Chapter 3Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Minerva II
The slamming of the door from Dumbledore's office echoed in the silent hallway. Minerva exhaled clearly annoyed. And there, waiting for her, leaning against the stone wall with her arms crossed just below her chest—a pose that accentuated the curve of her breasts—Septima stood in the semi-darkness of the corridor.
"Where is Aurora?" asked Minerva without breaking her step, her voice echoing the crunch of her heels on the stone.
"She took care of the Squib," Septima replied, unfurling from the wall to walk beside her.
Minerva clicked her tongue with a dry sound of impatience. "A waste of time. The sooner we end this unpleasant matter, the better," she said, descending the grand staircase with a speed that defied her age. "May Aurora find us in the Muggle hospital. We do not have all day."
They crossed the Great Hall and went out into the castle grounds. Without consulting each other, both turned to a clear space. A loud creak, like that of a giant torn cloth, broke the tranquillity of the morning. Minerva and Septima twisted in on themselves and vanished in the air.
An instant later, they reappeared in Little Whinging with another thud on the pavement in front of 4 Privet Drive, their appearance thankfully not witnessed by any neighbours. It was not the first time they had appeared there. For years, they had been Dumbledore's unofficial disaster clean-up team in that disgusting Muggle place. During Potter's childhood, they had been the ones who came when Harry's magic overflowed or, as in this case, when Vernon's stupidity exceeded his limits.
At Albus's request, as always, they had been in charge of getting Vernon Dursley out of legal trouble on more than one occasion, erasing police records and modifying memories of officers and neighbours—a job that turned Minerva's stomach. But it was necessary. Petunia, in her pathetic and unhealthy obsession with that filthy Muggle, was capable of anything if she lost him, even getting rid of Harry or doing something worse.
"The Squib wasn't exaggerating," Minerva remarked dismissively, pointing with her grey gaze to the black marks the car's tyres had left on the asphalt.
Minerva raised a gloved hand, and, with a quick gesture, the lock on the front door gave way with a metallic snap without her having drawn her wand. Upon entering, the interior of the house was a perfect portrait of Muggle mediocrity: cheap furniture, worn carpet, the smell of disinfectant and stale bacon.
"Check upstairs. Look for the child," Minerva ordered, and Septima, without a word, ascended the stairs, her dark robes moving without a sound.
Minerva, meanwhile, went to the kitchen. The spectacle was as vulgar as she had imagined. On the floor, an overturned iron skillet, surrounded by a puddle of cold oil and chunks of charred bacon.
"There is no sign of Harry," Septima's calm voice announced from the kitchen door. "The room is empty. There are no signs of a struggle or that he packed his bags."
Minerva didn't flinch. "He probably fled after the Dursleys got out," she deduced easily. She pulled out her wand in one swift motion and brandished it in the air, tracing lines, and instantly the dirty oil rose from the floor, dragging the pieces of bacon with it and depositing them cleanly into the pan, which in turn flew into the sink. With a second movement, a stream of soap and water cleaned the greasy residue on the floor, leaving it clean and spotless; any physical traces of the "incident" had been eradicated.
"Shall we look for him?" asked Septima. "If he's scared and with magic out of control…"
"No," Minerva cut in, putting away her wand. "The boy, almost certainly, will be with Granger. It is the only logical place. And after what happened, he needs the company of someone who understands him more than that of two teachers he has never seen. Let us leave it there. For now."
With the same synchronisation with which they had arrived, the two witches exchanged a quick glance and then vanished from the Dursleys' hall with a dry snap that broke the silence. They reappeared, seconds later, in the cold gloom of an alley next to Surrey Hospital. Ready for the next repulsive phase of their work: dealing with the Dursley's and making sure that the "normal family" charade could continue, at least a little longer.
They walked with a brisk step, their sharp high-heels echoed against the asphalt towards the main entrance of the hospital. As they passed through the automatic doors at the reception, nurses and doctors stood with their gazes glazed over and lost, like dolls waiting for someone to wind them up. At the centre of the room was Aurora with her wand, elegantly wielded, tracing soft patterns in the air as she muttered memory-modifying spells in a low tone. Muggle memories were being rewritten, turning the magical attack into a tragic "domestic accident with oil."
Seeing them approaching, Aurora did not interrupt her work, but her golden eyes met Minerva's. "The Dursleys are in ward C, Second Floor, room 5" she reported, though a little distant from concentration.
Minerva just nodded with a slight inclination of her head, letting Septima join Aurora to oversee the purge of digital files and records, while she made her way to the stairs. When she arrived at the indicated room and opened the door to Room 5, she found Petunia slumped in an armchair, sobbing. Beside her, her son Dudley, pale and sobbing silently, clung to his mother.
"I see that your filthy husband has finally received what he deserves," Minerva sneered, her voice a blade of ice that cut through the stale air in the room.
Petunia raised her head suddenly. Her green eyes, red and bloodshot, looked at Minerva with rage. "You!" Lily's sister bellowed as she rose. Her face, usually bearing an aura of superiority, was now emaciated and furrowed by tears of fury and helplessness. Her eyes shone with pure hatred. "That freak has done this! He has destroyed my husband his face!"
The Muggle woman rushed at her with a distinctly violent intent. Minerva did not back down; with a slight wave of her wand, she cast a silent immobility incantation. Petunia stopped in her tracks, petrified in the middle of the room, every muscle tense; only her eyes and mouth could move.
"Watch your tongue carefully, filthy muggle," Minerva growled, advancing slowly. The wat she called "freak" to Lily's son caused a wave of cold anger in her. It wasn't just the abuse of Harry that infuriated her to the core; it was the constant insult to her sister's memory, the desecration of Lily's legacy every time her son was mistreated.
Seeing his mother attacked, Dudley, in a fit of stupid bravery, screamed and heaved himself up from the chair. Minerva didn't even look at him. With an almost contemptuous flick of her wrist, she silently cast a Stunning Spell so precise that the bolt of scarlet light struck him squarely in the chest, the boy's cry was cut short as he fell backwards, his body limp and heavy. His head struck the stone floor with a dull, sickening thud.
"Dudley!" Petunia screamed in horror as her son head began to blood; she tried to free herself but was unable to move towards him.
"How many times, Petunia?" continued Minerva, a few inches away from the Muggle woman. "How many times have I warned you that your choice of husband and your contempt for your own sister's blood would lead you straight to ruin? And now, look." She nodded contemptuously toward the bed behind which her husband lay. "You have screwed up all the way."
She slid the tip of her ebony wand down Petunia's throbbing jugular, a contact so cold and deadly that it made the woman's skin stand on end. "Out of pure poetic justice, I should torture you and that pig with the same coin of misery that you have inflicted on that child for years. Or, perhaps, a simpler option… let your husband's festering burns become irremediably infected, and let him die of slow, agonising sepsis in this Muggle bed."
Petunia could only cry, tears streaming down her cheeks, and her breathing was heavy and full of panic. Lily's sister looked at her with a mixture of terror and hatred, as if the two emotions could offset each other.
"Know this, and remember it until your final breath," Minerva spat, her voice a venomous whisper as she pressed the tip of her wand deeper into the vulnerable flesh of Petunia's neck, eliciting a sharp gasp of pain. "The only reason that pig you call a husband still draws air, the only reason you are not already rotting in the ground beside your filthy and repulsive Muggle parents, is Albus Dumbledore." Her grey eyes were chips of glacial ice, devoid of all mercy. "Were it not for his misguided protection, I would have consigned you and your whole wretched bloodline to the hell years ago. Your sister's grave would have been the last clean thing your bloody family ever touched
Petunia, struggling against the invisible magic that held her muscles bound, managed to articulate a few words, sputtering and soaked in poison. "G-get… G-get away from my family. G-get away! He's a monster, just like her!"
Minerva felt a surge of anger as she heard Petunia insult Lily again; her grey eyes met her watery green ones. "I am afraid that is not going to happen," she whispered, her voice dangerously quiet. She slid her wand slowly down Petunia's cold cheek. "I think, and I know, that Dumbledore made it very clear to you that Potter will not leave your lovely home until he comes of age. It is a matter of security. Or at least, that is what he likes to believe."
"As much as it disgusts you to the core," the Transfiguration professor continued, her voice soft but dangerous, as she pressed the tip of her wand with force against Petunia's temple, as if trying to penetrate her skull. "You must continue to endure, day after day, the presence of Potter under your disgusting roof. But this… This… will be the last time our world will deign to stain its hands with your loathsome filth."
Minerva shortened the remaining distance until her breath mingled with Petunia's hot, trembling gasp. Her lips, thin and severe, curled into a sneer. "Because, as you have witnessed today, Potter is no longer the terrified child who cringed in corners at the beatings of your filthy husband."
And then, without warning, Minerva pressed her lips against hers. It was not a kiss of desire but an act of mockery and torture. She knew that Petunia, a woman who loved order and normality, would find contact with another woman unnatural and vulgar. But that she was a witch, the embodiment of everything she despised, elevated it to the status of supreme intimate violation. The Muggle made a muffled sound, a mixture of horror and disgust, and her hands, still numb from the spell, fluttered in a faint and pathetic struggle.
Minerva was not satisfied with just kissing her; she escalated the humiliation to another level. Her body was crushed against Petunia's; her hands, gloved, ascended in a lascivious way up the Muggle's body. A palm slid down her back, squeezing tightly the curve of her buttocks to bring her even closer. Her other hand slid under her skirt to her underwear and began rubbing her pussy.
As her hand rubbed her clitoris, in one swift motion, her tongue squeezed its way through Petunia's closed lips. The Muggle woman only let out a shriek of horror, but she couldn't help whimpering. The kiss lasted for a few interminable minutes; Petunia's initial ordeal faded, her sobs transforming into muffled moans, until the lack of air and nervous breakdown left her limp and submissive in her arms. Finally, Minerva separated.
The sound of the break was a wet, obscene snap that echoed through the room. A wicked smile bloomed on her lips, now visibly red and swollen from the force of the kiss. Petunia was left panting, a visible tremor of disgust and trauma running through her body. Her face was soaked, shiny with tears and shared saliva.
"You could have been a competent lover and warmed my bed like your sister did in her youth," Minerva continued, her voice hoarse. Seeing that terrified Muggle shed silent tears streaming down her face was so exciting. "Your blood was the same; you could have been our Muggle pet, lived in our world and met our needs, but you chose the path of mediocrity, of envy. You embraced vulgarity." Her smile widened, a merciless gesture. "But it does not matter. Now, let us see clearly how it was that your miserable and orderly existence was shattered this morning."
She paused and let the silence do the dirty part of the work; she saw terror spread through Petunia's eyes like a blot. "You know what I am going to do next," Minerva continued, coldly. "It is one of the most heinous crimes a witch can commit against a Muggle." A cruel smile blossomed on her face. "I could rot in Azkaban for rummaging through your mind without your consent. But tell me, who is going to believe you? Petunia Dursley, a filthy and despicable Muggle, against a Hogwarts professor."
Petunia opened her mouth and let out another horrified cry as she saw Minerva draw her wand and approach again. "No! Stay away from me!" But it was a faint and broken sound.
Minerva ignored the plea, her grey gaze fixed on Petunia's. She pressed her wand to her temple and said, "Legilimens!"
She didn't enter her mind cautiously; she penetrated her head with all the intention of inflicting harm, of violating every corner. Minerva navigated Petunia's mind freely, shattering everything in her path. She saw flashes of her childhood, of petty joy at seeing Lily frustrated, and of disgust and jealousy for everything her sister represented. She stepped through the woman's fragile façade and found mourning for her parents, the news of Lily's death—where a twinge of genuine grief was immediately drowned out by a tsunami of resentment—the day of her marriage to Vernon, the birth of her son and the knowledge that she would never work again.
After several minutes, Minerva found the memory she was looking for. Petunia experienced it through her eyes, watching the family sitting at the table, with Harry serving them as a servant. She saw and heard Vernon shout at him, insulting him, and then get up with a congested face to pounce on the boy. She felt Petunia's repulsion, not at the violence, but at the interruption of her perfect breakfast. She saw Vernon's fists hit Harry's face and belly repeatedly until the boy fell to the ground, gasping and struggling to breathe, not shedding a single tear, not emitting a single groan. Vernon, satisfied, returned to his seat as if nothing had happened.
And then, Minerva saw it. Harry, on the ground, slowly got up. There was no rage in his eyes, only a dangerous coldness. His lips moved, muttering words that Petunia's memory could not grasp, and he raised his hand, not with a wand, but with outstretched fingers. The iron frying pan, filled with boiling oil, rose into the air and flew straight into Vernon Dursley's face.
Minerva abruptly left Petunia's mind, breaking the connection with a sharp snap. The Muggle screamed and sank to her knees, panting like a fish out of water. Minerva took a step back, and her stern countenance was transformed. A smile of terrible and perverse pride was sketched on her lips.
"He did magic without a wand," she murmured.
Petunia, from the ground, sobbed angrily. "He's a monster!" she cried, her voice cracking with tears.
Minerva bowed her head, looking at her with curiosity. "What I just saw was not the work of a monster," she assured her with a calmness. "It was the reaction of a child who finally decided to defend himself from the real monster to whom you opened the door of your house and your life."
Petunia did not respond. She only kept a silence, looking at her with such deep and frustrated anger that she could not find words to express herself.
"Pray that your husband won't be deformed," she scoffed with a smile. "May this day mark the end of your nephew being a reason for fun. And listen to me carefully, Petunia: if I see a bruise on Potter again, if I hear again that he has suffered at the hands of your husband, I will not just heal and lecture you—you have already exhausted my patience—I will see to it that Vernon murders him slowly. And believe me, this time, not even Albus will be able to help you."
Minerva turned and left the room without adding anything else. She knew, with a certainty, that from that moment on, the dynamics at 4 Privet Drive would change forever. Not only because Harry had shown a glimmer of his power, but because she, at last, had dropped the mask of diplomacy and had shown her fangs.
When she returned to the front desk, Septima and Aurora were already done. The Muggles' blank stares had been replaced by confusion, and Pomona Sprout and Poppy Pomfrey had just arrived with the ointment. They worked in silence, but Minerva noticed, with cold pleasure, that Poppy applied the ointment with a brusqueness that made the pig growl in pain. To her amusement, Poppy assured her that it would leave a horrible scars on the man.
By the time they were done, the hospital was functioning normally; any trace of magic or panic had been eradicated. Vernon Dursley would remain hospitalised for a couple of days, but his recovery, according to Pomona and Pomfrey, would be marked by persistent pain and a horrible scar on his flesh.
"Do you want to go find Harry?" asked Aurora, her golden eyes shining with the need to see her friend's son, to make sure he was all right. "We do not know if Petunia will really obey." Minerva shook her head firmly. "She and her husband will not raise a hand to Potter again," she stated as the three witches left the hospital, immersing themselves in the orange glow of the Surrey sunset. "I have ensured Petunia understands the consequences. Now, we need only wait for the Hogwarts letters to be sent. And, as you requested, Aurora," she added, glancing at her colleague, "you shall be the one to deliver Potter's personally."
The Astronomy professor's face lit with a glimmer of hope. Without another word, the three witches vanished from the Muggle suburb with a soft crack, a sound that was less a boom and more a faint, swiftly muffled tear in the fabric of the air.
Harry II
In the weeks that followed the boiling oil incident on Dudley's birthday, things at Number 4, Privet Drive, were never the same again. The first, and most puzzling, change was when Petunia and Dudley returned that night without Vernon; they did so quietly. Harry had seen them come in from the stairs, his heart pounding in his ears. There were no shouts, no blows, no looks of contempt. That first night their faces were pale and closed, like wax masks. Neither of them spoke to him. They just wnet upstairs and looked themselves in their rooms, the sound of the shower resounding briefly, and then the house fell into absolute silence, broken only by the ticking of the cuckoo clock in the living room.
The next morning, Harry woke up to an empty house. The kettle was still on the stove; the milk, the toast and the jam were on the table, and the car had disappeared. He assumed they had gone to the hospital; his aunt had not bothered to wake him up or leave him a note.
The real change in the house came with the return of Vernon Dursley, well into the summer holidays. The man who crossed the threshold of the door was a grotesque caricature, totally different from his former self. The boiling oil had left him with permanent sequelae. Much of his thick black hair had fallen out, revealing a scarred scalp snaking from his forehead; his eyebrows and eyelashes had completely disappeared, even his uncle lost his left eye, giving his face a smooth and gruesome appearance; and one side of his mouth and face curved downward in a perpetual grimace—a consequence of a partial facial paralysis that a Muggle doctor could not reverse and that he would carry from now on.
The man Harry saw now was no longer the angry pig he used to be. It was a wounded animal, more dangerous perhaps, but also more cautious. His little piggy eye stared at him with a hatred so pure and murderous that it could almost be touched, a poison that Harry felt on the back of his neck when he turned his back on him. But Vernon didn't scream again. He didn't touch him again. He watched him with that half-closed eye, full of rage.
The insults the Dursleys loved to shout at him no longer reverberated in the house. Harry never knew what exactly happened in the hospital, what words or threats had transformed his tormentors into resentful ghosts, but the result was undeniable: the Dursleys had erased him. They moved around him as if he were an uncomfortable and potentially explosive animal; the whole house had changed. No one was talking about the accident. No one really spoke.
Only Petunia interacted with him sporadically, and it was the most disconcerting. There was no more venom in her voice, nor that cutting tone she always used with him. Her words were flat. "Dinner is in the microwave." "Pick up the post." "We're going to the hospital; we'll be back late." She had stopped shouting denigrating words at him. It was as if they had reached an unspoken truce.
Even Dudley, his personal nemesis, had changed. Days after the incident, overcome by impotent rage, his cousin had cornered him on the landing. "My dad is disfigured because of you!" he had yelled, tears of frustration rolling down his cheeks. "You're a monster!" Harry, instead of answering or mocking, remained silent, watching him with a calmness that he himself did not know he possessed, letting Dudley vent his childish tantrum. But his body was tense. And when Petunia showed up, she didn't yell at Harry. She shouted at Dudley, in a voice filled with panic, "Dudley! Stay away from him! Now!" That sentence, more than anything else, confirmed to Harry that something fundamental had changed. He was no longer the victim but the victimizer.
During the following days, Harry tried to lead as normal a life as possible within the abnormality; every morning he went with Hermione to study, and they went out to the park together. Until one morning arrived, a week before his eleventh birthday. He went down to the first floor and found Petunia in the kitchen, frying eggs. He sat down in silence. Soon after, Vernon and Dudley entered, in his ridiculous Smeltings uniforms, complete with cane and straw hat.
Seeing him seated at the table, as an equal, Vernon frowned, a gesture that tugged at his scarred skin and gave him an even more grotesque look. His uncle was still consumed with anger, convinced to the core that he had done nothing wrong and that Harry's reaction had been an act of pure and disproportionate evil. To Harry, that twisted logic seemed so stupid. It was Vernon's mechanism to evade blame, to paint himself as the victim. But he didn't care anymore. He had defended himself. He had faced the monster, and the monster had recoiled, scarred for life. That was all he needed to know.
That morning, Uncle Vernon unfurled his newspaper with a sudden gesture, and Dudley, as usual, stamped his stupid cane on the floor. It was then that everyone heard the distinctive tapping in the mailbox and the soft fluttering of envelopes falling on the doormat.
Harry jumped up. It was an instinctive move, but Vernon's reaction was immediate and violent. The man dropped the newspaper and put both hands to his disfigured face in a gesture of instinctive and pathetic protection. Harry ignored him and went out into the corridor and collected the letters.
There were three letters. A colourful postcard from Marge, Vernon's sister, who from the Isle of Wight wished his "speedy recovery" and suggested, with her usual delicacy, that "that troubled child should be sent to an orphanage or receive an exemplary punishment". A brown, boring envelope, probably a hospital bill. And then... Then he saw it: a letter addressed to him. His heart skipped a beat. The envelope was thick, made of yellowish parchment, with an address written in black ink:
Mr H. Potter
Second Floor Room
4 Privet Drive Little Whinging
Surrey
"Yes!" shouted Harry, holding up the letter with a smile.
He returned to the kitchen like a whirlwind and threw the other two items of post on the table with disdain. He held his as if it were a talisman in front of the Dursleys. "It's here!" he announced, with a beaming smile, showing the scroll to the three pairs of eyes that looked at him with a mixture of horror and resentment. "My letter from Hogwarts finally arrived!"
The sound of a plate crashing to the floor—Petunia had let go—and the guttural, almost porcine growl that escaped Vernon's crooked mouth were the only response. Harry didn't wait a second longer. He turned on his heel and ran out of the house, slamming the front door with a force that rattled the window panes. He didn't look back. His feet led him in one direction: Hermione's house.
When he arrived at the Grangers' house, he rang the doorbell repeatedly and impatiently. Before the last ring faded, the door was flung open and Hermione lunged at him in a desperate embrace that nearly knocked him off balance. Her arms closed around his neck tightly.
"It's here! Harry, my letter arrived!" screamed Hermione, burying her face in his shoulder.
Harry responded to her hug automatically, his arms wrapping around her back gently; he tilted his head and inhaled deeply the soft scent of her hair. "Soon," he whispered in her ear. "Soon we will be free." He hugged her tighter, feeling the gentle pressure of her growing breasts against his chest, and instinctively pulled her hips closer together, eliminating any residual space between them.
Neither of them separated; they remained hugging each other in the doorway for several minutes. Harry whispered words of support and filled her ear with promises. "We made it," he whispered, stroking Hermione's brown hair with his fingers. "Everything is going to change for both of us; no one is going to separate us."
Finally, Hermione was the one who broke the embrace slowly; her face was rosy, and she lowered her gaze, suddenly shy. "I'm sorry," she apologised, holding her hands behind her back in a nervous gesture. "I... I let myself go."
Harry gave her a broad smile. "Don't apologise," he said, his tone nonchalant but his look serious. "Don't ever do it. I... I like hugging you, Mione."
Hearing him call her by her nickname made Hermione's blush intensify to a vibrant scarlet hue that ran down her cheeks and tinged her ears. "Go on, come in," she muttered shyly, changing the subject and moving aside to make room.
Harry crossed the threshold, and they both went into the living room. That morning, Hermione wore white shorts that reached mid-thigh and a yellow cotton T-shirt with thin white stripes. They sat together on the sofa, their legs brushing from thigh to knee.
"Have you opened your letter yet?" asked Harry, gesturing to the parchment envelope she held with reverential care.
Hermione shook her head in a quick, energetic motion. "As soon as I received it, I knew I had to wait for you," she confessed, her voice lowering to a more intimate tone. "I didn't want to open it without you."
Harry gave her a warm smile. "Let's do it together, then."
The two of them counted to three and quickly tore open their envelopes, both reading silently, but Harry could hear Hermione gasping with excitement as she read beside him. "Amazing!" gasped Hermione, her hazel eyes rereading the document over and over, as if she feared the words would disappear. "It's even more real now."
For the next few minutes, Hermione spoke with full emotion in her voice about Hogwarts, mapping out plans. She talked about the list of books, the excitement of visiting Diagon Alley, and how they would organise their equipment. Harry nodded, sharing her excitement, but noticed a shadow looming over his own joy. Something heavy and cold was twisting in his stomach, a truth he could no longer contain. They had promised not to keep secrets from each other. She had become his confidante. And this truth was too great to carry alone.
"What's wrong, Harry?" asked Hermione, her joy fading instantly at the notice of his expression. Her fingers, warm and soft, closed over his hand in a familiar and reassuring gesture. Since the oil incident, their relationship had deepened; now they hugged each other when one of them felt unwell, held hands in the dim light of the attic or when they walked in the park, and whispered warm and encouraging words to each other. They trusted each other with a blind, fierce faith. "Has your family bothered you?"
Harry shook his head, offering her a faint smile. "No, it's... there is something else. Something I need you to know," he continued, seriously. He gently squeezed her hand, seeking strength in that contact.
"What's the matter, Harry?" she asked, her voice now tinged with an apprehension that clouded her eyes.
"I have told you all that I have learnt about the wizarding world," he began, remaining calm as he sought refuge in her eyes. "The spells, the creatures, the history... But I never told you the truth about how my parents died. Or how I got this scar."
Hermione nodded softly, and a flash of understanding and fear crossed her face. Harry knew it. Often, when she thought he was distracted, he would catch her gaze fixed on the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead, a silent question she never dared to ask.
"You told me your parents died in a car accident," she said.
"I lied," Harry confessed, and the word fell between them with the weight of a betrayal. He saw how Hermione frowned slightly. "My parents did not die in an accident. And this scar... it wasn't made by a piece of glass."
"Then how?" asked Hermione.
Harry sighed, a sound laden with the weight of a story that was not his but that was engraved on his skin and soul. "My parents... they died fighting. Against a dark wizard," he revealed, at last, letting the truth, raw and dangerous, settle into the room.
Hermione gasped, putting a hand to her mouth to stifle a scream. Her eyes filled with sympathetic horror. "Almost eleven years ago," Harry explained, remembering the cold words of the letter that Dumbledore had left with him in the basket. "There was a dark wizard named Voldemort who started raising an army. He wanted to... purge the wizarding world. To eradicate all those who, like you and me, were born to Muggle and half-blood parents. Those whom he called 'Mudbloods' or 'Mongrels'." He saw how Hermione paled, but her fingers did not let go of his; on the contrary, they pressed harder. "He was incredibly powerful, Hermione. Feared by all. One night... he came to our house. He murdered my father first. Then... my mother, when she stepped in to protect me." Harry's voice cracked slightly. "And he tried to murder me too."
Hearing this, Hermione squeezed his hand with almost painful force, as if she could transfer some of her own strength to him. "But as you can see, he couldn't," Harry continued, his voice regaining a tone of astonishment, even now. "The instant Voldemort cast the killing curse, the same one that killed my parents, on me... Something happened. Something that no one understands. The curse rebounded. It hit him. And me... He just left me this." He pointed to his scar.
"What... what happened to Voldemort?" asked Hermione, her voice trembling. Her eyes, now glittering with tears, were held back by Harry's pain.
Harry shrugged. "I don't know. He disappeared. That's... everything I know. Or at least, everything Dumbledore told me in the letter he left when he deposited me in front of my aunt's house." He paused, looking at his hand clasped with hers. "And that's why... That's why I'm a little famous in our world. They call me 'The Boy Who Lived.'"
Hermione didn't look away. Her eyes, still bright with the tears she refused to shed in his presence, scrutinised him not with pity, but with understanding. Her fingers, intertwined with his, did not let go but clung tighter.
"You don't have to apologise, Harry," Hermione assured him, and then she pounced on him by surprise; he fell backwards onto the couch cushions, and she fell with him, her small, thin body settling on top of his. Harry didn't resist. A tired smile spread across his lips as his arms wrapped around her, cradling her to his chest. It was a refuge. Her weight, light but real, was the perfect antidote to the nightmare.
"I fully understand why you didn't want to tell me sooner," Hermione whispered, her voice muffled by the fabric of his shirt.
Harry did not respond; instead, he began to caress her hair. They remained like this for half an hour, with Hermione's body on top of his. It was just the two of them lying on the sofa; that closeness only grew with the passage of time. Together they found comfort in each hug; each caress and sweet word was a wound healed in their hearts.
Slowly, Hermione sat up. Instead of pulling away, she moved naturally and sat comfortably on his lap. If Hermione's parents had walked in at that moment, they would have seen a scene that, to any adult, would have been deeply compromising. But for them, it wasn't.
"Harry," she asked, her hands resting on his chest.
"What's the matter?" he murmured, letting his hands, almost of their own volition, rest on the bare, soft skin of her thighs. His thumbs began to draw slow circles, just below the line of the white shorts.
The contact between them was pure and innocent; every prolonged hug, every caress of the hair, every fleeting kiss on the cheek when greeting or saying goodbye, was born of a genuine need for connection and affection that they had been denied at home.
"What if we aren't placed in the same house?" Hermione finally asked, worried. The fear in her eyes was palpable now, a completely different terror than she had shown at Voldemort's story. This was a personal fear, selfish at best, the acute panic of a girl about to lose the only friend she had ever known.
It was clear that the possibility of the Sorting Hat putting them in different houses was something that had been eating away at Hermione inside. Hogwarts was their shared dream, their lifeboat to freedom. But what if that same boat threw them on opposite shores?
Harry stopped tracing circles on her thighs. Instead, he took her hand with both of his own and gave it a gentle squeeze. "We will be together," he promised, determination in his voice. "It doesn't matter what that old, talking hat decides. he won't separate us, Mione. If you are placed in Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, or even Slytherin itself, I'll find a way to be by your side. I promise you."
She looked at him and nodded, believing his words. They hugged and then, exhausted by the roller coaster of emotions, settled back on the couch, intertwined, letting the outside world fade away.
The following days passed in a bubble of anticipation and stolen routines. While waiting for the arrival of the Hogwarts representatives, they perfected a secret ritual. Every morning, punctually, just after the Grangers' car disappeared down the street, Harry would sneak out of his house—a task now much easier since the Dursleys treated him like a ghost—and cross the few houses that separated them, a soft knock on the door being his password.
Those mornings became his true home. They spent hours in her room, studying, having lunch together in the kitchen, laughing about silly things they saw in the tv, and planning their life at Hogwarts. Sometimes, when tiredness overcame them after a morning of intense study, they would fall into Hermione's bed, snuggled up side by side, sometimes with her lying on his chest, sometimes Harry hugging her from behind.
And so, came the morning of July 31st, when Hermione's parents had left early, as usual. Harry arrived, stealthily knocked on the door, and she opened it. They were both lying on the bed, with Hermione curled up beside him, her head resting on his chest, her legs intertwined with his in a comfortable, familiar knot. It was barely half past seven, and they had the whole morning ahead of them and the house just for themselves.
Suddenly, Hermione jumped up, as if an invisible spring had propelled her. "Oh, right! I almost forgot!" she gasped suddenly. "Close your eyes, Harry," she asked, sliding out of bed.
Harry was taken aback, instantly missing the heat and the weight of her body against his. He sat up on the bed, cross-legged. "Why?" he asked, confused by the sudden change.
"Just do it," Hermione commanded, with that adorable frown that appeared when she was determined to do something. He couldn't help but smile and, trusting blindly, obeyed. With his eyes closed, he heard his friend moving around the room, opening a drawer. "And... stretch out your hands."
Harry extended his palms forward, cracking a smile. A moment later, he felt the lightweight of a small package in his palms.
"Now... open your eyes!"
He blinked, adjusting to the light. And there it was. A gift. For him. "Happy birthday!" congratulated Hermione, with a smile so radiant that it seemed to light up the room.
Harry froze, his breath cut off. In the whirlwind of emotions of the last few weeks, he had completely forgotten the date. He had forgotten his own birthday. The Dursleys, of course, never celebrated it; it was just another day, often worse than the others, marked by Vernon's resentment at having to "keep" him for another year.
"Come on, open it!" encouraged Hermione, sitting facing him on the bed, swaying slightly with excitement. The package was wrapped in blue wrapping paper with a small gold star in the centre.
Harry tore the paper carefully; inside was a little black velvet box. When he opened it, he caught a silver glint. It was a ring. An elegant and simple silver ring, with a smooth, dark stone of a deep black. With a lump in his throat, he turned it and, engraved in the silver inside, read his name: 'Harry'.
"Hermione," he murmured, looking up to meet her eyes. The emotion closed his throat. "No... you shouldn't have done this for me."
Her friend gave him an even wider, slightly shy smile. "I wanted to," she said, fiddling nervously with the hem of her T-shirt. "I bought it with my allowance savings. I saw it in an antique shop when I went with my family to London at the weekend, and... I knew it had to be for you."
During his eleven years of life, Harry had never received a birthday present. Not a cake with a candle, not a card, and much less something as personal as a gift. He looked at the ring, then at Hermione, and wrapped her in a hug so tight and sudden that a little "phew!" escaped her, but her arms immediately wrapped around him.
"Thank you," Harry murmured, burying his face in the crook of her shoulder, feeling a warm, stinging pressure behind his eyes that threatened to turn to tears. He held them back out of pure pride, but the emotion shook him inside. "Thank you very, very much, Hermione."
They parted just enough so that their eyes could meet. "It's the least I could do," she said, and in her hazel eyes there was no trace of pity, only a deep, serene certainty. "You... you've given me so much, Harry. You gave me the first true friendship, a purpose to keep living when I only felt pressure, and a new light in my life that illuminates everything. Without you, and without the magic you showed me... I don't know what would have become of me." Her smile was tender, encouraging him. "Come on, put it on."
Harry broke away completely and took the ring from the little box. He held it between his thumb and forefinger, watching the light play with the silver and black stone. The simplicity and elegance of the object overwhelmed him.
"Is there something wrong, Harry?" asked Hermione, her voice soft.
"It's just that..." he began, swallowing hard. "Never... I had never been given anything." The confession sounded small and vulnerable in the stillness of the room, burdened with the weight of eleven years of absences.
Hermione did not feel sorry for him. Instead, she smiled at him with a sweetness that warmed his chest. "Well, I had to be the first. And, in addition..." Her eyes shone with that spark of intelligence and emotion that Harry was so fascinated by. "With the books you lent me about wizarding families, I read about the Ancient and Most Noble House of Potter. You come from an important house, Harry. With a long history and a legacy. Each Lord's ring is usually an object of power, a symbol. If one day, when you're older, you decide to take up the mantle of Lord Potter and claim your place... You'll have to have a ring worthy of it, don't you think?"
Harry watched her, moved to the core. She had thought not only of him but of the man he could become. "I don't know if I want to be lord of anything," he joked, his voice a little cracked, trying to tame the whirlwind of feelings.
"It doesn't matter," Hermione replied firmly, reaching over to close her smaller hand around his, which held the ring. Her touch was warm. "You will be, whether you like it or not, because you already have it in your blood. In your name. And when that day comes, I want you to have something that I gave you so that you will remember that... that you are not alone."
Harry swallowed; his throat closed in a swell that burnt him inside. He nodded, unable to trust his voice. With a slightly trembling hand, he slipped the ring onto his left ring finger. It fit perfectly, as if it had always been destined to be there.
The rest of the morning was spent in a bubble of deliberate tranquillity, talking about everything and nothing. They commented on Muggle books that Hermione wanted to take to Hogwarts, they speculated laughingly about what the ghosts of Hogwarts would be like, what kind of creatures they would see in Diagon Alley, etc.
But as every daytime moved on and their time together was over, the midday sun began to rise, and a shadow of melancholy crossed Hermione's gaze. "My parents... They'll be back soon," she muttered, needing to explain what that meant.
Harry nodded, understanding. The farewell was slow; they got out of bed, and Hermione walked him to the door. There, on the threshold, they gave each other one last hug, longer than the previous ones. Harry buried his nose in her hair, inhaling the scent of apple shampoo, memorising the sensation of her body against his. "Tomorrow," he whispered in her ear, a word that was both promise and incantation.
"Tomorrow," she repeated, her voice a whisper against his chest.
As they parted, their hands intertwined for a final instant until distance forced them to let go. Harry took a step back, crossed the small garden, and from the pavement turned his head one last time. Hermione was at the door, smiled at him once more, and raised her hand in a farewell gesture. He answered with his and then turned on his heels, heading back to number four.
The rest of his day at the Dursleys' house was as quiet as ever. In the evening, Harry came out of his room and dined alone on roast beef with roasted potatoes and vegetables that Petunia had left in the microwave for him. The house was alone; everyone slept in their rooms. Only the ticking of the clock and his breathing when chewing were what could be heard in the house.
The next day, Harry woke up to the first rays of sunlight filtering through the window, showered and dressed in the only pair of jeans that were not short and a cotton T-shirt that, although worn, was clean. He looked for a moment in the mirror he had saved from Dudley's trash, combed his hair as best he could, and put on his glasses.
Once ready, Harry went downstairs. Everyone in the house was already awake on Sunday morning. Petunia was in the kitchen cleaning the dishes after breakfast; seeing him pass, her gaze quickly averted, as if it burnt her. Vernon, sitting in the living room with the newspaper, did not even pretend to read it. He watched him from his armchair with his one eye full of hatred, but he said nothing. There was no comment on his appearance, on his disappearance the day before, or on anything. It was as if he had ceased to exist for them. Harry ignored the palpable hostility. He took a glass of water and his breakfast and sat down at the backyard table, looking at the perfectly trimmed lawn, feeling the sun on his face, and waiting in silence.
The hours felt like an eternity. After breakfast, Harry went upstairs to read a little and clear his mind. At ten o'clock, the oppressive silence of Privet Drive was broken by the crisp sound of the front doorbell. From below, Harry heard his Aunt Petunia drop a plate that broke. In the living room, Vernon's newspaper creaked as it was squeezed tightly.
Harry didn't give them time to react. He jumped up from the bed and down the stairs at a brisk pace, crossed the corridor with long, quick steps, feeling his uncle's gaze stuck on his back like ice daggers. Before anyone could articulate an order, a protest, or an insult, he turned the handle and opened the door wide.
The morning sunlight blinded him for an instant. And then, he saw her, standing in the doorway, the most extraordinary woman Harry had ever seen. It was a beauty that was not of this world, or at least, not of his. A woman with dark skin, a caramel colour. She wore a long, fitted white dress, which hugged every curve of her slender and lithe body. Her shoulders were bare, soft and defined, and on them, descending in strange patterns over her collarbones and the neckline of her dress, shone very fine golden lines. They did not look like paint or tattoos; they seemed to be under the skin, like veins of liquid gold.
Her jet-black hair was pulled back into an elaborate high bun, composed of perfectly manicured dreadlocks; on each dreadlock, there were small gold rings that captured the light with every slightest movement. The strange woman was really beautiful; her features were elegant, with high cheekbones, a straight and delicate nose, and thin lips, but well-shaped, painted an almost black purple. But what completely captured Harry was her eyes. Large, almond-shaped, and the colour of molten gold, they looked at him carefully. Her eyebrows, thin and perfectly outlined, arched slightly.
Harry was also impressed by the amount of gold jewellery she wore: rings on almost every finger, long, elaborate earrings that brushed her shoulders, and a pair of overlapping necklaces resting on her chest, some with symbols that Harry was vaguely familiar with from his readings. The woman even smelt great, a warm, spicy fragrance of lavender and myrrh.
The woman smiled softly, and her golden eyes swept up and down Harry, pausing for a moment on the scar on his forehead and then on the silver ring on his left hand. When she spoke, her voice was honey-like, low, and melodious, with an elegant accent.
"Harry Potter," she began, not as a question, but as an affirmation. "It is a pleasure to meet you at last. I am Aurora Sinistra. Hogwarts Professor."