The morning rolled in on soft feet, cool and pale, the kind that made the Great Lake look like it was wearing a wispy silver scarf. The breeze teased the mist across the water, and the first rays of sunlight spilled over the castle like someone had pulled back curtains on a sleeping giant. It was the sort of scene poets would cry over.
Beneath an old beech tree near the lake sat Harry, hunched over with his arms wrapped tight around himself, eyes on everything and nothing at the same time. Lost in thought, in fear, in the kind of quiet misery that gnawed at the edges.
He didn't register the footsteps approaching until a warm shape dropped beside him and a bacon sandwich appeared in his line of sight like a small offering to the gods.
"Eat," Hermione said softly.
"Thanks," Harry rasped, taking it with the exhausted gratitude of someone who desperately needed something—anything—kind. They sat shoulder to shoulder as the sun finished rising, saying nothing, listening to the forest wake up.
After several minutes, Harry's voice cracked the silence.
"I'm terrified, Hermione," he whispered, barely audible over the soft rush of wind. "I don't think I'm ready. Not for any of this."
Hermione opened her mouth to answer, but he pushed on, voice hoarse.
"Crouch told them my name being chosen counts as a binding contract," he said, staring straight ahead. "Didn't matter that I didn't enter. Didn't matter that I didn't want this." His jaw tightened. "I stayed outside the room after they dismissed me. Heard everything."
Hermione quietly slid closer, her hand inching toward his, but she didn't interrupt.
Harry's knuckles whitened.
"Snape thinks they should use me as bait," he hissed. "And Dumbledore agreed. Agreed, Hermione. They want whoever put my name in to make a move… and they're going to just toss me out there like a worm on a hook."
He shot to his feet abruptly, pacing to the water's edge. His hands shoved deep into his pockets, shoulders rigid with frustration that made him look far too old for fourteen.
"They won't help me. Not even a hint. But Karkaroff and Madam Maxime are practically spoon-feeding tricks to their champions." He laughed bitterly. "Brilliant. Just brilliant."
Hermione rose and wrapped her arms around him from behind, like she was trying to shield him from the entire world. He froze at the touch—absolutely froze—but he didn't pull away. She tucked her cheek against his shoulder.
"You're not alone," she whispered. "You're not doing this alone. I'll help you train. I'll help you plan. And you can do this, Harry." She felt his breath hitch, felt the subtle tremor. He was crying silently.
So she held him. And held him. Until he finally turned around and hugged her back, burying his face briefly in the crook of her neck.
"I don't know what I'd do without you," he murmured.
Hermione brushed a stray tear off his cheek. "You'll never need to find out," she said gently. "Besides, just think of all the amazing spells we're about to learn. Together." She brightened suddenly. "We should write to Sirius. And Professor Lupin—he'd definitely help."
Harry nodded. "Yeah. And if anyone knows tricks, it's them. Let's go send the letters."
He grabbed her hand to tug her toward the path, and for once they stayed like that—fingers intertwined—without either of them flinching.
Halfway back to the castle, Hermione abruptly stopped, her expression morphing into a look that could melt steel.
Harry blinked at her. "Um… what are you—why do you look like you're planning a murder?"
Hermione didn't answer. She simply tightened her grip on his hand and marched him straight toward Greenhouse Seven, her stride fueled by righteous fury.
The door flew open before they reached it, as if the greenhouse itself feared getting in her way. Harry barely had time to stumble inside before she slammed it shut and cast the most aggressive locking charm he'd ever seen.
"Hermione?" he squeaked.
She sat him down on the nearest bench, inhaled deeply, grabbed his hands, and fixed him with that terrifying, no-nonsense stare.
"Harry," she said slowly, "why did you go rigid when I hugged you?"
He blinked. "…Uh?"
"When," she repeated with unnerving calm, "was the last time someone hugged you before today?"
Harry, absolutely panicking, blurted the truth before his brain caught up.
"Last time? Um. You. At the end of last year. Before that—uh—my aunt doesn't touch me unless it's to grab my arm and yell, so… never?"
His face drained of color. "Wait—I—Hermione, forget I said that—just pretend I didn't—"
But Hermione's anger melted instantly into teary-eyed heartbreak.
"Harry," she whispered, squeezing his hands, "that's not normal. That's neglect. It's not your fault. It was never your fault."
He looked away, jaw tight. "Dumbledore knows. My Hogwarts letter said 'cupboard under the stairs.' He didn't… do anything. So I didn't bother telling anyone else."
Hermione's breath hitched.
And then Harry talked.
All of it. Everything he'd suffered at Privet Drive. The starvation. The chores. The punishments. The bedroom situation. Every cruel, casual wound.
By the time he finished, the weight that had lived in his chest for years felt lighter—just a little—but lighter nonetheless.
Hermione wiped angrily at her tears. "Harry… you need real help. My parents could advise you. Or a solicitor. You deserve better than all of this."
He wrung his hands. "I don't want to go back to the Dursleys. But I don't want the Weasleys or some orphanage either. So what do I do?"
"We," she corrected firmly, "will figure it out."