Harry had returned to his dormitory. In the pitch-dark room, he sat quietly on his bed. He wasn't asleep. For some reason, now that things b
Harry had returned to his dormitory.
In the pitch-dark room, he sat quietly on his bed.
He wasn't asleep.
For some reason, now that things between him and Cho had reverted to being simple classmates, he did feel a pang of sadness—but there was also a surprising sense of relief, as if a weight had been lifted from his chest.
Was it because of Hermione? After all, he had no idea how to handle the two of them anymore.
…
But…
Do I really like Hermione?
Harry imagined what it would feel like if Hermione told him she liked someone else.
He knew it would hurt—but strangely, not as much as he thought it should.
Was it because it was just a mental exercise—something his subconscious refused to treat seriously?
Or… was it that he didn't like her that deeply in the first place?
That question kept spiraling in his mind.
…
Guess I've been a kid for too long. Even my mental age is slipping backwards, Harry thought.
Why did I come to this world in the first place?
For magic. For the mysteries of magic.
With that realization, Harry got out of bed, sat at his desk, and pulled out a piece of parchment. He dipped a quill into ink, but just as he was about to write, his hand paused midair.
Plop.
A drop of ink landed on the paper.
Harry crumpled it into a ball and tossed it aside. He grabbed a fresh sheet.
This time, he didn't hesitate. His handwriting flowed steadily across the parchment.
"Hermione,
You're a girl that's easy to love. But I think you're still a child—too young to fully understand your feelings.
You're only eleven. The people in your world right now are still too few, and that limits your judgment.
We've only known each other for a few months. When you grow up, you'll see how vast the world really is, and you'll meet so many more people.
I don't want to be the one who limits your future choices.
If, a few years from now, you still don't hate me… then maybe we can start over.
—Harry"
Harry set the quill down.
He didn't know how Hermione would feel when she read it—and he didn't want to.
He called over Little Black, tied the letter to the owl's leg, and watched him fly off into the cold.
Climbing back into bed, his hand brushed against something soft.
Little Cutie had just returned, her fur still cold.
Harry stroked her gently, listening to her quiet purring as he slowly drifted off to sleep…
…
The next morning—
Harry suddenly remembered something he had completely forgotten.
He hadn't taken care of Professor Sprout's greenhouse.
In the four days he'd been sick, he hadn't gone even once to heat the greenhouse at night.
As he rushed there, he could only hope that the plants hadn't all frozen to death.
Opening the door, he was greeted by a wave of warmth.
A girl was moving around inside, extinguishing all but a few of the furnaces.
When she saw Harry, she explained calmly,
"While you were sick, I came at night to light the furnaces for you."
Harry exhaled in relief and softly said,
"Thanks… Cho."
"You're welcome."
She lowered her head slightly and walked past him.
Harry stood in the doorway, dazed for a moment, then quietly closed the door and left.
…
That morning, he spent hours in the classroom brewing potions, but he couldn't focus—and made mistake after mistake.
He frowned at the cauldron full of Whispering Draught.
It was a potion that made your voice audible only to the person you wanted to hear it. To everyone else—even if you shouted in their ear—it was as if you'd said nothing at all.
The potion was nearly done, but Harry was too distracted.
He raised his wand and muttered,
"Evanesco."
The pale green liquid vanished in an instant.
Guess I really don't have the patience for this. Maybe I'm just not cut out for it.
Though Harry was good at Potions, it was only because he read a lot—not because he loved the subject. He certainly didn't have Snape's obsessive passion for it.
His original idea to brew potions over the holidays had stemmed mostly from curiosity about the notes in Snape's textbook.
But now? He didn't want to play that game anymore.
He wasn't willing to invest large amounts of time into mastering Potions—not when Snape already existed.
He wondered how Snape would react when Harry returned all the leftover ingredients.
Packing up the classroom, he carried the equipment downstairs toward the dungeons.
…
Later that day, Harry sat in the Gryffindor common room, thinking back on the cold look Snape had given him earlier.
That hadn't been an act. That had come from deep inside.
Knock, knock, knock.
Someone was at the portrait hole.
Don't tell me the Fat Lady forgot the password again… Harry thought, annoyed.
He got up and opened the door.
A small figure slipped through the round entrance, looked up—and locked eyes with him.
Her big, bright eyes trembled… then began to well up with tears.
Harry opened his mouth—
And for the first time in both his lives…
He didn't know what to say.
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⚡ The Rebirth of Harry Potter
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