Chapter 27: Monotony
Defense Against the Dark Arts had devolved, yet again, into an exercise in supreme tediousness that made Daphne question whether the universe itself had conspired to punish Hogwarts students for some collective transgression. Obviously that wasn't the case and she knows the true reason, but it almost felt better to speculate worse.
Dolores Umbridge stood at the front of the classroom in her garish pink cardigan, the colour so bloody obnoxious, her toad-like features arranged in what she presumably believed was a pleasant expression as she droned on about Ministry-approved defensive theory. The textbook open before Daphne, this stupid prattling book by Slinkhard, was filled with page after page of useless drivel that wouldn't save anyone in an actual confrontation, all carefully worded bureaucratic nonsense that prioritized everything over practical application.
Daphne had stopped taking notes approximately ten minutes into the lesson, her quill lying abandoned beside her parchment where she had managed to jot down perhaps three sentences of actual substance before realizing the futility of the exercise. The class was dreadfully boring and a complete waste of time compared to the DA meetings where they actually practiced real defensive magic.
And Harry, she thought with a hint of warmth bleeding through her irritation, was far more pleasant to talk with and look at than Umbridge by every conceivable metric. His teaching style was direct and practical, born from experience rather than textbooks, and he had a patience for explaining concepts that Umbridge utterly lacked.
Plus, watching him demonstrate spells had the added benefit of being aesthetically pleasing in ways that had nothing to do with educational value and everything to do with the way his robes moved when he cast or the focused intensity in his green eyes when he corrected someone's wand movement.
She caught herself before that line of thought could continue down paths entirely inappropriate for a classroom setting and forced her attention back to her surroundings, though Umbridge's lecture remained background noise at best.
Because the class wouldn't be productive, yet again, Daphne allowed her mind to drift to more pressing concerns, specifically what her father had mentioned in his encrypted letter sent to her just a few days prior. His contacts in the greyer markets of wizarding society, the kind of people the Greengrass family maintained connections with through necessity rather than moral preference, had noted unusual movement through the pathways typically used by smugglers and those wishing to avoid Ministry detection.
There had been sightings of foreign wizards, their accents and look marking them as continental, moving through these channels with the kind of numbers that suggested an organizational cause rather than random travel. It was a sudden number spike, and nothing else seemed to be the cause, especially with the second part.
More concerning though were the reports of likely werewolves, identified by their scarred and haggard appearance, the telltale marks of repeated transformations etched into their features in ways that no amount of glamour charms could fully conceal. The presence of such individuals, especially in the numbers that were reported, pointed to something coordinated and dangerous. Her father had noted that the information had been passed along to the Order of the Phoenix through whatever channels the Greengrass family maintained for such communication.
She had torched the letter as instructed, and the contents had left her considerably more guarded in the Slytherin common room. Every conversation felt potentially monitored, every casual comment from housemates analyzed for a hidden meaning.
O'Clerigh was still being insufferable, Malfoy seemed less tense about things lately, which was either a positive development or a concerning one depending on what had prompted the change in demeanor. Perhaps he had simply found ways to compartmentalize the pressures being placed on his family.
But it was Nott who truly worried her, that concern sharpened by what Harry had revealed about the boy potentially being an agent for the Dark Lord. Every time she spotted Theodore in the common room or passed him in the corridors, her awareness of him ratcheted up several notches, cataloging his movements and companions with the kind of paranoid attention that would have exhausted her if she maintained it indefinitely. Was he watching her? Did he suspect her relationship with Harry? The questions circled endlessly, and she is struggling to get it to stop.
The class finally ended with Umbridge's disgustingly sweet sounding dismissal, instructing them to read the next chapter for homework as if any of them would gain useful knowledge from Slinkhard's drivel. Daphne gathered her things with perhaps more haste than was strictly dignified, shoving her mostly blank parchment and useless textbook into her bag and rising from her seat with the kind of relief usually reserved for escaping genuinely dangerous situations. The corridor outside was already filling with students eager to escape the oppressive atmosphere of Umbridge's classroom, voices rising in complaint as the general consensus seemed to be that this was yet again a waste of time.
Tracey caught up to her as Daphne made her way toward the Great Hall, her best friend appearing at her elbow with the kind of timing that suggested she had been watching for Daphne's exit. "That was torture," Tracey muttered, falling into step beside her as they navigated through the crowd. "I think I actually felt brain cells dying from boredom."
"At least you're aware of the damage," Daphne replied dryly, adjusting her bag on her shoulder. "Half the class probably didn't notice because there wasn't much to damage to begin with."
They had to grab lunch, the midday meal calling with the promise of food and a break from classes, and Daphne found herself curious about a topic that had been occupying an increasing amount of Tracey's attention lately. "So," she began as they descended a staircase, her tone carefully casual, "how have things been going with Blaise?"
The reaction was immediate and gratifying. Tracey's face flushed a deep pink that spread from her cheeks down her neck, visible even in the dim lighting of the corridor. "It's going well," she said, her voice taking on a quality that Daphne had seldom heard from her friend before, something soft and almost shy. "Really well, actually. He's so sweet, Daphne. Like, genuinely sweet, not just putting on an act to get what he wants."
As they entered the Great Hall and made their way to the Slytherin table, Tracey continued talking, words spilling out with the kind of enthusiasm that came from having kept them bottled up. She spoke about their most recent outing to Hogsmeade, how Blaise had actually listened when she talked about her interests rather than just waiting for his turn to speak, how he had remembered small details from previous conversations and brought them up later, demonstrating that he was paying attention. Her eyes were bright as she recounted how he had bought her favorite type of chocolate from Honeydukes without being asked, having apparently noted her preference during a casual comment weeks prior.
Daphne settled onto the bench, reaching for a plate and beginning to fill it with shepherd's pie and vegetables while Tracey continued her animated description. At one point, her friend glanced across the table and far to the right where Blaise sat with some of the Fourth Years, their eyes meeting for just a moment before Tracey quickly averted her gaze, the blush returning with renewed intensity.
Daphne internally prayed, with genuine fervor, that she didn't look like that when she was around Harry or thinking about him. The thought of displaying such obvious, unguarded affection where anyone could see it made something in her chest clench with secondhand embarrassment. Her dignity wouldn't survive such blatant. She had worked too hard cultivating an image of cool detachment to let it shatter because she couldn't control her facial expressions around a boy, even if that boy was admittedly far more important to her than she had ever anticipated.
Speaking of Harry, she realized with a frown that she didn't see him at the Gryffindor table. Her eyes scanned the table, searching for that distinctive mess of black hair, but he was absent from his usual spot beside Weasley and Granger. A small knot of worry formed in her stomach, tightening as the seconds passed without spotting him.
Where could he be? He didn't typically miss lunch, having mentioned more than once that he valued eating something substantial before training sessions to maintain his energy levels. Had he eaten in the kitchens early, brought something with him, and skipped the Great Hall entirely to get more training time? That seemed unlikely given how he usually preferred the routine of regular meals, the structure helping him pace his rather punishing schedule.
Was he targeted? Had something happened? The thought sent a spike of genuine fear through her chest before logic reasserted itself. No, that didn't make sense. Nott was present at the Slytherin table several seats down, and all the other upper years who might pose a threat were accounted for in her peripheral vision. If something had happened to Harry, there would be signs, commotion, professors rushing about, something.
Dear Merlin, she was worse than Tracey. The realization hit with the force of a bludger to the chest. She was the clingy and paranoid girlfriend, not the shy and meek one who blushed at eye contact. Of all the horrid relationship behaviors she could have developed, it was anxious attachment and overactive worry about her boyfriend's whereabouts.
The irony would have been amusing if it weren't so mortifying.
She prided herself on independence and self-sufficiency, on being the one who needed no one, and here she was mentally spiraling because Harry was late to lunch.
She would take this embarrassing tendency to her grave if necessary, let it die with her rather than admit to anyone, even Tracey, that she had become the kind of person who panicked when their boyfriend was fifteen minutes late to a meal.
As if the universe had conspired specifically to humiliate her further, demonstrating either a cruel sense of humor or perfect comedic timing, Harry made his entrance approximately half an hour into the lunch period. He came through the doors of the Great Hall looking rather annoyed, his jaw tight and his shoulders carrying tension that suggested frustration rather than injury, but otherwise appearing completely unharmed. His robes were slightly disheveled, hair more chaotic than usual if such a thing was possible, and he made his way to the Gryffindor table with the kind of purposeful stride that suggested he wanted to sit down and forget whatever had delayed him.
Daphne made a concerted effort to not look at him directly, keeping her gaze fixed firmly on her plate as she cut her shepherd's pie into smaller pieces with more precision than the task required. She could feel the heat creeping up her neck, her face undoubtedly burning from internal embarrassment at her earlier spiral of worry. If she looked at him now, if their eyes met across the Hall, she was certain her expression would betray every ridiculous thought that had run through her mind in the last thirty minutes.
Better to focus on her food, on the conversation Tracey was still maintaining about some incident in class that morning, on literally anything except the overwhelming relief flooding through her system at seeing Harry safe and whole and merely irritated rather than hurt.
"Daphne?" Tracey's voice cut through her thoughts, tinged with concern. "Are you alright? You've been massacring that pie for like two minutes now."
Daphne looked down to discover that she had, in fact, reduced her lunch to an unappetizing pile of components that bore little resemblance to its original form. "Fine," she said shortly, setting down her utensils and reaching for her pumpkin juice instead. "Just thinking."
"About what?" Tracey asked, her tone suggesting she had suspicions but was willing to let Daphne maintain plausible deniability.
"Homework," Daphne lied smoothly, the falsehood rolling off her tongue with practiced ease. "Snape's essay on the properties of moonstone in potion-making is going to be brutal."
Tracey made a face at that, the mention of their Potions assignment successfully diverting her attention. "Don't remind me. I haven't even started the research yet and it's due Friday."
They continued eating, the conversation drifting to safer topics like the upcoming Quidditch match and speculation about whether McGonagall would actually follow through on her threat to assign weekend detentions to anyone caught hexing Slytherins in the corridors after the last incident. Daphne participated with half her attention, making appropriate responses and maintaining the appearance of engagement while her mind remained frustratingly fixated on Harry's presence across the Hall.
"You're doing it again," Tracey observed quietly, leaning closer so her words wouldn't carry to their housemates. "The thing where you're pretending to be present but you're actually completely distracted."
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Daphne replied, taking a deliberate bite of her pie to emphasize her supposed focus on the meal.
"Right," Tracey said, drawing the word out with obvious skepticism. "And I'm the Queen of Sheba. Come on, Daph. What's going on?"
Daphne considered several responses, weighing the merits of continued denial against the relief of sharing at least some of her concerns with her best friend. Tracey already knew about Harry, had kept that secret faithfully despite ample opportunity to use it for social advantage. Perhaps it wouldn't hurt to admit to some of the stress.
"Just worried," she said finally, keeping her voice low enough that it wouldn't travel beyond their immediate area. "About everything. The information I've heard lately, the general sense that things are building toward something and we're all just waiting for it to break."
It wasn't the whole truth, wasn't an admission of her earlier paranoid spiral about Harry's absence, but it was close enough to honesty that it didn't feel like a complete deflection.
Tracey's expression softened, understanding replacing the earlier teasing. "I get it," she said quietly. "Things feel off lately, don't they?"
"Exactly," Daphne agreed, grateful for her friend's perception. "And I hate not knowing what's coming, hate feeling like I'm always waiting for the other shoe to drop."
They finished their lunch in silence after that, the earlier kind of high dampened but not entirely extinguished. As students began filtering out of the Great Hall to their afternoon classes, Daphne finally allowed herself a brief glance toward the Gryffindor table. Harry was still there, talking with Granger about something with animated hand gestures, the earlier tension seeming to have eased slightly. Their eyes didn't meet, but Daphne felt marginally better having confirmed his wellbeing directly rather than relying on peripheral awareness.
She gathered her things and followed Tracey out into the corridor, joining the flow of students heading to their next classes. Ancient Runes awaited, which would at least be more intellectually stimulating than Umbridge's travesty of a Defense lesson. And after that, she had a few free hours before dinner, time she could potentially use to catch up with Harry if he was available, to confirm that whatever had delayed him was nothing serious and to reassure herself that her earlier worry had been unfounded.
The paranoid girlfriend tendency would have to be managed, she decided as they climbed a staircase toward the upper floors.
As long as she kept it to herself and maintained her composure publicly, her dignity could survive. Probably. She hoped.
Merlin help her, but she had it bad.
xRSxxRSxxRSx
Harry stood in the center of the Room of Requirement, pacing slowly as he caught his breath, sweat covering him in a sheen that made his shirt cling uncomfortably to his skin. His chest heaved with exertion, lungs burning pleasantly from the sustained effort of the last two hours, and every muscle in his body sang with the particular ache that came from pushing himself to his limits and then a bit beyond. That... that had been a very enjoyable workout, exactly what he had needed to clear his head.
The stone targets he had conjured and animated lay in ruins around him, scattered debris marking the destructive reach of his practice session. Scorch marks darkened the walls in several places where overpowered curses had missed their marks, and the floor was covered in gouges from particularly aggressive spell work. The Room would reset itself eventually, erasing all evidence of his training, but for now it represented the intensity he had brought to the session.
Harry came to a stop near the center of the space, rolling his shoulders to work out some of the tension as his breathing gradually slowed to something approaching normal. His wand remained in his hand, the wood warm from constant use, and he could feel the familiar hum of energy still coursing through his veins, his fingers pleasantly warm from the sustained casting. This was what he needed, this physical outlet for the frustration and fear that threatened to overwhelm him when he thought too hard about everything at stake.
As his heart rate settled and the initial rush of exertion faded, his mind turned to darker considerations, thoughts he had been avoiding but could no longer ignore. Harry decided then, locking the resolution into place with the kind of grim finality that allowed no room for second-guessing, that if he was unable to kill Voldemort by the end of the school year, he was testing out and leaving Hogwarts to fight the bastard properly. The NEWTs could wait, career prospects could wait, everything could wait because none of it mattered if Voldemort won. He had already lived through one version of this war, had seen the cost of half-measures and reactive strategies, and he refused to make the same mistakes twice.
The Ministry did have some provision for students to test out early, especially for someone with his credentials and fame, however much he despised trading on the Boy-Who-Lived nonsense. If they didn't, he would find a way around it, because staying at Hogwarts while the war intensified outside its walls was a luxury he couldn't afford. Dumbledore might object, would certainly try to convince him otherwise with appeals to education, but Harry had forfeited normal the moment Death had sent him back. He was done pretending otherwise.
As it was, he was still trying to figure out how to go about setting a trap for Voldemort, preferably at the Ministry and without his friends involved like last time. The thought of orchestrating something similar to the Department of Mysteries debacle made his stomach clench, but the strategic value was undeniable. Voldemort wanted the prophecy, and that desire could be weaponized if Harry was clever enough. The trick was manufacturing the circumstances that would draw the Dark Lord out personally while keeping Ron, Hermione, Neville, Luna, and Ginny far away from the resulting violence.
It had been a miracle that none of them were killed the first time around; Hermione crumbling to the ground from Dolohov's curse, her face contorted in silent agony as the purple flame-like magic striking her and she went limp in a way that had stopped Harry's heart for the terrible seconds before he had confirmed she was still breathing.
The memory of that image still set him on edge even now, years and a timeline removed from the actual event. He couldn't stomach the thought of that again.
Which meant keeping them out of it entirely, regardless of how they might protest or insist on helping. They were brave, all of them, courageous to the point of recklessness sometimes, but bravery didn't stop curses and it didn't bring back the dead. Harry had learned that lesson the hardest way possible.
Yet, unless he told Dumbledore that he was from the future, revealed the truth of his circumstances and the knowledge that came with it, he had no idea how he could convince the old man to orchestrate a trap specifically designed to kill several Death Eaters and potentially Voldemort himself. Dumbledore was cautious by nature, especially after Grindelwald, reluctant to take aggressive action when defensive measures might suffice. The headmaster preferred to react rather than initiate, to defend rather than attack. Which, admittedly, was a strategy that had its merits but also its immense limitations when facing an enemy as ruthless as Voldemort.
And Harry knew exactly what to say to get Dumbledore to believe him if he chose to reveal the truth. The old man's guilt over certain events, his knowledge of things only he and select others would know, and other such details; all of it could be leveraged to prove his claims. He could describe the Elder Wand's allegiance.
But the revelation would come with its own complications, and would fundamentally alter the dynamic between them in ways Harry couldn't fully predict. Dumbledore would have questions, so many questions, about how it had happened and what else Harry knew and whether the timeline could be trusted to follow any predictable pattern now that it had been altered. The old man might try to take control of the situation more completely.
No, Harry decided, shifting his weight and grimacing at the protest from his overtaxed muscles. He would keep the truth to himself for now, use it only if absolutely necessary. Better to work with what Dumbledore already knew, to guide the old man toward the right conclusions through careful manipulation of information and circumstances rather than wholesale revelation.
A plan had already been devised to some extent in his head, rough outlines that needed refinement but showed promise. He could work on the details later, when he wasn't physically exhausted and mentally drained from hours of intensive training. For now, he needed to clean up, get something to eat, and try to maintain the appearance of being a normal student for at least a few hours before the next crisis inevitably emerged.
Harry raised his wand and cast a thorough cleaning charm on himself, feeling the magic ripple across his skin as it removed most of the sweat and dust that had accumulated during his workout. The spell left him feeling marginally more presentable, though nothing short of a proper shower would fully address the state he was in. His hair remained its usual chaotic mess, and his shirt was still wrinkled from exertion, but at least he no longer looked like he had just emerged from a coal mine.
He walked to the edge of the Room, his footsteps echoing slightly off the walls, and pulled out the Marauder's Map from his pocket. The familiar parchment unfolded at his touch, responding to his whispered activation phrase with the immediate bloom of ink spreading across its surface. "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."
The castle's layout appeared with all its usual detail, corridors and classrooms and hidden passages rendering out, and scattered throughout were the labeled dots representing every person currently within Hogwarts' boundaries. Harry's eyes scanned the parchment, cataloging positions and movements with the awareness that had become second nature over years of using the map.
He spotted Dumbledore in his office, the headmaster's dot stationary which suggested he was seated at his desk. McGonagall was in her classroom, likely grading papers or preparing for her next lesson. Snape lurked in the dungeons as usual, his dot moving between what was probably his office and a cabinet.
Harry's gaze drifted to the Gryffindor common room, finding Ron and Hermione's dots positioned near each other in what was probably their usual spots by the fireplace. Neville was, hmmm, in one of the greenhouses with Professor Sprout; probably discussing herbology no doubt. Luna's dot wandered near the Ravenclaw tower, her path meandering in the way that suggested she was in no particular hurry to reach any specific destination.
Then he found Daphne and Tracey, their dots positioned in an unused classroom on the third floor, nobody else near them within a significant radius. Harry studied the location for a moment, noting the isolation and the fact that they appeared to be stationary rather than passing through. He assumed it was probably Daphne talking about something on a need-to-know basis, perhaps discussing some Slytherin house politics that required privacy. Tracey was one of the few people Daphne trusted completely, so it made sense she would be included in such conversations.
Harry felt a small smile tug at his lips despite his exhaustion. He was glad Daphne had someone like Tracey, someone who could be trusted with secrets and who would stand by her regardless of house politics or outside pressures. It made the whole situation slightly less isolating, knowing that she wasn't carrying everything alone barring him of course.
He shrugged and closed the map with a quiet "Mischief managed," watching the ink fade back into blank parchment before tucking it securely back into his pocket. Whatever they were discussing, it wasn't his business unless Daphne chose to share it later. She was more than capable of handling herself, and he trusted her judgment about what information needed to be kept private versus what could be shared.
Harry turned toward the door, the Room of Requirement already beginning to shift subtly as it prepared to reset itself to a neutral state once he departed. The conjured targets dissolved into wisps of magic that dissipated into the air, scorch marks fading from the walls, gouges in the floor smoothing out as if they had never existed. It was one of the many convenient aspects of the Room, this automatic cleanup that erased all evidence of its use.
He pulled the door open and stepped out into the seventh-floor corridor, the transition from the Room's controlled environment to the castle proper marked by the immediate drop in temperature and the shift from magical silence to the ambient sounds of Hogwarts. Voices, mostly the portraits, echoed faintly from nearby as they murmured in their frames, and somewhere in the distance he could hear the unmistakable sound of Peeves cackling about some mischief or another.
The corridor was relatively empty at this hour, most students either in class or in their common rooms, which suited Harry perfectly. He wasn't in the mood for casual conversation or the inevitable questions about where he had been and what he had been doing. Better to slip back to Gryffindor Tower unnoticed, maybe grab his things for a proper shower, and then figure out what to do with the rest of his afternoon.
Harry made his way down the corridor with purpose, his footsteps steady despite the lingering fatigue in his legs. The training had been brutal but necessary, pushing his body to its limits in ways that would pay dividends when it actually mattered. Every hour spent practicing brought him closer to being ready for the inevitable confrontation with Voldemort.
As he navigated the familiar route toward Gryffindor Tower, passing through corridors he had walked countless times in both timelines, Harry's mind continued to turn over the problem of the trap, examining it from multiple angles like a particularly complex chess puzzle. He would need to manufacture a situation that felt organic rather than contrived, something that would draw Voldemort out without triggering the Dark Lord's paranoia. The prophecy was the obvious lure, but accessing it would require careful planning and cooperation from Dumbledore at minimum.
Perhaps he could work through Sirius. Or maybe he could stage something that would force Dumbledore's hand, create a crisis that demanded the kind of aggressive response Harry was envisioning. The details remained frustratingly vague, but the general shape of a plan was there, waiting to be refined into something actionable.
He reached the Fat Lady's portrait, which swung open before he could even give the password, the painted woman apparently recognizing him despite his disheveled state. "You look like you've been through a war, dear," she observed with concern that was probably genuine even if it came from a portrait.
"Just exercise," Harry replied, offering her a tired smile as he stepped through the portrait hole. "Nothing to worry about."
The Gryffindor common room was moderately populated, several younger students scattered about working on homework or playing games, but Ron and Hermione were absent from their usual spots despite what the map had shown moments ago. They had probably headed up to the dormitories or the library, Harry reasoned, which was fine by him. He loved his friends, but right now he craved solitude and a hot shower more than conversation.
Harry headed straight for the boys' dormitory staircase, taking the steps two at a time despite his exhaustion, his body running on determination and muscle memory more than actual energy reserves. The fifth-year dormitory was blessedly empty when he reached it, his roommates all occupied elsewhere, and he gathered his things for a shower.
The hot water would help ease the worst of the muscle soreness, and then he could collapse onto his bed for a proper rest before dinner. Tomorrow would be annoying just as today was, with the same tedious nonsense, the same goals, and the same pattern. But for now, for these next few hours, he could allow himself to simply be tired, to let the physical exhaustion override everything else and to exist in the simple comfort of hot water and clean clothes, with the knowledge that he had pushed himself to his limits and survived.
It wasn't much, but it was enough for today.
Chapter 28: Fool of an Old Man
Room of Requirement, 3rd of March, 1996:
Harry watched from his position near the edge of the practice space as Daphne raised her wand again, her face tight in concentration for the task at hand. The Room of Requirement had configured itself into the same training area they usually did, with the padded floors and soft lighting that wouldn't strain the eyes during extended practice. She had been at this for nearly an hour now, pushing herself harder with each attempt, and Harry could see the fatigue beginning to set in from the way her shoulders had started to droop slightly between casts.
"Expecto Patronum," Daphne intoned, her voice steady despite the exhaustion he knew she must be feeling at this point.
The silvery mist that erupted from her wand was immediately different from her previous attempts. It was thicker, more substantial, coalescing into a proper shield rather than the wispy fog she had managed before. The translucent barrier hovered in the air before her, solid enough that Harry could see it rippling with internal light, and then it started to shift. The shield began to condense, drawing inward as if preparing to take a specific shape, the magic responding to something deeper in Daphne's psyche.
Her eyes widened in excitement, her breath catching as she watched the patronus start to form into something more defined. The mist gathered and twisted, edges sharpening, and for a brief moment Harry thought she was going to achieve a full corporeal patronus right then and there. The shape was almost recognizable, something feline, which fit so perfectly with his earlier teasing that he had to suppress a grin.
He of course knew what it was already, but he wasn't going to share.
But then the magic wavered, the form losing cohesion as Daphne's concentration faltered from sheer excitement. The patronus fell apart like smoke caught in the wind, dissipating back into wisps that faded to nothing within seconds. Her elation immediately transformed into something approaching a pout, her shoulders sagging as disappointment replaced her initial triumph. Her breath came in pants now, the sustained magical effort finally catching up with her, and Harry saw her sway slightly on her feet.
He crossed the distance between them in a few quick strides, reaching her just as she stumbled, his hands coming up to steady her with gentle but firm support.
"Easy," he murmured, guiding her to remain upright as the fatigue made her legs unsteady. "I've got you."
"I almost had it," Daphne said, frustration bleeding through despite her exhaustion. "It was right there, I could feel it taking shape and then—"
"And then you got too excited and lost focus," Harry finished for her, his tone warm to try and assuage her annoyance. "Which is completely understandable. That was brilliant, Daphne. Really brilliant."
She looked up at him then, and he watched as the disappointment gradually transformed into something else entirely. A look of pride blazed across her features, a look of triumph that made her eyes shine despite the obvious exhaustion, and she practically preened from his praise. The pout disappeared, replaced by a smile that was equal parts tired and delighted.
Harry leaned down and planted a kiss to her temple, feeling her lean into the gesture with a soft sigh.
"Come on," he said gently, steering her toward one of the chairs the Room had thoughtfully provided. "Sit down before you fall down."
Daphne didn't protest, sinking into the chair with visible relief and letting her head fall back against the cushioned rest. Harry conjured a glass of water, pressing it into her hands with instructions to drink slowly. She obeyed, taking a few sips while her breathing gradually returned to normal, the flush in her cheeks fading slightly as the immediate effects of her exhaustion began to ease.
Once she had finished the water, Harry pulled a pepper-up potion from his pocket, one of several he kept on hand for exactly these situations.
"Here," he said, uncorking it and offering it to her. "This'll help."
Daphne eyed the potion with mild distaste but took it without complaint, downing the contents in one smooth motion before making a face at the taste. Almost immediately, faint wisps of steam began curling from her ears. Within moments she looked almost completely fine aside from her hair being slightly disarrayed and a faint bead of sweat still visible on her brow.
"Better?" Harry asked, settling into the chair beside hers.
"Much," Daphne confirmed, already sounding more like herself. "Though I still think those things taste awful."
Harry laughed at that. "Fair assessment. But they work, which is what matters." He reached over to take her hand, threading their fingers together. "I'm proud of you, you know. You're taking to this really well. At the rate you're progressing, you should be able to cast a full corporeal patronus in maybe a week or two more of practice."
"You think so?" The vulnerability in her voice was so achingly familiar that it made Harry's chest tighten slightly. For a moment, they were back home, not at school.
But they didn't have a home. Not yet.
"I know so," He assured her, deciding to repeat himself from what he had said before. "What you just did, getting it to start forming a shape? Most people take months to reach that point. You're doing it in weeks, Daphne."
She squeezed his hand, her expression softening into something warm and genuine. "Good teacher," she said simply.
"Good student," Harry countered with a grin.
They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, Harry more than happy to just sit with her. He watched as Daphne's breathing fully normalized, the last traces of fatigue fading from her features until she looked almost completely recovered.
Pepper-up potions were remarkable things when you needed them.
"I'm starving," Daphne announced eventually, breaking the silence. "Famished really."
Harry checked the time with a quick tempus charm, noting that it was well past when lunch would have been served in the Great Hall.
"Kitchen raid?" he suggested.
"Kitchen raid," Daphne agreed immediately, her eyes lighting up with enthusiasm. "Though we should probably bring it back here. More private."
"Impromptu picnic date in the Room?" Harry asked, already standing and offering her his hand to help her up.
"Perfect," Daphne said, accepting his assistance and rising smoothly from the chair. "Much better than eating in the Great Hall where I have to pretend I barely know you exist."
They made their way out of the Room of Requirement and through the corridors, Harry pulling his invisibility cloak from where he had stashed it and draping it over both of them once they were certain the coast was clear. The fabric shimmered as it settled, rendering them invisible to anyone who might cross their path, and they navigated toward the kitchens with the ease of long practice.
The house elves were delighted to see them, as always, practically falling over themselves to prepare whatever food the young master and mistress desired. Harry requested a variety of items, nothing too heavy but enough to satisfy their post-training hunger, and within minutes they had a wrapped cloth laden with sandwiches, fruit, some slices of porridge the elves made so well, and a bottle of pumpkin juice.
"Thank you," Harry told the elves sincerely, knowing how much they appreciated being praised for their work. "This is perfect."
They departed the kitchens with their spoils, Daphne pressed close against Harry's side under the cloak as they made their way back through the castle. The late hour meant the corridors were mostly empty, only the occasional prefect or ghost to avoid, and they managed the journey without incident.
Until Daphne started giggling.
It began as a quiet sound, muffled against Harry's shoulder as she tried to contain it, but it grew steadily louder as they climbed a staircase. Harry shot her a look that was equal parts amused and exasperated, trying to shush her even as his own lips twitched with suppressed laughter.
"What?" Daphne whispered, her voice shaking with barely contained mirth. "This is ridiculous. We're sneaking around under a cloak stealing food like common criminals."
"You're the one who suggested it," Harry lied unabashedly, though he couldn't quite keep the smile from his voice.
"I did not," Daphne replied, and then she was giggling again, the sound infectious enough that Harry felt his own laughter bubbling up despite his best efforts to remain quiet.
They reached the seventh floor in a state of barely controlled hilarity, both of them shaking with silent laughter as they paced before the blank wall to summon the Room of Requirement. When the door finally appeared, they practically tumbled through it, the cloak falling away as they dissolved into genuine laughter that echoed in the space the Room had prepared for them.
The same comfortable sitting arrangement they had materialized, complete with the plush cushions scattered across the floor and soft lighting that created an intimate atmosphere. Harry set the cloth wrapping of food down and turned to find Daphne still grinning, her earlier exhaustion completely forgotten in the joy of the moment.
"Come on," he said, gesturing to the cushions. "Let's eat before it gets cold."
Daphne joined him on the floor, settling beside him comfortably as they unpacked their pilfered feast. It was perfect, Harry thought, as he surrendered the remainder of his afternoon with the girl of his every want and dream.
xRSxxRSxxRSx
Harry finished another training session in the Room of Requirement, his muscles pleasantly sore from hours of sustained magical practice, and walked out into the seventh-floor corridor late in that evening. The castle was quiet at this hour, most students already tucked into their dormitories, and he wasn't particularly concerned about curfew given that he had his invisibility cloak tucked securely under his arm. The fabric shimmered faintly in the torchlight as he pulled the Marauder's Map from his pocket, unfolding it and murmuring the activation phrase.
The castle's layout slowly appeared across the parchment, the labeled dots marking the positions of everyone currently within Hogwarts' boundaries. Harry's eyes scanned the corridors near his position, checking to make sure his path back to Gryffindor Tower would be clear of prefects and prowling professors. Filch was down on the second floor, Mrs. Norris prowling somewhere near the library, and most of the staff appeared to be in their private quarters for the evening.
He paused for a moment, his attention caught by a single dot wandering the fifth-floor corridors with an erratic, meandering path that seemed off compared to the others. Luna's name floated beside the dot, and Harry frowned as he watched her movement pattern for a few seconds. Today wasn't one of his and Hermione's scheduled prefect patrols, so he couldn't exactly claim official business if he were caught out of bounds, but he found himself wondering what in Merlin's name had Luna walking around at this hour.
And then it hit him.
She was sleepwalking.
Probably not the best or safest thing to do, so he should probably go to her to wake her gently and escort her back to Ravenclaw Tower before she stumbled into something genuinely hazardous. Harry checked the map once more to plot the most efficient route, then set off at a brisk walk, his destination clear as he navigated through familiar corridors and down a staircase that deposited him on the fifth floor.
It took perhaps five minutes to reach her, and Harry spotted Luna before she noticed him, her figure almost ethereal in the dim torchlight that illuminated the corridor. She was definitely in her nightclothes, a pale nightgown that almost floated around her thin frame as she moved, and her hair was completely down. He also noticed her feet were clad in her usual worn trainers.
"Luna," Harry called softly, not wanting to startle her too badly but needing to get her attention.
She continued walking, swaying ever so slightly, her eyes fixed on something only she could see in whatever dream she was having. Her blonde hair drifted behind her like pale silk, and her expression was peaceful in a way that made Harry almost hesitate on disturbing her.
"Luna," he tried again, slightly louder this time.
She twitched, her head turning toward him with a delayed reaction that confirmed she had been deeply asleep. Her eyes blinked slowly, confusion crossing her features as her sense of awareness gradually returned.
"Oh, hello Harry," Luna said pleasantly, her voice carrying that distinctive dreamy quality as usual. She looked at him with mild bewilderment as if surprised to find him here. "I don't think you're supposed to be in Ravenclaw Tower."
Harry blinked, processing that statement for a moment before he understood what on Earth she was saying. She thought they were still in her common room.
"I think you were sleepwalking again, Luna," he said gently, keeping his tone calm and non-judgmental.
Luna looked genuinely surprised, her already large eyes widening further as her eyebrows lifted in an expression of startled realization. She glanced around the corridor more carefully this time, taking in details that clearly didn't match whatever she had expected to see.
"Oh," she said softly. "I guess I did."
Her gaze returned to Harry, studying him closely. "Are you sleepwalking too, Harry? You have odd taste in sleep clothes."
She inspected his robes with an open curiosity, her head tilting as her eyes traveled from his head down to his feet.
"Do you only have a few clothes?" she added, the question delivered with complete innocence and genuine concern.
Harry felt a smile tugging at his lips despite himself, reminded powerfully of why he had always enjoyed talking with Luna. "No, I wasn't sleepwalking," he assured her. "Just going on a stroll."
"Hmmm," Luna hummed, her expression unguarded and relaxed. "That's nice to know. Do you want to walk with me?"
"That sounds lovely," Harry replied, his smile widening. "Back to Ravenclaw Tower?"
"I guess I should go back to sleep," Luna admitted, shifting her weight as she started to walk in what Harry hoped was the correct direction. "Thank you for giving me company, Harry."
"What are friends for?" Harry asked rhetorically as they fell into step together, his longer stride easily matching her shorter pace.
He winced slightly when he saw Luna's eyes lower, her expression visibly saddening in a way that made something in his chest clench painfully. The reaction was immediate and telling. He had known she was isolated, had witnessed the cruel jokes and stolen belongings that her housemates seemed to find so amusing, but seeing the vulnerability laid bare in that single moment hit harder than he had expected.
It brought up memories he would rather keep buried, of how fragile she looked after she was tortured and imprisoned in the Malfoys' basement.
"I am your friend, Luna," Harry said firmly, putting emphasis on each word to make sure she understood he meant it. "And friends are there when you need them."
Luna was quiet at that for a long moment, her footsteps continuing their gentle rhythm against the stone floor as she processed his words. When she finally spoke, her voice was softer than usual.
"Thank you, Harry."
They continued walking in silence, navigating through corridors that led into the one that connected directly to Ravenclaw Tower.
They reached the entrance to Ravenclaw Tower after perhaps ten minutes of walking, the distinctive door with its bronze eagle knocker gleaming in the torchlight. As they approached, the eagle's beak opened and spoke, posing its riddle in the traditional manner of Ravenclaw's entrance.
"I never was, am always to be; no one ever saw me, nor ever will; and yet I am the confidence of all who live and breathe."
Luna barely paused before answering, her voice clear and certain. "Tomorrow."
The door swung open with a click, accepting the correct answer and granting passage to the Ravenclaw common room beyond. Luna turned to Harry with a small smile, preparing to say goodnight and disappear through the entrance.
"Thank you for walking with me back to my common room," she said, already moving toward the doorway.
Harry reached out without thinking, his hand gently gripping her lower arm to stop her before she could fully enter. Luna paused, looking back at him with a curious expression.
"If you need help stopping the 'Nargles' from taking your things," Harry said carefully, using her own terminology for the bullying she endured, "I can help with that. You just need to ask."
The expression that crossed Luna's face in that moment was so disarmed, so vulnerably hopeful and simultaneously fearful, that it made Harry's heart almost melt from the sheer weight of emotion visible in her eyes.
But then Luna smiled, weak and almost trembling but genuine, her eyes glistening slightly in the dim light.
"Thank you," she whispered, the words carrying more weight than their simple syllables suggested.
She turned and stepped through the entrance, the door beginning to swing shut behind her. Harry watched until she had fully disappeared into the walkway beyond, the bronze eagle settling back into its watchful position as the door clicked closed with finality.
Harry stood there for a moment longer, staring at the closed entrance as his mind turned over what he had just witnessed. If the bullying didn't stop, and soon, he would need to take matters into his own hands. He would dislike diverting precious time to it, time he desperately needed for training and planning and all the other demands constantly pulling at his attention, but Luna was his friend.
That made it non-negotiable, regardless of how inconvenient the timing might be.
He had failed too many people in his first life, had watched friends suffer and die because he hadn't been strong enough or fast enough or clever enough to save them. He wouldn't fail Luna, not when the solution was as simple as making it abundantly clear that she was under his protection and anyone who continued to torment her would answer to him personally.
The thought settled in his mind as he turned away from Ravenclaw Tower and began making his way back toward Gryffindor. His invisibility cloak remained draped over his arm, forgotten in the aftermath of the encounter, but the corridors were empty enough that he didn't bother pulling it on until he had rounded the corner, throwing it on and concealing himself fully.
Harry reached the Fat Lady's portrait with that thought still floating through his mind, giving the password absently and climbing through into the Gryffindor common room. The space was empty at this late hour, the fire banked to glowing embers that cast dancing shadows across the familiar furniture.
He made his way up to the dormitory, his body finally registering the exhaustion from his earlier training now that the focus on encountering Luna had faded. But even as he prepared for sleep, pulling off his robes and settling into bed, his mind continued working on the problem.
Too bloody annoying. He needed to rest, because Merlin knows something dreadful was going to happen soon, he just knew it.
xRSxxRSxxRSx
Albus Dumbledore set his spectacles down and rubbed his eyes with his index and thumb, suppressing a groan of annoyance at the matter. This was a fitting conclusion to an already unpleasant evening, and it was moments like these where I sincerely wished that he could have simply remained a teacher, not the in all but name leader and warrior chieftain that held evil at bay.
Unfortunately, he was what Britain had, so he learned to embrace the burden.
Every solution. Every angle. Every possible alternative to the conundrum that he faced; every single one gave the same answer and conclusion to how he was to acquire the Cup from the Lestrange vault.
He was going to need to breach Gringotts.
None of his goblin acquaintances were close enough or indebted enough to violate such a major loyalty as that which was loyalty to their people. He could not blame them, truly, because the feeling was more than mutual. He would not aid them if it jeopardized Aberforth, or frankly any long-term friend of his like Elphias. So he did not take the veiled refusal personally when the implied request or question on assistance received said refusal.
It was now simply a matter of how loud and destructive his taking of the Cup would be. He had only some familiarity with the deepest sections of Gringotts, not enough to be a fully covert operation. And he lamented that…
Unless…
It was a rude and terrible thing to ask, but it was all he had left to hopefully reduce the chaos involved. He had asked James once before the same question, and he had accepted it.
His son would probably be no different.
Taking a fortifying breath, he grabbed a spare sheet of parchment, grabbed his quill, dipped it in the ink, and penned a letter to Harry. It was early enough in the evening that the boy would still be awake, and it was of immense importance that he knew as soon as possible.
He hardly paid mind to when he called for a house elf, Tipsy specifically, and the diminutive helper of the castle disappeared in a crack to deliver the letter to Harry.
Dumbledore suspected Harry would say yes. After all, Harry was far better than he at that age, and the use of the Peverell Cloak was something that he above all others alive knew was priceless.
No other cloak could conceal from all detection save for that which the Elder Wand created, such as Alastor's artificial eye.
The aged headmaster leaned back into his seat, readying himself for the conversation ahead.