mechanism, which she used to relieve her headache, the stress of hours of study or the accumulated boredom due to her parents.
But this time, her orgasm was something completely different; it was a series of rhythmic and endless contractions, which ran through her completely, from her toes to the roots of her hair. She moaned until her throat began to burn, drowning for an instant the roar of the water. Her body tensed into a perfect arc. Her hips rose off the floor of the bathtub, unconsciously seeking contact from the jet, while her hands gripped tightly to the edge of the tub.
Hermione had no words for what she was experiencing. It wasn't a normal orgasm. It was waves and more waves of scorching pleasure that beat her mercilessly, one after another, giving her no respite to catch her breath. Each new wave was more intense than the last, plunging her into a sense of ecstasy that erased all thought, all memory, everything except the pure, raw physical sensation. She did not know how long it lasted. To her overloaded mind, it was an eternity of pure pleasure.
When finally, the last wave of pleasure dissipated, Hermione collapsed, falling backwards against the cold bottom of the bathtub with a gentle splash, completely exhausted. Her breathing was a heavy, desperate gasp, as if she had run for miles. The hot water continued to fall on her face, and it was then, in that state of absolute vulnerability, that tears began to flow.
They were not tearing of pain or sadness. They were deeper, more primitive. They were tears of relief, of an emotional release as intense as the physical one she had just experienced. They were the cry of a girl who had carried the weight of the world on her shoulders for as long as she could remember and who, for a few glorious and incomprehensible minutes, had managed to let go of everything.
The water from the shower mixed with the salty taste of her tears. With a tremor all over her body, she sat up with difficulty and brought her knees to her chest, enclosing herself in a compact ball. She buried her face between her knees, and the sobs, silent at first, turned into a convulsive cry. She hugged her legs tightly, as if she feared that otherwise she would fall apart into a thousand pieces.
There, curled up and naked on the shower floor, she cried because of the pressure, because of the loneliness, because of the stolen childhood. When the last sob escaped her lips, she was silent, listening only to the sound of the water. When she recovered, she stood up and turned off the shower.
Slowly, Hermione climbed out of the tub, letting the water slide down her skin before reaching for the towel. She dried herself silently. Her eyes were still a little swollen, but in her chest, there was a strange new feeling. Once dry, she went out naked and barefoot, returned to her room and began her routine, sat down at her desk and opened the algebra booklet and began to solve problems almost automatically.
After finishing the exercises, she moved on to the piano. Her fingers ran over the keys, playing over and over again the same piece her mother had assigned her. The repetition filled the room with the sweet sound of melody, but it was devoid of emotion. Hermione knew that any mistake would be unforgivable, so she didn't allow herself a hesitation.
Time slipped between studies and reviews. When the clock struck half an hour before noon, Hermione decided to get dressed. She chose brown trousers, a blue T-shirt and a light grey wool sweater. She looked in the mirror, checking that nothing was out of place, her hair slicked back, her clothes clean, her posture straight. Everything was in order before her mother returned.
As always, her mother was the first to arrive at the house; the sound of keys opening the door filled the house. Hermione stood waiting, but there was no greeting or smile. Emma left her bag on the dining room table and, without even looking at her with affection, bombarded her with questions.
"Give me the notebook with the algebra exercises" Emma ordered, directly.
"Yes, Mother," Hermione replied, handing her the booklet.
Emma flipped through the pages with critical eyes, reviewing each operation. When she was sure that they were all correct, she nodded barely, as if she had only stated the obvious. Then she settled on the sofa, crossing her legs elegantly, and tidied up.
"Play the piano piece I asked you to learn."
Hermione obeyed without question. She sat down on the bench and let her fingers run over the keyboard, but she felt the weight of her mother's gaze fixed on the back of her neck. A cold look, which did not seek to enjoy the music but to make sure that there were no mistakes. She played the last note and waited in silence.
Her mother did not smile nor applaud proudly for her; Emma only nodded, once. "You've made progress, Hermione," she murmured, her tone as indifferent as always.
Hermione didn't answer. She just nodded as well, feeling the knot of frustration tightening in her throat. She took a deep breath, bringing her legs together nervously. "Mother," Hermione began. "Can I go to Harry's house? He invited me."
Emma raised an eyebrow with an expression of cold intrigue. "Why do you want to go?" asked her mother. "That boy doesn't seem very trustworthy, Hermione. This morning we saw Mrs. Dursley leave in his car. Noisy people, with rough manners. They're not the kind of people you should hang out with." Her disdain was palpable, as if the mere mention of them littered her spotless living room.
"Harry is nothing like his aunt or cousin," Hermione replied, a spark of fire in her eyes that made Emma's eyebrow arch a millimetre higher. "He's my friend."
Her mother smiled mockingly, as if Hermione had said that unicorns grazed in her garden. "In life there is no such thing as friends, darling," Emma assured coldly. "There are acquaintances, useful contacts and competitors. What you call 'friendship' is a childish fantasy. People approach out of interest or convenience."
Hermione held back the retort that burnt on her tongue; she wanted to tell her that Harry was nothing like that, but she knew that arguing was useless. Emma watched her for a long moment, and finally, she sighed, a sound of resigned annoyance.
"But, in view of the fact that you have completed your studies satisfactorily and that, supposedly, that boy helped you yesterday... You can go," her mother paused, and her gaze turned into a sharp warning. "Don't come back so late. And don't accept any food that isn't sealed. You don't know what hygiene habits they may have."
Hermione's face lit up instantly, an explosion of joy so genuine and unsuspecting that for a second it seemed to flood the room with colour. "Thank you, Mother!"
"Now get out of my sight before I regret it," Emma ordered, waving her away with an indifferent wave of her hand, as if pushing something annoying out of her sight, as if Hermione were just a chore to cross off her list.
For Hermione, however, that was enough. She had got permission. She didn't need anything else from her mother.
She went upstairs almost running, her heart racing, fearing that at any moment her mother would regret it and call her back. In her room she took her trainers, checked that she was wearing the essentials and, without wasting a second, left the house, closing it gently behind her, as if a slamming of the door could make the permit evaporate. She took a deep breath in the open air, feeling freedom as a sweet, forbidden taste on her tongue.
She walked along the pavement with a brisk step, feeling the fresh air on her cheeks and a mixture of nervousness and excitement in her chest. Each stride took her away from the suffocating coldness and into something new. When she finally made out the number four, she paused for a moment to look at the Dursleys' house.
It was, at first glance, as ordinary as all the other houses on the street, almost identical in structure, but with less life. The lawn was cut too precisely, and under the main window a solitary bush was the only ornament. There were no flowers, no personal details, and not the slightest attempt to give it warmth. The impression it gave was of a house that wanted to be impeccable on the outside but without a soul.
Hermione walked down the driveway with her heart pounding. She stood in front of the door, took a deep breath and raised her hand to press the doorbell. The sound had barely finished ringing when the door opened quickly, as if someone had been waiting right behind it.
"You came!" Harry said, with a broad smile, his eyes shining behind his round glasses.
He was dressed in a dark T-shirt too big for him, an open plaid shirt and worn jeans on top. Despite the simplicity of his appearance, she smiled back, infected by his enthusiasm.
"Come, come in," he added, turning away from the threshold to make room for her. "My aunt recently left, so we're alone, as I told you."
Hermione stepped inside, and instantly the house came as a shock to her. The air smelt like cheap air freshener, and the walls were covered with beige wallpaper with small floral decorations that looked like they were taken from an old catalogue. In every corner there were frames with photographs of Harry's cousin, always smiling, hugging his parents, posing on beaches, at birthdays, and on school trips. Portraits repeated ad nauseam, as if the only member of that family that mattered was him.
Hermione stopped, her frown barely noticeable. She immediately noticed what was missing: not a single image of Harry. Not in a group, not as a child, not even with his parents. It was as if he had never existed for them.
The observation made her shudder. Suddenly, she remembered her mother's words: "They are not good people." And, for the first time, Hermione thought that maybe Emma was right... although for reasons very different from those she had imagined.
In one of the photos, Mr Dursley posed in a light suit, his broad, obese body taking up almost the entire frame. He had a thick moustache that gave him a stern air and small eyes that conveyed severe hostility. Just seeing him, Hermione felt a chill; there was something threatening about his bearing.
Another photograph showed Harry's aunt, a tall, slim, and surprisingly beautiful woman with blonde hair and deep green eyes, similar to Harry's. But while Harry's eyes shone with joy and serenity, Mrs Dursley's eyes seemed cold and haughty, as if she looked at the world with contempt. Hermione imagined her giving orders, always upright, always convinced that she was above everyone.
And then there was Harry's cousin. In almost every photo, the fat boy smiled contentedly, sometimes dressed like his father, as if he were a miniature version of him. A son raised to be the centre of the universe, pampered and proud of it.
Hermione felt a knot in her stomach. That place was the absolute reverse of her own home. The rigid order of the Granger's could be suffocating, but at least there was discipline, culture, and study. Here, on the other hand, what was breathed was vanity, falsehood, and an overflowing ego around Dudley.
"Do you want something to drink?" Harry offered her kindly.
"No, I'm fine," Hermione replied, remembering her mother's words.
Her friend nodded. "Come on, let's go up," said Harry, heading for the stairs.
Excited by the idea of doing something that would infuriate her parents, Hermione went upstairs behind Harry with her heart pounding. It was a strange feeling, a mixture of nervousness and a freedom she had never experienced. When they reached the landing, Harry climbed the stairs to the attic first, agile and confident, as if he had already made that journey hundreds of times. She followed him.
When she reached the attic, Hermione's jaw dropped. The place was illuminated by a spotlight hanging from the ceiling, whose yellowish light lit the entire space, covered in dust and cobwebs. There was an old coat rack and a couple of cardboard boxes labelled "Dudley's old clothes" and "Christmas ornaments."
But what immediately caught Hermione's eye was the object in the corner of the attic, a long, deep red trunk with gold accents. On the lid stood a stamp engraved in relief, a rampant lion that seemed to roar silently, and just below the sigil could be read in large and gold letters: Gryffindor, and below the initials, L.E.
"See? I wasn't lying," Harry said, with a broad smile.
Hermione took a step forward, unable to take her eyes off the trunk. Her heart was beating harder; this wasn't just a normal trunk, there was something strange about it. Harry crouched down in front of the trunk and slid the latches carefully, and with a gentle motion lifted the lid.
The interior revealed a series of compartments that seemed to have no bottom, of infinite depth. She looked at dozens, perhaps hundreds, of books stacked on tiny shelves that could not exist inside a normal trunk.
Hermione widened her eyes, putting a hand to her mouth to stifle a cry of amazement. "It's impossible!"
"Most student trunks have this charm," Harry explained calmly, as if talking about magic were as common as discussing the weather. "It's called Extension Charm. It allows you to increase the internal dimensions of an object, such as a trunk or a bag, without changing it on the outside."
To demonstrate this, he put his hand up to his elbow inside the trunk and then to his shoulder, as if he were sinking into a well. Hermione almost took a step back, shocked by the unreality of the demonstration.
"Even," Harry continued, raising his voice from within, "It can be applied to larger places, such as rooms or houses. But, according to my mother's diary, this kind of magic is strictly regulated by the Ministry of Magic."
When Harry pulled out his arm, he held two thick books and a black robe with red borders, which he carefully unfolded in front of her. Hermione bent down to look closer, still in disbelief. "This... This is incredible," she murmured, sitting cross-legged opposite him. Harry handed her one of the books.
"I recommend you start with this one."
Hermione read the cover quietly. "Hogwarts Story". The tome was heavy, bound in brown leather with gold trim. In the centre of the lid stood a shield divided into four parts, each with a different animal: a lion, a snake, a badger, and an eagle.
"That book will explain everything you need to know about Hogwarts," Harry assured her, smiling contentedly as his eyes sparkled. "The four animals represent the houses. Above are Gryffindor and Slytherin; below are Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw."
Hermione stroked the lid with her fingers, as if she didn't dare to open it yet. "Did you tell me that your parents were in Gryffindor?"
"Yes," Harry replied, pointing to the lion on the shield. "The house of lions is the house of the brave, of those who are not afraid to face anything, even injustice. According to the book, a Gryffindor values courage, chivalry, and determination."
Hermione frowned, intrigued. "And the other houses? What are they like? Can you choose?"
Harry laughed softly, looking down at the other book in his hand. "Each house has its own qualities. Slytherin, cunning, ambition, and determination too, but of a different kind," the black-haired boy explained, speaking with an ease that showed how much he had read and reread those books. "Hufflepuff is loyalty, fairness, and hard work. And Ravenclaw, intelligence, wisdom, and creativity. And as for choosing... Well, that's the best part. When we arrive, they put a Sorting Hat on us—a magical, talking hat that examines your mind and decides which house you'll fit best into."
Hermione blinked, processing the information as if she were deciphering a complex theorem. Her mind, eager for logic, struggled to Harry's words. "A... hat? What does it read in the mind? It's incredible!" she exclaimed.
Harry smiled, a broad, genuine gesture that lit up his face and softened the intensity of his green eyes. "My mother wrote in her diary that the Hat doesn't just sort you based on your thoughts," he explained. "It's more like a conversation. It can see your potential, all the different places you could belong, but it also listens. If you feel strongly about a particular house—if you truly believe that's where you're meant to be—it takes your choice into account. It values your own will."
As he spoke, Harry carefully unfolded his black robe on the floor. The material, although old, did not have a single tear nor a loose thread. Harry ran his fingers over the shield gently. "This was my mother's robe," he explained softly. "Every student has to buy a new one, plain black without any colours. But once the Sorting Ceremony is over, and the hat has placed you in a house..." He paused for effect, his voice dropping to a whisper. "...the colours and emblem of your new house appear on it. Just like that. By magic."
Hermione reached out delicately, and her fingers brushed against the fabric, feeling its soft texture under her fingertips. "Unbelievable," she murmured.
"I know," Harry nodded, and his gaze fell on the robe with deep sadness. "All this is—Hogwarts, magic, classes, enchantments... it's a huge world, Hermione, and what I've told you isn't even the surface."
She looked up, and her hazel eyes met Harry's emerald eyes. "Will you teach me more?" she asked, leaning slightly towards him in a gesture of unconscious pleading. "Will you tell me everything?"
Harry nodded without the slightest hesitation. "I will teach you everything you want to know and everything I know," he promised. Then he raised his right hand, palm up. Hermione watched, fascinated, as his lips moved, muttering strange words. Out of nowhere, a soft, bright light burst from his palm, illuminating their faces and casting dancing shadows on the attic rafters.
"Lumos," Harry said quietly, and the light stabilised.
Hermione held her breath. "It's... beautiful."
That day, the attic became her first magic classroom. Hermione spent hours reading magic books, listening to Harry explain what they would probably see in the first year. She was absolutely amazed by everything Harry explained to her.
In a moment of calm, Hermione, frowning over a heavy volume titled Magic Theory, looked at her friend. "How can you do magic without a wand?" she asked, pointing to a paragraph that stated wandless magic was notoriously unstable and required a level of concentration and power almost unattainable for most adult magicians. "Here it says it's almost impossible, even for an experienced mage."
Harry, who had been gently levitating a box of books with a slight wave of his hand, let the box descend. He frowned, and his expression became serious, adopting a strange look.
"I've lived reading these books since I discovered this trunk at the age of eight," Harry confessed seriously. "I didn't do it out of curiosity but out of necessity—to defend myself from those who hurt me." He paused, searching for the words. "I want to be a man my parents would have been proud of. I want to be so powerful, that no one... no one... may hurt me or mine again. That's why I've studied to exhaustion, practising in secret. To someday have the power to leave this place forever and never return."
Hermione listened in silence. In his words, there was not only determination but also anger and pain. She wanted to ask him: how exactly had his parents died? How had he received the lightning-shaped scar? Was it just a mark of an accident? But the intensity of his pain, so raw and exposed, left her speechless.
"I understand how you feel," she said, looking away. "I also want to grow. To move away from my parents. To go so far away that they can never find me, to a place where I can be... myself. Without their constant corrections, without their suffocating perfectionism, far from words that always, always remind me that I am not enough."
It was the first time she had confessed like this to someone. She felt the weight of Harry's gaze on her, not judgemental, but understanding.
"I thought I was the only one," he confessed. "As I told you, my relatives... they hate everything I stand for. And all my life they have done nothing but remind me how much they despise my existence and how much they hated my mother for being who she was."
"My parents..." Hermione continued, releasing a torrent of truths stored within her chest. She knew Harry would understand. "My whole life has been a constant martyrdom. All I've ever known are classes, more classes, and the exhausting attempt to be the perfect daughter. The daughter who never makes a mistake." She swallowed, her eyes filling with tears of pent-up frustration. "And if I do, if I make a mistake in something, if I fail a subject... my parents remind me to the point of exhaustion. Not with shouts or blows. That would be almost easier. They do it in a subtler way. With silent disappointment, a passive-aggressive comment at dinner, a look that makes me feel... tiny. Ashamed of myself."
As she said it out loud, in front of someone who didn't judge her for a note or a mistake, Hermione felt a huge weight lift off her shoulders. It was as if, for the first time, she was allowed to really breathe.
When the clock ticked down to just an hour before the Dursleys' return, they both carefully went downstairs, carrying a pile of books between them. In the living room, now bathed in the dull light of the afternoon, Hermione looked at the treasure she held in her arms.
"Do you... will you lend them to me?" asked the eleven-year-old Muggle-born, watching as Harry handed her six of the volumes: A History of Hogwarts, Theory of Wizarding, Magical Families of Britain and Ireland, Introduction to Transfiguration, Magical Herbs for Beginners, and Defence Against the Dark Arts.
The black-haired boy nodded. "Of course, I do. You have a lot to learn about the wizarding world, Hermione," Harry replied, plopping down on the sofa. "Besides," he added with a mischievous gleam in his green eyes, "if you really want to learn how to cast spells without a wand like me, you need to understand magic from its foundations. The wand is a focus, a shortcut. But the real strength is born here." He touched his heart and temple.
Hermione's heart beat with such pure and intense emotion. "All this... It feels so unreal," she confessed, with a broad smile. She settled into the armchair next to Harry, bringing her legs together and letting the weight of the books rest on her lap. "Magic, Hogwarts, finally having a friend to talk to. I'm afraid I'll wake up tomorrow and think that it was all a dream, that I'm still in my old room in London and that I never met you." Realising her words, her face flushed intensely, her gaze down at the books, avoiding Harry's gaze.
"Hermione," Harry said, with a gentle expression. "This is all real. I am real. You are real. The magic you feel inside you is real. Hogwarts is real. And before long, you're going to be free from your parents and their suffocating perfection. I promise you."
She shook her head, feeling the anxiety eat away at her inside. "You don't understand, Harry," Hermione murmured, biting her lower lip. "Since yesterday I've done nothing but fantasise about Hogwarts, about learning spells, but I forgot something crucial." She looked up, and her eyes reflected fear. "My parents. I don't think they'll agree to let me go. They... Their world is so neat, perfect, and predictable. Perfection for them is an Oxford or Cambridge degree, not... not a castle in Scotland learning to levitate feathers. My parents have already planned my life: what schools I should go to, what career I will study, and even how I should behave. I don't think they like the idea of me becoming a witch."
A confident, almost defiant smile was drawn on Harry's lips. "You don't have to worry about that, Hermione," he assured her, a spark shining in his green eyes. "Your parents have no choice. Letting go is not a suggestion; it's the law. And if they refuse, they would be violating it."
Hermione frowned. "Why?"
"Because if a wizard or a witch grows up without learning to use their magic, something terrible can happen." Harry confessed. "They can become an Obscurial."
"An Obscurial? What is that?" she asked, her confusion mingled with a foreboding of horror.
"It's the worst possible fate for someone like us. An Obscurial is a child wizard who develops a parasitic and dark magical force called an Obscurus; the magic, having no way out, becomes corrupted. It turns on the wizard and consumes him. It is a destructive and uncontrollable entity that, eventually... it kills its host. Always. There are no exceptions."
Hermione put a hand to her mouth. "Oh my God..."
"That's why no parent or guardian can refuse to send their child to Hogwarts," Harry continued. "As I told you, every magical child in the world, upon turning eleven, must be sent to a magical school. Learning to control your power is a non-negotiable law. And I have read in my mother's diaries that the Ministry of Magic has a secret but binding agreement with Her Majesty's government. Ministry officials, often with the help of Aurors, who are like a kind of magical police, are tasked with convincing reluctant parents. They explain the consequences, show them records of past tragedies, and make it very clear that it is not a choice."
"Really?" murmured Hermione, a glimmer of hope reviving in her chest, mixed with a chill from his explanation.
"Yeah," Harry said. "There are wizards and witches in key positions throughout the government, the royal family, amongst celebrities, and so on. It is a very complex fabric of influences that I will explain to you another day. But what you need to know now is this: you're going to Hogwarts. Whether your parents like it or not."
Hermione swallowed, trying to take it all in. "Even if I refuse?"
Harry nodded slowly. "Even so. Magic is a part of you, Hermione, and you can't run away from it. Hogwarts is not only a school; it is also a protection. There you will learn to control who you are."
Hermione looked down at the books in her lap, stroking one of the spines with her fingertips. The golden glow of the letters seemed to him a bridge to a new world. "What if...?" she stopped, unsure. "What if I don't want to continue in that world afterwards? If I prefer to study a normal career, as my parents dream?"
Harry cocked his head and smiled softly and tenderly. "If after your seven years at Hogwarts you decide that you don't want to live in the wizarding world and prefer to study a Muggle career or look for a normal job, your Hogwarts degree is valid. The Ministry has agreements for it to be recognised as the equivalent of the best Muggle titles. You've got outlets, Hermione. You have a future. One that you can choose."
That left her absolutely speechless, not only the magic of the spells or the options but also the entire system of a secret society that stretched like a net under the foundations of everything she knew. All that was amazing, and she couldn't wait any longer to know it.
That afternoon, as the clock approached eight, they agreed to continue studying together every day. Mornings when his parents went to work or in the Dursleys' attic became her new routine. In just two weeks Hermione had read nearly a dozen volumes of history, magical theory, and basic spells. Harry and her often stayed for hours discussing what she learnt; she would ask Harry questions that seemed endless, but his friend would answer them all patiently.
That morning, Hermione followed her usual routine, yet for some strange reason she felt a restless impatience she could barely conceal. Every so often, her gaze drifted to the window, hoping to catch sight of Harry walking home. It wasn't like her to be distracted, but that morning she simply couldn't focus. When the clock struck the agreed hour and her friend still hadn't appeared, a faint pang of unease twisted in her stomach. She checked her maths problems for the third time, unable to concentrate, her thoughts wandering restlessly towards the faintest sound that might come from the front door.
She caught herself pacing back and forth, adjusting her skirt, picking up unruly strands of her hair, and staring anxiously at the clock. Harry was never so late, and the very thought that something might have happened to him filled her with strange fear.
Finally, the doorbell rang. Hermione ran downstairs and opened the door, the welcoming smile freezing on her lips.
Harry was there, but he wasn't the usual Harry. He had arrived later than usual; his posture, normally carefree, was rigid; his clothes were wrinkled; his hair was tousled; he was not wearing glasses; and he had a swollen and black eye that made him look like someone different, almost unrecognisable. His lips were pressed together in a cold, distant grimace, as if the wound were a simple, unimportant detail.
"Oh my God, Harry!" gasped Hermione, putting both hands to her mouth. "What happened to you?"
He walked past her without looking directly at her, entering the house with an air of annoyance. "Today is my cousin's birthday," Harry remarked, his tone dull and monotonous. His voice was devoid of any emotion, which was even more terrifying.
Hermione closed the door and turned to him, her heart pounding. "Who did that to you?" she asked.
Harry stopped in the middle of the hallway and finally looked at her. His green eyes burned with cold fury, and he frowned — a movement that must have stung his swollen eye. "That filthy, disgusting pig my aunt has the nerve to call a husband," he growled, every word dripping with venom.
The statement, so raw and direct, took Hermione's breath away. "We must... We must call the police," she assured him.
Harry shook his head wearily. "Don't worry, Mione," he muttered, using the nickname he'd given her only a few days ago. "This bruise will be gone in a couple of hours at most. It's always like that."
Every word that came out of his mouth was a hammer blow that made the situation worse; that was not the first time. His relatives not only looked down on him but also beat him and physically abused him. Suddenly, all the pent-up anger that Hermione had sensed in him and her fierce determination to become strong took on a terrible and tragic meaning. She now understood the depth of his hatred towards Vernon and Petunia.
"Why... why don't you ask for help?" asked Hermione, and this time the tears she had been holding back overflowed, hot and silent, running down her cheeks. "That monster should be in jail, Harry. You can't let it go unpunished. You can't go on living like this!"
He led her into the living room and slumped heavily on the couch, as if simply standing required superhuman effort. Hermione sat down beside him, her gaze fixed on the horrible purple that disfigured his face.
"He always gets out," Harry said with a tired sigh, his voice flat, as though even speaking about it exhausted him. "It's not the first time Vernon's used me as a punching bag. Other times he's split my lip, and he almost always lashes me with his belt or hits my ribs. Once, my aunt threw an iron pan at me and split my eyebrow open. But every time a neighbour calls the police after hearing the screams, when they come and see the bruises on my face, he still gets away with it."
"Why?" asked Hermione, her voice breaking. Unconsciously, in a gesture of instinctive comfort, she reached out her hand and placed it gently on Harry's knee.
Harry looked up at the ceiling, his jaw clenched. "He keep helping them," he growled, grimly.
"Who?" insisted Hermione, leaning forward, her curiosity and terror struggling to overpower her. "Who makes him come back?"
Harry looked down, and silence settled between them, broken only by the clock on the wall. Hermione, she looked at him carefully, sad tears sliding down her cheek silently. When Harry looked up, there was no anger or fury. Instead, he gave her a usual smile, the one she liked so much. But this time, it was a tense smile, a fragile shield to reassure her.
"Don't worry, Mione," Harry said, his voice now eerily calm. "Today I've made sure that fat pig gets what he deserves. Vernon and my aunt will never touch me again. I swear to you."
Harry sat up from the sofa elegantly, as if the blow to his face did not exist, as if pain had no place in him. Then he stretched out his hand to her. Hermione immediately understood that he didn't want to talk about what had happened.
"Come on," Harry said, and his tone was reassuring. "We have a lot to study. Let's not waste time with... this."
Hermione looked at him, paralysed—horrified by what she had heard, furious at the Dursleys for hurting him, and afraid of the darkness in Harry's words—feelings that mingled inside her until she was trembling. She wanted to press him, to demand answers, but the words died in her mouth. Something about the calmness with which he looked at her told her that Harry would not talk about it, no matter how much she asked. But one thing was certain: Harry had hurt his Uncle Vernon—perhaps even seriously.
Hermione looked at his outstretched hand, then at his blackened eye, and finally at his face. Her heart was pounding so hard that it almost hurt. Slowly, she reached out and took his hand. Her fingers, cold and trembling with shock, intertwined with Harry's—his were warm, steady, and firm. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze, as though trying to lend her the peace she could not find within herself, and guided her towards the stairs. She followed him silently, her legs heavy as lead, dragging the weight of a knot in her chest. Yet, in spite of it all, she did not ask him anything more.
In her room, Harry held her hand a little longer before letting go, giving it one last reassuring squeeze. They sank to the floor together, shoulder to shoulder, their knees pressing lightly against each other as the books lay open before them. The closeness was so natural almost, and comfortable—Hermione could feel the warmth of his body beside hers, the faint brush of his skin against her arm, the steady rhythm of his breathing calming her more than words could. Harry, with a patience that stirred something deep within her, set about soothing her worry. He spoke of spells, of Hogwarts, of anything that might distract her, determined to shield her mind from fear even when he was the one who had just been beaten.
Hermione could scarcely focus on his words. Her eyes wandered to his face, to the faint bruise still shadowing his skin, to the quiet strength in his expression. She worried at the ease with which he pretended normality, and yet, when his hand slid once more into hers, she didn't pull away. She held on tightly, as if grounding herself in the warmth of his touch. Nor did she move when, a little later, her head, heavy with exhaustion and emotion, found rest upon his shoulder.
They did not speak after that. The silence between them was soft, warm, and full of peace. Time slipped by unnoticed. Hours later, just as Harry had promised, the bruise on his face was gone—as if it had never been there at all.
Hermione glanced at him from the corner of her eye. Something had changed between them—something unspoken, delicate, and yet unmistakable. That simple act—holding hands, leaning on each other—had shifted their friendship into something deeper. They were no longer merely two children sharing books and lessons; they were two souls bound by suffering, sealed by the pain they carried.
And though horror at what Harry might have done still twisted in her thoughts, and fear of what he had endured chilled her heart, another feeling bloomed in her chest—fierce, protective, and tender. Whatever happened, she would not let Harry face that growing darkness alone. She would be there: to help him, to understand him, to be his confidante. And, if fate willed it, something more.
Minerva I
Minerva's sharp black heels echoed through the stone halls of Hogwarts as she departed her Transfiguration class with the seventh-year students. The moment she entered her office, Albus's silver Patronus burst into the room, its message requiring her immediate presence. Without wasting a moment, Minerva had risen from her seat and strode towards the Headmaster's office. Her gown, a long, deep-black masterpiece, accentuated every line of her statuesque figure, fluttering around her ankles as she moved. The rich weave revealed subtle embroidery of silver thread that formed intricate Celtic patterns around the neckline, descending in an elegant line down the centre of her torso and drawing the eye to her slender waist. The dress was impeccably fitted, tailored to highlight the shape of her long, toned legs as she walked at a brisk, purposeful pace.
Her hair, a striking sweep of pure white, was gathered in an impeccable bun, from which a few determined strands escaped to soften the line of her face. Minerva had long since accepted her grey hair with pride. Far from detracting from her attractiveness, it lent her a distinct and commanding beauty. Her unlined skin and fine features might still have allowed her to pass for a woman fifteen years younger, but she never sought to look younger. She preferred elegance and mature beauty a thousand times over the futile struggle to reclaim a vanished youth. Upon her head sat a wide-brimmed hat that cast a dramatic shadow over her sharp grey eyes, intensifying a gaze that was already formidable. Her hands, sheathed in pristine white gloves, created a stark contrast against her dark attire.
At fifty-six years old, Minerva McGonagall was the very picture of elegant authority. Time had failed to diminish either her striking looks or her iron discipline. Years of practising as a Seeker in her youth and a celebrated career as a duellist had sculpted firm arms, a flat stomach, and a narrow, toned waist that curved into decidedly feminine hips. Her figure was completed by a bust that was both ample and elegant
With her imposing six-foot stature and her ramrod-straight posture, Minerva McGonagall was still the object of many a secret fantasy. She knew it. She could feel the furtive glances of some students who dared to dream of her, the stifled sighs of certain professors during banquets, and even the longing admiration of the occasional colleague or witch. Others, on the other hand, feared her, for her severity could instil fear with just a word or a raised eyebrow. She knew it—she always had—and she had never been shy about wielding the natural sensuality she radiated. Her voice, deep and seductive, was a weapon in itself: soft when she wished it to be, but as sharp as a blade when anger overpowered her.
But even though she could have pursued a career in professional Quidditch—where she would surely have excelled—or served as a renowned duellist, her mind and heart had chosen teaching. She loved politeness, order, and discipline far more than the adrenaline rush of flying or disarming an opponent.
As she walked, her mind couldn't help but wander to her former students. Among all of them, there was one name that always came first: Lily Evans. The bright redhead, the diligent student who possessed a natural gift and a smile capable of illuminating even the dullest common room. The memory struck her mind like a well-directed Bludger, causing her pace, for an instant, to slow. Lily had been special. And that was precisely why Albus had summoned her: the reason for the meeting with the Headmaster and the other teachers was Lily Potter's son.
When she reached the third floor, where the light filtering through the stained-glass windows painted the stone walls with patches of colour, Minerva stopped in front of the grotesque stone gargoyle that guarded the entrance and, in a clear voice, pronounced the password.
"Chocolate frogs."
The words, so absurd, took effect instantly. The stone statue slowly turned, revealing the spiral staircase that led to the headmaster's office. Minerva ascended the steps, and upon reaching the upper landing, a short corridor led to the large oak door engraved with the Hogwarts emblem. Minerva stopped in front of it, smoothed the wrinkles in her dress, then tapped twice with her knuckles—a sharp, respectful knock.
"Go ahead, Minerva," Albus Dumbledore's serene, powerful voice echoed from within.
She pushed open the heavy door, which gave way gently. Inside the circular office, the phoenix Fawkes let out a low hoot at the sight of her.
There, sitting behind his desk full of books and scrolls, was Albus Dumbledore, his long fingers intertwined, his blue eyes shining with unusual concern behind his half-moon glasses.
Clearly, she hadn't been the only one who had received the message for the meeting. On one side, next to a shelf full of jars with strange contents, was Severus Snape. As always, he was wrapped in black robes that seemed to absorb the light around him. His face, pale and sharply defined, was an impassive mask, hiding any trace of thought or emotion beneath a cloak of perpetual disdain.
And to the far right of Albus's desk were Minerva's two youngest colleagues and, privately, his staunchest allies.
Aurora Sinistra, the Professor of Astronomy, was a thirty-six-year-old woman with dark, smooth, and luminous skin. Her hair, a deep brown, was carefully braided and gathered in a half-high bun, intertwined with delicate pieces of gold that sparkled with every slight movement of her head. The daughter of a Ugandan mother, Aurora wore on her skin the secrets of her people: ancestral runes tattooed in golden ink that shone like molten metal. These symbols ran down her arms, back, stomach, and sides, peeking from the neckline of her white robes. Those tattoos narrated the history of her people, as well as granting her protection and wisdom.
That morning she was wearing tightly fitted white robes that fell in soft folds over her slender and athletic figure. The carefully draped cut exposed her shoulders and accentuated the firmness of her breast. The contrast between the white of the fabric and the gold of her tattoos created a hypnotic effect. The professor completed her outfit with abundant gold jewellery—rings on several fingers, a bracelet fitted to her right forearm, a choker that enhanced her neck, and long earrings that brushed her bare shoulders with every movement. Her features were fine and perfectly proportioned—a straight, delicate nose, speckled with tiny golden freckles, framed by intense eyes with golden irises outlined in black. Her full lips, painted a deep black, completed her striking image.
At her side, Septima Vector, the Arithmancy professor, possessed an enigmatic and elegant presence. At thirty-nine, her story was a mystery to Minerva; despite years of teaching and friendship, she only knew that Septima had studied at Durmstrang. As tall as she was, her figure was wrapped in purple robes of perfect fall, which hinted at more than they revealed.
Her porcelain skin contrasted with the blackness of her straight hair, which fell to her shoulders in soft curls. Her green eyes, cold and piercing, seemed to see through any lie. Her sharp features, thin lips always painted red, and the mysterious aura she carried gave her a sensual and distant air. There was in Septima a beauty—hypnotic, almost otherworldly—more typical of a witch from a gothic tale. Minerva, though she considered her a colleague, recognised that she had never fully understood her.
Minerva closed the door behind her and advanced towards the centre of the office, where she stood erect, her chin slightly raised. Her grey eyes swept over each of the people there, coldly assessing every detail before fixing on Dumbledore.
Sitting in a chair in front of Albus's desk, like a frightened and out-of-place bird, was Arabella Figg. The woman clutched a faded purse against her chest. Her hands trembled, her bulging eyes resembling those of someone who had seen Death itself. Minerva felt a twinge of disdain for the woman.
"A Squib—always a burden. Neither witch nor Muggle, a useless shadow between two worlds," she thought coldly.
The four professors formed a semicircle in front of the desk, flanking the distraught Squib. They were judgement, intelligence, and power surrounding the weak and trembling witness.
"Minerva, thank you for coming so quickly," Albus said, with a welcoming gesture that could not hide the gravity of the moment.
She barely inclined her head. "What is the reason for this meeting?" she asked, maintaining a professional tone—cold and dry.
"Harry Potter," Albus replied, and the mere confirmation caused something to twist inside her. She had already sensed it, of course. She had spent a decade anticipating misfortunes connected to that boy. She did not allow a muscle in her face to betray the wave of cold anger that swept through her. "I'm afraid there has been… an incident." Albus continued.
"Really? An incident in the house of those grotesque Muggles? "What an absolute surprise," she thought sarcastically. But outwardly, she only arched a perfectly shaped eyebrow.
"Is the boy all right?" she asked instead, and her voice sounded so cold and distant. She did not ask about the Dursley's. Her concern, as always, was for one person alone.
Albus nodded slowly. "Yes, Harry is physically unharmed," assured the man who had once been her professor. He was a man she had once trusted implicitly, but no longer.
"Arabella," Dumbledore continued, turning gently to the Squib, "would you be so kind as to tell us what happened this morning?"
All eyes in the room turned to the Squib. Arabella shrank, clutching her purse as a castaway would a raft. "I… I was watering my plants," the bland old woman began, her voice trembling. "And then I heard the screams. It's… it's always the same in the Dursley house. They say horrible insults at Harry—insults no child should ever have to hear."
Minerva remained expressionless, though beneath the calm surface, a bitter anger churned. She was all too aware of the situation. For years, she had tried to persuade Albus to remove Potter from that wretched Muggle hole. She had presented him with meticulously researched alternatives. Andromeda Tonks, the boy's blood aunt, was a capable witch with a good heart, despite her Black lineage. She had even suggested sending Potter to a specialised magical orphanage—anywhere, anywhere at all would have been better than leaving him under the same roof as that obese, ill-born pig who had the audacity to raise his hand against James and Lily's son. But Albus, in his endless stupidity, had refused. He insisted that Lily's son must grow up with his mother's blood for protection—a wilful blindness, given that anyone with eyes could see Petunia despised the boy and her husband have no qualms about beating him to death.
"Today was Harry's cousin's birthday," Arabella continued. "So, the Dursleys wanted everything to be… perfect. It all happened so fast… Mr Dursley started yelling at Harry, something about not burning breakfast, I think… Suddenly, I heard the son's cries and the woman's hysterical screams. Harry's aunt, Petunia, shouted at her husband to leave no marks this time." Arabella closed her eyes, trembling. "Then I heard a scream from Harry—and then screams of horror."
The Squib shut her eyes as if to erase the image from her mind. "I saw them come out of the house, staggering. The husband, oh, Professor Dumbledore…" Arabella stopped, bringing a trembling hand to her mouth. A sob escaped her lips. "The husband… his face was… burnt, covered in blisters. As if… as if a pan full of boiling oil had been thrown at him."
The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the old woman's ragged breathing.
"Boiling oil?" Minerva thought, hiding a mocking smile, but deep inside, a fleeting satisfaction coiled like a mischievous spark. It wasn't compassion she felt—not for Vernon Dursley. Instead, something within her, a hint of dark satisfaction, stirred at the thought that the boy was no longer the submissive victim that man believed he controlled.
For two years, Arabella's reports had shown that clashes between Harry and the Dursleys were becoming more frequent. The boy was no longer so easily intimidated. And more importantly, according to the Squib, Harry was aware of what he was. He knew his heritage—he knew he was a wizard, and that his place was at Hogwarts. And, to complicate matters further, another witch girl of the same age now lived on Privet Drive.
Looking at her colleagues, she found different reactions among them. Aurora seemed shocked—not so much by the fate of the Muggle brute, but by Potter. She had been close to Lily during their years in Slughorn's club, and that shadow of friendship coloured her feelings. Septima, on the other hand, hid every trace of emotion behind a marble mask, though her green eyes seethed with unease. Snape's face was one of indifference; his anger against James spread like an oil stain to his son, and what happened to Harry mattered less to him than the dust on his shoes.
Then Albus, regaining his calm composure, began to issue orders. "Severus, I'll need your personal reserve of burn ointment. Pomona and Poppy are preparing the base in the hospital wing." Snape, without a word—just a curt nod—turned and left the office, his black cloak billowing behind him.
"Aurora, Septima," Dumbledore continued, "Surrey's Muggle hospital must be in turmoil. Please handle the memory modification. Be meticulous." Both witches nodded professionally. Finally, Albus turned to the terrified Squib. "Arabella, I appreciate your courage. Please accompany them. A hot tea and a soothing charm will do you good." The old woman, still trembling, clung to the arm Aurora offered her and left with them.
The silence that followed was heavy. Minerva stood tall, lips pressed together, while Albus slowly removed his half-moon spectacles and placed them on the desk.
"You seem pleased with what happened, Minerva," he said, an inquisitive gleam in his blue eyes.
She advanced on the desk with a slow walk, the stiletto heel striking the cold stone. The black stockings sheathing her legs gleamed under the torchlight. "I wouldn't want to say 'I told you so,' but…" She paused, letting the silence hang as her sharp grey eyes locked onto his. "I told you," she stated, her voice a blade of cold truth. "For years I warned you that something like this would happen. I told you that man would harm Potter so profoundly that even his magic could not repair the damage—or, failing that, the boy would be forced to defend himself. It seems we have the latter."
For an instant, pride glimmered in her gaze, though she masked it with severity. Albus sighed, the weight of the years etched in his wrinkles. "I understand. And yet, Minerva, I must ask something more of you. Go to Petunia. Speak with her. Try… to prevent her from doing anything rash."
The woman smiled mockingly. Again, the same thing. Again, the same vicious circle. "Do you really think it will do any good?" she replied. "I've spoken to her before. I've tried to reason with her. It always ends the same. All it does is prolong the farce. Vernon will never stop raising his hand against that boy, and Potter no longer seems willing to bow his head. How long until this happens again? A week? A month? What does it matter?"
Dumbledore looked at her silently, as though burdened by a truth he dared not confess. She expected no more words from him. With a curt nod, Minerva turned on her heels and left the office, leaving the stubborn old man to his thoughts.
Minerva took a deep breath and finally nodded, resigned. "I'll go if you wish it. But listen carefully, Albus: this will happen again. Over and over, until the boy no longer needs to defend himself… or until there is nothing left to defend."
The office was plunged into tense silence. Minerva did not smile, but deep inside her, a spark remained unextinguished: Harry no longer allowed himself to be trampled on—and in that, she saw not a problem, but a promise.
Notes:
As you can see, Minerva's physical description and behaviour are different. Physically, to give you an idea, she resembles Cogita/Metis from the video game Pokémon. I made McGonagall much younger. After doing some research, I couldn't find the year she was born, so in this story she is 56. This is considered an advanced age, of course, but not as old as I initially imagined. Her behaviour is very strict, almost severe; the way she acts and speaks often leads people to believe she is a blood purist, but she is not. She is a good person, of a sort.
As for Aurora, she is often described in fanfics as a woman of colour, so I followed the same approach. Her appearance, if you have played League of Legends, resembles the character Mel. I like the idea that she is of mixed race, with a Ugandan mother and an English father. She knows how to use magic without a wand—not extensively, but more than Dumbledore—and she will be helpful to Harry.
I believe these are the most important notes. Without further ado, I bid you farewell. Please leave your comments about the chapter and your kudos.