Morning.

Sunday, Sept. 15

“I think we should do it,” Hermione said.

“I agree,” Harry said. “After all, let’s be honest, if we don’t, then she’s most likely just going to print whatever the hell she wants.”

“That she will,” Dumbledore agreed.

Hermione agreed too, but that didn’t mean that she wanted a situation like the first time they’d met Skeeter, when the woman had basically ambushed them while they were alone, so she said; “Headmaster, can we have the interview here?”

Harry looked at her, then hummed thoughtfully at the suggestion. “That’s not a bad idea actually. Maybe you could help us ensure that she actually prints what we say this time, instead of whatever that her weird quill comes up with,” he said to Dumbledore.

The Headmaster gave a small shrug. “Very well,” he said. “If you wish. Although, in that case, I believe it will be best for me to send the reply. Make her think that I’m making an attempt to control the narrative, as it were.”

“But won’t that make her mad at you,” Hermione said. “Harry has told me about how nasty she can be to people she doesn’t like.”

Dumbledore smiled, then said; “That ship, I’m afraid to say, has long since sailed.”

The old wizard drew his wand then, and, with a casual flick, a piece of parchment appeared on the table in front of him.

Before Hermione’s eyes, words in green ink appeared on the page, as though being written by an invisible quill.

When the message was complete, Dumbledore tapped it with his wand, and the parchment neatly folded itself up then flew and slotted itself into the owl’s pouch.

“Take that to Ms. Skeeter, please,” Dumbledore told the owl, and the bird quickly flew off.

Hermione had seen more than her fair share of amazing displays of magic in her time at Hogwarts, but, somehow, it was always the casual uses of the art, like Dumbledore had just done, that truly amazed her.

“And with that, I do believe your plan has been set in motion,” Dumbledore said as they watched the owl go.

“Yes, and that’s all well and good,” Madam Bones said, not sounding at all like she cared much. “But if we could return to the matter of the madman who’s spread five horcruxes around the country now, that would be ideal.”

“Yes, quite,” Dumbledore said, looking tired all of a sudden.

“The hardest ones to get will be the one in Gringotts and the one with Malfoy’s dad,” Hermione said immediately, having already considered it multiple times before now.

“The lass is right,” Moody said in his gravelly voice. “Malfoy will never admit to having something of You-Know-Who’s, and Gringotts’ an authority unto itself, those little shites won’t give a damn about how many fancy titles the both of you have put together.”

“Damn goblins,” Madam Bones muttered.

“Can’t we just steal them?” Hermione asked.

“Easier said than done,” Moody answered again. “Malfoy may be an idiot, but his home’s locked tighter than a merman’s arse, and, while the goblins may be full of shite saying their bank’s impregnable, that doesn’t mean it’s a cakewalk either.”

“Okay,” Hermione said, “but what if you make up an excuse to search his home?”

The girl looked at Madam Bones. “Professor Dumbledore said you’re the head of law enforcement, can’t you demand to search his home and find the diary that way?”

“It might be doable,” Madam Bones hedged. “But you must understand, Lucius Malfoy is a very powerful man with many friends in the Wizengamot. It will be difficult to get the permission to act on anything short of ironclad.”

What the witch didn’t say, and didn’t need to, was that Harry’s ‘memories’ were not ironclad.

“What do you need permission for?” Harry asked. “Just kick down his door. In fact, why even go to his home at all; Draco’s right here in Hogwarts. I say we hold him hostage until Malfoy cracks and gives us the book.”

“We will not be holding anyone hostage, Harry,” Dumbledore said, even as Moody hummed thoughtfully at the idea. “Certainly not young Mr. Malfoy.”

“Are you serious right now?” Harry asked, sounding genuinely confused. “It’s Draco, for God’s sake. He’s a piece of shit.”

Dumbledore’s tone was firm as he responded: “Whatever your opinion of Mr. Malfoy may be, Harry, we will not be abducting him.

“There are lines we simply should not cross,” the old wizard added.

“Lines not to cross?” Harry asked, voice steady with faux calm.

“You know this is why you would have lost, right? Because you would have.

“If Voldemort hadn’t gotten his idiot self blown up while trying to kill me, you would have lost. You know why? Because, for some reason, you somehow believe, that Draco’s comfort is more important than stopping a madman.”

“Mr. Potter—” Madam Bones began.

“Don’t Mr. Potter me!” Harry said.

“Hermione almost died last night. She was tortured. And now you’re telling me that what? Draco’s comfort somehow trump’s that?”

Harry’s fists were clenched, his whole body vibrating with trapped rage.

Hermione had never seen him like this before, not even with Snape.

With Snape he’d been furious and eager to do harm, but here? Yes, there was the anger and eagerness to harm too, but mostly, to Hermione he just looked helpless and frustrated.

She took his hand.

“It’s okay, Harry,” she said. “I’m sure we’ll figure out something.”

Harry let out a breath, seeming to deflate with it.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m sure we will.”

The boy didn’t sound like he meant it.

An awkward silence followed Harry’s outburst, but before anyone could move to smooth over it, a voice came from Dumbledore’s fireplace.

“Dumbledore, it’s Rita Skeeter. Can I come through?”

“Ah, yes. Come in, Ms. Skeeter,” The Headmaster called amicably, all signs of the tenseness from a few seconds ago absent.

The fireplace flared green, and out walked Rita Skeeter, her hair done, her face heavily made up, and her robes as gaudy as they could get.

The journalist took one look at all the adults in the room and scowled.

“Of course,” she muttered.

★★★

Hours later, after the interview, and after Harry had written down all the information he had on the horcruxes, and they’d delivered the diadem they had destroyed to the capable hands of the adults, Hermione and Harry sat together at a window in one of Hogwarts many empty classrooms.

They’d been headed to Gryffindor Tower initially, but had both decided to detour here, since neither was really up for the many questions they knew awaited them. Not after the arduous morning they’d just had.

An arduous morning whose effect was only compounded by the stress of the night before it, as well as the afternoon even before that.

Dear God, this weekend had been nothing but a series of insane, life threatening adventures.

Well, to be fair, there had only been two insane, life threatening adventures, but considering that both of those had happened within hours of each other, on the same day, in a school that they’d only just completed their second week in, well, it felt more like a novel length story than anything else.

Thinking of the wild, magical events of her time so far in Hogwarts in the terms of a story, made Hermione remember something Harry had told her... just a week ago, actually.

About how he was a sort of amalgamation of two people, one of them being from a future world who’d read books about his own life...

Wow, odd how once, not long ago, Hermione had thought that that was the strangest her life could ever get.

Anyway, thinking about it made Hermione consider something that, surprisingly enough, she’d never considered before.

“Harry?” she called softly to the boy beside her. “What if our life is a story too?”

Harry blinked. “Huh?”

“Well, you know how you read the books about us? What if we’re a book too?” the girl tried to explain.

Harry frowned. “Like fanfiction?” he asked.

He had explained those to her once, and she’d thought it was rather strange, rewriting someone else’s story.

But then again, wasn’t the original author themselves also just writing someone else’s story?

... It all got rather difficult to wrap her mind around pretty quickly, to be honest.

Despite Hermione not giving a response, Harry continued: “Well, if our life’s fanfiction, then I guess I’m just happy that it’s not a Drarry fic.

“Although I definitely wouldn’t have minded one of those OP Lord Potter types, to be honest,” he added with a wistful sigh.

After a few seconds, Harry sighed again, and this time, there was nothing wistful about it, only sad.

“What’s wrong?” Hermione asked.

“I came here to save you,” Harry said, looking out the window. “Do you remember when I told you that?”

Hermione nodded.

Of course, she remembered. Harry had told her that the only reason he came to Hogwarts was because a troll had almost killed her in the books, so he’d come to Hogwarts to ensure that that didn’t happen.

Harry looked at her now.

“You almost died yesterday,” he said. “Multiple times. Two weeks into school, and you almost died. And it’s all because of me.”

“Harry, you can’t—”

“Look me in the eyes and tell me that it wasn’t because of me,” Harry said, cutting off her protest.

She looked in his eyes.

Hermione saw the pain and fear in them. The guilt.

She could lie to him, she knew. But she also knew that he would know if she did.

So, Hermione Granger told the truth instead.

“I don’t care,” she said.

Harry blinked. “Hermione, you—”

“I don’t care,” she repeated, cutting him off like he’d done to her just a few seconds earlier.

“Harry, you’re...” Hermione’s words petered out.

The girl knew what she wanted to say, she just didn’t know how to phrase the words.

And that’s when she got an idea.

Reaching into Harry’s left sleeve, Hermione pulled out his wand, then pushed it into his right hand, forcing his fingers to wrap around it.

“Hermione, what are you—”

“Cast legilimens on me,” she said, cutting him off again.

“What?”

“Just do it, Harry.”

The boy stared at her, then he sighed.

“Legilimens,” he cast, and Hermione’s mind sucked him in.

She poured forth everything. Every iota of emotion that she felt for him and that he made her feel; trust, joy, fondness and fond exasperation, mirth, tranquility, safety, and, among many more, love.

Harry’s breath caught, the boy nearly overwhelmed by the onslaught of emotions gushing forth.

“This is how you make me feel, Harry,” Hermione said, and in that moment, neither could have said if the words had come from her lips, or her heart.

“So, no, I don’t care about Voldemort. Or about basilisks, or anything else.

“I love you, Harry.”

Harry sniffed, a single tear tracking down his cheek.

“I love you too, Hermione,” he said, before hugging her.

Harry had told Hermione once that he would kill anyone who ever hurt her. At the time, his declaration had shocked (and scared) the girl so much, that she’d refused to even think about it since then.

In this moment though, Hermione thought about it, and she made a declaration of her own; if someone ever hurt Harry, while she may not kill them, she would do her absolute best to hurt them ten times worse.