The familiar, ugly handwriting made Harry laugh out loud. Yet as his fingers traced the crooked letters, the boy—lonely for more than half a month, aching for Hogwarts and his friends—felt a warmth spread through his chest.
He gently broke the wax seal, treating the envelope like something fragile, and tipped out a thick stack of parchment. Carefully, he unfolded it and began to read.
Ron's complaints filled the very first page:
I was thrilled to get your letter, Harry—you rescued me from hell. Writing back to you finally gave me an excuse to escape Ginny, Mum, Vaughn, and Hermione. Merlin's beard, you wouldn't believe it—there actually came a day when I thought going out was torture!
"Hermione?"
Harry paused, then remembered—before term ended, Ron had mentioned that Vaughn had invited the Granger family to stay at the Burrow for the summer.
"They're already there?"
He continued reading, feeling a pang of envy. Though Ron grumbled, it was obvious he was enjoying himself.
…We hosted Hermione and her parents at the Burrow. Mr. Granger is very gentle—nothing like my dad—but the moment football comes up, he goes completely mad. You wouldn't believe the look he gave me when I asked whether twenty people chasing a ball around a lawn wasn't boring…
Mrs. Granger is just like Mum—obsessed with strange topics that make you question whether you're the normal one, and absolutely loves shopping. Fred says all middle-aged women are like that. Terrifying thought—do you think Hermione and Ginny will end up the same way someday?
That last line was circled heavily in red ink. Next to it, someone had written:
Ronald, you are dead.
Harry—keep this letter safe. Bring it to Ginny and me when term starts. Don't even think about sacrificing yourself to save Ron.
Harry burst out laughing. He recognised Hermione's handwriting immediately—sharp, forceful, practically stabbing through the parchment. He could vividly imagine her gritting her teeth as she wrote it.
Ginny was probably standing beside her, equally furious.
In Harry's imagination, sunlight streamed through the window behind them. Outside, reeds rippled like waves in the wind, and Fred and George streaked past on their brooms.
Smiling, Harry obediently folded the page and set it aside.
Evidence to be delivered at the end of summer.
Ron's problem. Not mine, Harry Potter decided cheerfully.
Seeing Hermione's handwriting again, Harry eagerly rummaged through the stack—and was delighted to find that more than half the letters were hers.
Unlike Ron's rambling scrawl, Hermione's letters were detailed and meticulous, describing her days at the Burrow from the very beginning—complete with photographs.
…Mrs. Weasley treated us to her adapted version of "Vaughn's hot pot." It was extraordinary—like molten jade, thickly coating every ingredient, sweet and tangy with a hint of spice. Vaughn said he learned it from a Muggle magazine, though he doesn't seem to like it himself, which I find puzzling…
On the second day, Mrs. Weasley invited us to take part in a traditional wizarding family activity—de-gnoming the garden!
Apparently she hadn't cleaned the garden for an entire month just so we could experience it. Mum and Dad were very touched.
At dawn, in the drifting mist, we mounted brooms and even flying carpets (technically illegal, though Mr. Weasley clearly ignores that). Old Errol flapped about, driving the gnomes—like walking potatoes—out of the bushes. We simply grabbed them, spun them around, and hurled them into the fields…
A photograph was attached below.
Hermione sat on a flying carpet beside a red-haired girl, both of them laughing as they swung something overhead before throwing it into the distance. Beneath blue skies and white clouds, their smiles were radiant.
Harry found himself smiling too.
…We went to Knockturn Alley. Mum and Dad were frightened, but Vaughn said there was nothing to worry about. He's extremely well-respected there—apparently because he's a Potions Master.
The accompanying photo showed Mr. and Mrs. Granger cloaked and hooded, nervously glancing around a dark alley. Vaughn stood beside them, speaking calmly to a witch with a face full of boils, occasionally turning to reassure the Grangers.
July 6th—Vaughn took us to meet someone extraordinary. You'll never guess… Newt Scamander! Harry, apart from the Headmaster, he's the most famous wizard I've ever met. Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them is basically the magical equivalent of the Encyclopaedia Britannica…
Hermione then spent three entire pages detailing Scamander's achievements.
Harry skimmed—those parts always made his eyes glaze over—and flipped to the photograph.
A vast grassland stretched behind them. Hermione clung to Vaughn's arm, beaming. On Vaughn's other side stood a thin, shy old man, one arm draped around a unicorn.
Harry couldn't be sure, but Vaughn's expression looked… odd—his eyes fixed on the unicorn's twitching mouth.
Nearby, the Grangers smiled foolishly, surrounded by fluffy, puffball-like creatures, while elegant birds flickered in and out of sight.
As Harry kept reading, scene after scene unfolded—places he'd heard about all year but never visited.
Hogsmeade.
Godric's Hollow.
Dumbledore had once told him the Potters' ancestral home was there, but Hermione hadn't mentioned it—perhaps out of kindness.
The final photo showed a long corridor lined with fireplaces, leading to a vast fountain plaza and towering magical statues—deep underground.
Hermione confirmed it:
July 13th—we visited the Ministry of Magic beneath Whitehall. Muggles aren't normally allowed, but Vaughn brought us anyway. I was nervous, but no one seemed to care. The atmosphere is shockingly relaxed—apparently employees are supposed to travel by Floo, though hardly anyone does…
This will be our last stop. Vaughn has some business here.
These past ten days have let me see the wizarding world as it truly exists—not just in textbooks, but lived. It's been incredibly meaningful.
I'm sorry you couldn't come, Harry… If Hedwig hasn't been lazy, you should receive this as I'm preparing to head home. Ron mentioned visiting you—I might come too. As for when… take a guess?
Harry grinned foolishly.
He reread everything, photos and letters alike, before collapsing onto his bed, arms wrapped around the stack.
This is wonderful.
He was jealous—but grateful. Through words and pictures, Hermione had taken him on a journey across magical Britain.
Lying there quietly, Harry suddenly found himself eagerly anticipating their arrival.
He suspected it would be the same day.
July 31st.
His birthday.
But in truth, Hermione hadn't left yet.
She'd planned to return home on July 15—until she saw the headline explaining why Vaughn had gone to the Ministry.
BREAKING: Order of Merlin, Second Class recipient and Wizengamot member Vaughn Weasley to reconvene the Wizengamot on July 15 to reassess Gilderoy Lockhart's Third Class Order of Merlin.
Gilderoy Lockhart.
Hermione knew the name well. Vaughn had mentioned it before—and she'd never seen him despise someone so deeply.
International bestselling author.
Order of Merlin, Third Class.
Honorary member of the Anti–Dark Arts League.
And Vaughn intended to strip him of his honour.
Hermione was worried.
The Wizengamot
On July 15, Vaughn returned to the Ministry wearing deep purple robes—solemn and authoritative.
Amelia Bones herself received him.
Hermione almost mistook her for Professor McGonagall.
Stricter, if anything.
The trial was held in the Courtroom, not the assembly hall.
Black marble dominated everything.
At the centre sat Gilderoy Lockhart, pale, sweating, his famous smile utterly gone.
When Vaughn's cold gaze fell upon him, Lockhart nearly collapsed.
He knew exactly how dangerous a twelve-year-old who dared oppose Cornelius Fudge truly was.
Witness after witness followed.
Memories stolen.
Lives ruined.
Stories stolen and sold.
Finally, Vaughn declared:
"Gilderoy Lockhart is unworthy of the Order of Merlin. His actions disgrace the honour itself."
The vote was unanimous.
The scroll descended.
Lockhart's name vanished.
His medal shattered into light.
But Vaughn wasn't finished.
As he moved to press criminal charges—
"Wait."
Cornelius Fudge stood.
The room went silent.
"Who restored the victims' memories?" Fudge asked smoothly.
"Obliviate is permanent… Who cured them?"
Vaughn met his gaze.
"I did."
Whispers rippled through the chamber.
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