"Draco, I liked your answer just now."
Hermione sniffled and finally wiped her face with the handkerchief. She looked at him with slightly red-rimmed eyes and said, "I want you to know—I feel the same way."
Draco smiled faintly at her, smoothed her thick hair, looked at her with quiet tenderness, and said nothing.
"I'll work with you to find a new way. There will be one," she said, her voice husky. "I suppose we'll have to keep things from Harry again, though. He only just got angry at us for that."
"I never thought I'd say this." Draco patted her back gently, one slow pat at a time. "But even if he's angry with us later—we can't tell him now."
He had originally hoped Harry would learn all of it sooner.
No one understood better than Draco the Dark Lord's deep-seated obsession with Harry.
In his previous life, throughout seventh year, the Dark Lord had deployed Death Eaters across the country to hunt Harry down. The final battle at Hogwarts had been, in essence, a hunt. Draco knew that as long as the Dark Lord's soul hadn't fully extinguished, Harry would have to face him. And in that situation—with no clear way out—Harry's ignorance was directly proportional to the danger he was walking into.
Harry Potter, as the ultimate instrument against the Dark Lord, should be making every preparation possible.
But everything had changed now. The circumstances had become unpredictable in ways Draco hadn't foreseen. Harry had unexpectedly become something the Dark Lord had created—an accidental, incomplete human Horcrux.
Ironically, at precisely the moment when Draco had officially, quietly acknowledged Harry as a true friend, the first act he was called upon to perform for that honest, trusting friend was to deceive him.
Deceiving him was the safest thing.
Harry had to maintain a particular kind of ignorance to ensure the Dark Lord remained entirely unaware of what they knew about the Horcruxes.
Draco sighed, forcing himself to be careful rather than impulsive. He tried to persuade the troubled Hermione: "As long as there's even the smallest possibility that your conjecture is correct, we cannot mention Horcruxes to him at all. Merlin knows I was too caught up in arguing with him that day to say anything—which, in retrospect, was lucky."
He said coolly, "From now on, when we speak with him, we must be careful. Leave room on anything sensitive."
Hermione's eyes widened, her expression stricken. "Oh, I can't—"
"Hermione. You have to." Draco struggled to hold onto his own composure, feeling the cold current surging up from somewhere deep. "Our understanding of that soul is too limited. No one knows whether it's asleep or awake."
"You mean it could be awake?" She looked at him with alarm.
"I'm not certain. We need to observe Harry for a while longer," Draco said. "My current inclination is that it's dormant—Harry's thinking seems entirely his own, and there's no sign of anything else in his mind. But you understand what it would mean if that soul were ever to wake. It would have access to everything Harry knows."
Hermione went pale.
"And what's even more unsettling—" Draco shuddered slightly, as though he had glimpsed a treacherous drop in the dark. "What if that soul is already awake? Has been awake for some time—quietly hidden inside his mind, watching everything that happens around Harry, listening to every secret he's told—"
"That's dreadful," Hermione breathed. "I can't even imagine—"
The door swung open.
Sirius walked in carrying a large food tray, and nearly dropped it when she gasped.
"Keep calm and carry on," he said, attempting optimism as he set the tray down on the table with the warm aroma of food spreading through the room. "I was gone ten minutes and you've already started frightening each other. What was that about?"
"We were saying that, given the existence of that soul fragment, we have to keep it entirely from Harry," Draco said without expression. "The last thing we should do is alert it."
"Oh—now you understand why Dumbledore and I kept things from Harry?" Sirius shrugged. "Though our reasons were simpler at the time. We didn't want him distracted during the Tournament."
Draco looked at him flatly and said nothing.
"Draco, I know you're right, and I understand the risks," Hermione said, her expression tight with worry. "But I hate hiding things from friends. That isn't what friendship looks like. Friends should be honest with each other—and Harry has always been honest with us."
"I don't enjoy deception either," Sirius said gently. "I understand how you feel. For most Gryffindors, honesty comes more naturally than concealment."
"For most Slytherins, it's precisely the opposite," Draco drawled, entering the exchange. "I've always believed that honesty is far harder than hiding something. Honesty is the hardest thing in the world."
Sirius shook his head. "And that's why I've always thought Slytherins were cowards. You can't even face the truth out loud."
"So Sirius Black, in his great Gryffindor courage, is planning to tell Harry everything?" Draco said with a cool smile. "Is that it?"
Sirius ignored the sarcasm and spread the food across the table: fish and chips, roast chicken, fried chicken strips, pork chops, beef pie, apple pie. "Here—make do with this," he said kindly to Hermione. "I imagine you've missed supper entirely."
Hermione thanked him and forked a chip, dipping it absently in ketchup.
Sirius sat down, thought for a while, then said at last to Draco, who had been watching him steadily: "It seems that even the bravest and most honest Gryffindors sometimes have to do the more difficult thing."
He nodded toward Hermione. "We have to keep it from him." Then to Draco: "As for you—since you find hiding things easier than honesty, this ought to come naturally."
Draco made a noncommittal sound, moved the ketchup closer to Hermione, and said nothing more.
"Beyond the matter of that soul—" Sirius picked up a piece of chicken and spoke in a low, serious voice, "there's something else to consider. Since Harry can see the Dark Lord's movements through this mental link—could it work in reverse? If Harry becomes highly emotional—could the Dark Lord's mind exploit that connection? We have to account for that possibility."
Hermione's fork stopped in mid-air.
"Sirius Black, stop using that name carelessly," Draco snapped. "You are as reckless as Harry."
Sirius gave the chicken an unconvincing examination and declined to change his habits.
Hermione, overwhelmed, set down her knife and fork. She stared at her empty plate, resting her chin on one hand. "Is there any way to sever that connection?"
"Hermione's right," Draco said. "Sirius—we need to find a way to protect his mind. He needs to learn Occlumency, or something like it."
Sirius looked as though he had already been thinking exactly this.
"Since you can see this far ahead," Sirius said, "you can imagine the unbearable risks this opens up." His face darkened. "I don't want Harry to wake up one day as someone else, bringing chaos to Hogwarts."
"Hell on earth," Draco said quietly, in a tone that was not hyperbole. His knuckles were slightly white around his fork.
He knew what those words meant. He had lived in their aftermath.
Hogwarts, littered with bodies and ruins. A living hell made by the Dark Lord.
There could not be a second time.
What do we do? Are there new answers? How do we save Harry—and prevent that catastrophe from happening here again?
He had told Sirius confidently that he would forge a new way. But confidence was not the same as a plan.
This was an unknown path through fog, and he didn't yet know if it existed at all, let alone whether it could be opened before the Dark Lord noticed.
"Draco—don't describe Harry as though he's a loaded explosive," Hermione said, scolding him gently. She forked a piece of fish with renewed effort, the crisp sound of the fork against the plate small and resolute. "And—thank you. For the food."
Draco didn't answer.
He stared at his fork, his thoughts circling back to the fog, the cold uncertainty.
"Things may be difficult to hear—but some of it does make sense," Sirius said thoughtfully. "I need to work out how to protect his mind. He needs to develop better defences."
"Which means more spells to learn," Hermione said, managing a constructive tone despite the fish she was struggling to finish. "I think his spell list is about to get another page. The back of the current one is already covered…"
"Speaking of which—thank you. Both of you. For everything you've been doing for Harry—"
"Sirius Black, put those formalities away," Draco interrupted crisply, setting a glass of Butterbeer by Hermione's plate. "There are more serious matters requiring your attention. There are things we cannot hide from Harry indefinitely. He is not as oblivious as you'd like him to be—don't forget the outburst."
"What's got into you?" Sirius blinked. "Mind your tone."
Hermione glanced at Draco's suddenly rigid profile and had a clear sense that he was roaring somewhere on the inside, even as his face remained perfectly blank.
"Draco—aren't you hungry?" she asked softly, noticing he hadn't touched a single thing.
"No," he said curtly.
He was in a terrible mood. She could see it. He was teetering on an invisible edge.
Strangely, recognising that in him settled something in her.
She had been frantic—anxious and frightened. But she suddenly saw clearly: the boy who had been gently steadying her this whole time was no less distressed than she was. Probably more. He hadn't said so. He hadn't eaten. But he had still moved the ketchup closer to her plate, still poured her Butterbeer without being asked.
Oh, Draco. She thought it quietly, a bittersweet warmth spreading through her.
He needs something sweet. He always lights up around desserts, though he invariably hides behind bitter coffee. Hermione thought for a moment, then cut a slice of warm apple pie and slid it onto his plate without fanfare.
The sudden appearance of food startled the boy from his grim reverie. He raised his eyebrows.
He looked up from the plate, along the arm that had produced it, and found the girl watching him with a tentative smile.
"Would you try some?" she said softly, looking at him. "I know you're not hungry. But—would you try a little, for me?"
The warmth in her eyes cut straight through his mood. He gave her a small smile in return and picked up his fork.
Crumbly butter pastry. Fresh apple filling with the subtle warmth of cinnamon. A hint of dried cranberry underneath.
The aroma settled into his lungs and something in him came back to life.
His chilling heart began to warm—whether from the food or from the way she was watching him, he couldn't have said. The sinister and suffocating weight of the evening seemed, briefly, to lose its power.
"Is it good?" she asked, tilting her head to study him.
"Delicious," Draco said. For one odd, fleeting moment, he thought he detected the sharp sting of something other than cinnamon—but dismissed it.
"Good," Hermione said happily, and shared some of her own fish and chips with him.
So Draco ate obediently, and gradually recovered something resembling equilibrium.
"Now I think I understand what Remus meant," Sirius murmured to himself, watching the two of them.
An arrogant boy had met a girl who could make him willingly rein in his temper. Sirius glanced at her—smiling quietly as she watched the awkward boy eat—and shook his head at himself for noticing it now, of all moments.
After a while, Draco's tone, when he addressed Sirius again, had softened slightly. "Sirius—we can keep this from Harry for a time. We can manage it. But we cannot control when the Dark Lord will attempt to use their connection. One day Harry will stand in front of us, furious, demanding answers. What do we tell him then?"
"Truth and misdirection together," Sirius said, calm now. "Tell him what is visible and known. Hide the most critical secret and offer a plausible explanation. We must deceive not only Harry—but the soul in his mind, whether it's sleeping or watching. And the Dark Lord himself, who has a line to Harry's thoughts. Eliminate every risk of exposure."
"I prefer that approach," Draco said, with faint approval—too distracted to correct Sirius's use of the name this time. "Hermione—what do you think?"
"I don't exactly have a choice, do I?" Hermione said, chewing her fish and chips with the air of someone making peace with the inevitable. "You do know that one lie requires a thousand more to hold it up?"
"Of course," Draco said, the ghost of a real smile crossing his face. "A convincing deception is a perfect test of intelligence."
"In any case—let Harry compete first," Sirius said. "The finals are in a matter of days, and he's under enough pressure already. We'll address all of this after the Tournament. Poor boy has quite enough on his mind."
Sirius was right about his godson.
If the Goblet of Fire had been an uninvited burden weighing on Harry's shoulders for a whole school year, the scar's pain was the final straw breaking the back of his endurance.
For days, Harry had been crushed under the invisible weight of everyone hoping he would win the Tournament crown.
He did not know how Viktor Krum or Fleur managed to keep their composure—perhaps they had simply had more practice being watched.
But what about Cedric? Every time Cedric was surrounded by a crowd, Harry saw in him a kind of ease that seemed untouched by words like "pressure" or "panic."
It seemed only Harry found his status as champion uncomfortable. He had taken a long time to stop feeling the weight of people's stares—and just when he had, his scar had started to burn with everything it implied.
Voldemort was still watching him from some corner of the world. That serpent was waiting.
After Herbology, they trudged out of the greenhouse in the heat and made their way through the grass back toward the castle.
Ron said, "Are we practising spells today? Hermione and Draco have vanished again without a word."
"I want to practise on my own for a bit," Harry said.
He was exhausted, and longed for an afternoon of peace. But every time he had free time, the memory of the scar's pain crept back. He couldn't be idle.
The common room meant curious eyes and Colin Creevey's inevitable pleas for a "champion interview." He didn't want any of it.
"I'll come with you," Ron offered.
"No, Ron—go back to the dormitory, shower, and do some studying. You're tired, and you need to get through those revision notes before exams." Harry said. "I don't want to be watching you explain to your mum why your grades slipped."
Reminded of Mrs Weasley, Ron paled slightly, said goodbye with a worried look, and trudged upstairs toward Gryffindor Tower. Harry dragged himself toward the Transfiguration classroom.
He had barely reached the door when he heard Professor McGonagall's voice lecturing from within—another year's class was in session.
Harry sighed, turned away, and wandered along the empty corridors in search of a different empty classroom.
It was around this time that he encountered Ginny Weasley.
At first he didn't notice her at all. He had been walking in a straight line when a sudden, fierce shout from a girl startled him: "Luna, you have to do something!"
"Oh, Ginny, don't be so worked up," came another voice—soft and dreamy.
Harry stopped.
He knew Luna Lovegood's voice. He had met Luna a handful of times over the past two years.
But it was the other voice that truly surprised him.
Ginny's voice was supposed to be small, timid, barely above a whisper around him. That was the Ginny he remembered.
This voice was nothing of the sort.
Mildly intrigued, Harry took two steps back and looked around the corner.
He saw the familiar warm orange-red hair. He saw the familiar small girl in a pose he had never seen her adopt before.
She stood with both hands on her hips, glaring up at the ceiling, and declared furiously: "Who on earth leaves their shoes up there?"
Harry then noticed a pair of shoes dangling from a ceiling beam, their laces swinging in the air.
"Oh, maybe they wanted some sunlight," Luna said with genuine interest, padding barefoot down the corridor. "Perhaps a free spirit has moved into my shoes. Thank you for finding them, Ginny."
"There's no sun on the ceiling!" Ginny snapped, entirely unlike any version of herself Harry had previously encountered. "Luna—this is the third time this month! Your shoes keep disappearing and showing up in ridiculous places!"
"She has quite a temper," Harry thought, watching her jump up on her toes in a valiant attempt to reach the shoes.
"Luna Lovegood! Someone is clearly pranking you! I am going to find out who, and when I do—" she stretched to her full height, fingers falling just short, "I am going to hang them from the ceiling as a warning to everyone else!"
"That won't help, Ginny," Luna said serenely, watching with the calm detachment of someone observing rainfall. "What you can't reach will always stay just out of reach."
Ginny jumped several more times with great determination, then finally stopped, out of breath.
"I am not giving up." Her eyes lit up. She clapped her hands. "I have a brilliant idea, Luna. Stay there—I'll get a broomstick and fly up for them—"
"If your broomwork isn't sharp enough, it's best not to fly in a narrow corridor," Harry said, unable to stop himself. "Unless you fancy a black eye."
"Don't underestimate me!" Ginny said smugly. "I've been flying properly for years—I've been sneaking out with my brothers' brooms since I was small—" She turned around, confident, and found herself looking directly at Harry.
Harry was smiling at her.
She stopped. Her mouth opened. Her face turned crimson.
He met her eyes pleasantly and said, "Hi, Ginny."
Ginny shut her mouth and did not produce a single sound.
Frozen precisely as she always was.
Harry walked forward, raised his wand casually, and called the shoes down with a Summoning Charm. He handed them to Luna.
"Oh, thank you." Luna accepted them and looked at Harry with mild surprise. "There was a beetle on your head just now, by the way."
"Right—thanks." Harry flicked the beetle off and sent it out the window.
"Your spellwork is very good," Luna observed, threading her feet back into her shoes. "Are you practising for the finals? I think they might release Wrackspurts in the arena."
"What are those?" Harry asked.
"They're invisible. They float into your ears and muddle your thinking," she said, clapping absently at the air around her.
"I see," Harry said. "Right—I should get back to practising." He glanced at Ginny.
The fearless orange-haired girl from thirty seconds ago was now standing perfectly motionless, staring at him with wide, horrified eyes, as though the ground had betrayed her.
He thought he could see one or two freckles twitching.
He twitched the corner of his mouth, nodded at her, and said, "Bye, Ginny."
Ginny nodded back with the frantic vigour of someone who had forgotten how to speak, her face as red as a ripe tomato.
Harry turned and went on his way.
Strangely, as he walked, his mood felt noticeably lighter.
He found himself thinking of the time this same small girl had marched up to Colin—who had been pestering Harry—and fired off a Bat-Bogey Hex with absolute precision. Then, amid everyone's laughter, she had fled like a gust of wind.
Had she been trying to rescue him?
That spell had been genuinely excellent.
The memory of Colin's expression—pitiful, bewildered, covered in flying bogeys—made Harry laugh out loud before he could stop himself. He wasn't entirely certain why.
---
Back in the corridor, Ginny Weasley stared at Harry's retreating figure with the expression of someone who had suffered a catastrophic blow.
Especially when Luna said, "He seemed to be laughing as he left. I wonder what's funny? I think a Wrackspurt may have got in," the words rang through her skull like a bell.
---
That evening, Hermione and her Slytherin boyfriend made their way back through the secret passage, having spent the walk agreeing on "which story to tell Harry" and continuing to agonise over "what it means to keep things from a friend." The conversation was still going as they reached the eighth floor.
"You've hidden things from him before—kept my secrets," Draco said. "You didn't seem to have much difficulty then. What's different now?"
"That was different!" Hermione said vehemently. "I had no qualms keeping your personal matters private. But hiding something that directly endangers his life—the guilt is incomparable!"
"I understand," he said. "But—"
"Yes, I agree with you and Sirius. Keeping it secret is the most sensible thing to do right now." Her voice was conflicted. "But I still think it's deeply wrong. It may wound him far more than the truth would—and that wound could be lasting."
"Perhaps you're right." He pulled her close and murmured into her hair, "But in this situation, we can only choose the lesser harm."
Hermione buried her face in his shoulder and breathed out.
"Think of it this way—isn't keeping him in the dark a form of protection?" He gazed into the dark depths of the castle ahead. "Protecting him from himself. From being discovered by the darkness in him, from being swallowed by it. We don't want him becoming something controlled against his will, do we?"
"No," Hermione said heavily.
"Your purpose was never to deceive him," he said, his voice quiet and steady. "It was to hide that darkness from him—and from the Dark Lord. To protect him."
"Yes," she said. The tension eased slightly. She pressed her face into his neck like a cat, and her tone softened.
"Go back now and try to get some sleep," Draco said reluctantly, letting her go, smoothing a strand of hair that had stuck to her cheek. "I'd happily stand here with you all night, but I know you're exhausted."
Hermione agreed at once, but didn't move. Her gaze lingered on his eyes, his lips, his collarbone, with a faint, unmistakeable reluctance.
She stared at him for a moment, then asked quietly, "Draco—will you ever hide things from me?"
His eyes shifted slightly in the lamplight.
"Will you hide something from me one day because you want to protect me?" She looked at him steadily and asked, "Or—right now—do you have secrets you're keeping from me?"
Draco had no ready answer.
The secrets he was keeping from her were considerably more than one.
"I—" He raised his hand and gently touched her cheek, looking into her sincere, curious eyes, feeling his mouth go dry.
Hermione studied his wavering eyes and the slight tremble of his lashes, and said softly, "I think you probably have quite a few little secrets you haven't told me yet—"
Draco braced himself.
But she wasn't angry. Instead, she smiled—gently, with full awareness.
She rose onto her toes and touched his still lips with hers, soft and warm. A brief, deliberate touch. She caught his lower lip lightly between hers and let it go.
Before he could open his mouth or recover, she had stepped back, looking at his stunned expression with triumphant satisfaction. "It's all right, Draco Malfoy," she said, bright-eyed. "I'll figure them out one by one."
He stared at her.
Her action and her words struck him simultaneously.
Just when he thought he understood Hermione Granger, she did something so unexpected, so quietly courageous, that he was left completely disarmed.
She was like a small, wandering sprite of light—slipping into the darkness, using her gentle glow to illuminate corners he had long since walled off.
Draco stood there, his face red, blinking rapidly, just beginning to stammer something—
"Are you going to give me the password, or am I standing here all night?" the Fat Lady demanded behind them, fanning herself irritably. "Have a thought for someone working overtime! I'd very much like to go have a drink with Violet!"
"Sorry—coming right now," Hermione said quickly. She released the bewildered Slytherin boy, smiled at him, waved, and stepped into the common room.
The moment the portrait closed, she leaned against the stone wall on the other side and sighed with deep satisfaction.
"Yes," she murmured to herself. "I will dig them out—every shameful secret, every hidden light."
She glanced around the common room—students slumped over books, revising in drowsy clusters. No sign of Harry or Ron. She decided to go up to the dormitory and get some rest.
She had barely taken two steps when someone lunged at her out of the crowd, Gryffindor scarf wrapped turbulently around their head and a pair of large, outlandish spectacles jammed on their face.
"Hermione! You're finally back! Where have you been?"
"Wait—who are you?" Hermione shoved the figure back on instinct.
The figure ripped off the spectacles, revealing anxious brown eyes and a tumble of orange-red hair. "It's me!" she hissed.
"Ginny!" Hermione looked her up and down, taking in the extraordinary headwear. "What are you doing? Luna's goggles? In June?"
"I wanted to keep a low profile!" Ginny said, casting a furtive look around the room. "I feel like everyone's watching me."
"Of course everyone is watching you!" Hermione said. "You are the only person in this room wearing a scarf in summer—and you've wound it like a turban. You might as well have a sign above your head in gold and red saying 'Come and mock me.'" She covered her forehead with one hand. "Did you genuinely think that was discreet?"
"Hermione, your tongue is getting sharper by the day, and I blame that Slytherin entirely." Ginny blinked, trying to believe her own denial. "At least nobody knows who's under the scarf!"
"It's not exactly difficult to work out," Hermione said drily. "You just threw yourself at me and you're carrying my extremely temperamental cat. The only person in this entire house who would dare do both at once is you."
Ginny glanced at Crookshanks in alarm, took two rapid steps backward, and cried out in badly-disguised panic: "You—who are you? I don't know you!"
"There goes your disguised voice," Hermione said, laughing. She found an empty sofa in the corner, sat down with the slightly superior ease of someone who had been spending far too much time with a certain Slytherin, patted the cushion beside her, and beckoned. "Come and sit. Tell me what happened."
Ginny gave up her last line of defence, dropped Crookshanks, and launched herself into Hermione's arms.
"Harry saw my embarrassing side," she wailed into Hermione's shoulder. "He's definitely laughing at me right now. I've never been so mortified in my life."
"Don't rush," Hermione said, patting her shoulder. "Start from the beginning."
Crookshanks pricked up his ears with vague suspicion. Trapped in Ginny's arms, he wrinkled his nose as she stroked him and chattered at Hermione for a full quarter of an hour.
When she finally finished, Hermione laughed. "I honestly don't think he was laughing at you. I think you were rather charming."
"I was practically swearing!" Ginny wailed, clutching her head. "Like a shrew! My entire image—years of careful work—"
"Relax. You've shed your image, and that's a good thing." Hermione smiled and gently unwound the scarf from Ginny's head. "At least you finally spoke to him. Isn't that what you wanted?"
"No, no, no—this isn't how it was supposed to go at all!" Ginny flopped backward against the sofa cushions, staring at the ceiling in despair. She seized the already-escaping Crookshanks and pressed her nose against his. "Hermione, this doesn't count. I wasn't even paying attention to him when I was talking!"
Crookshanks was suddenly and involuntarily airborne. He stared at her with wide, affronted eyes, growled, and waved his paws pointlessly at the empty air.
"All right, this doesn't count," Hermione agreed. "Let's start fresh. But could you put my cat down first?"
"No. I need him. He's more reliable than you." Ginny looked at her with genuine grievance. "You're always running off with that Slytherin boyfriend of yours and disappearing without a word. Ron says you two vanish more often than students nipping up to Crook Hill!"
Hermione coughed lightly, feeling the conversation beginning to veer dangerously.
"Harry!" she said suddenly, looking at a spot across the room.
Ginny dropped Crookshanks instantly and bolted for the girls' dormitory stairs. "Goodnight, Hermione!"
"Goodnight, Ginny." Hermione smiled to herself.
Harry was nowhere in sight.
She looked down at Crookshanks, who had landed with great dignity. "Be careful in the forest tonight," she said gently. "It's a full moon."
Crookshanks gave a soft, satisfied sound, sprang onto the windowsill, and vanished.
He was heading for the Whomping Willow.
Every full moon, the old cat returned to the same spot—the branch of the Willow Tree that had witnessed his great victory—and spent the night reliving the satisfaction of it.
Every full moon, he waited. Hoping, in his patient, cat's way, that the person he most wanted to show off to might appear.
Green eyes. Red hair. A smile with two shallow dimples.
He always thought: perhaps she might fall from the sky, and stand beneath the tree, and tell him he'd done well.
---
"Oh, there's a cat here," Fleur Delacour said, mildly startled, watching the splendid, fearless creature swagger up into the willow branches.
Sirius was crouching at the base of the Whomping Willow, where a crystal vial glowing with silver light was buried. He looked up at the ginger cat and smiled. "What brings you out here?"
Crookshanks stared into his grey eyes and groaned lazily.
"It's not an Animagus," Sirius told Fleur. "An old friend."
"Whose is it?" Fleur asked with curiosity.
"It belongs to a very clever Gryffindor girl," Sirius said to the cat. "Isn't that right?"
Crookshanks didn't reply. He lowered his head onto the branch and watched Sirius with steady intensity.
"What is its name?" Fleur asked.
"Crookshanks, apparently. Hermione calls him that—she's his owner now." He said it casually, then addressed the cat directly. "Not a bad name, is it, Crookshanks?"
Fleur didn't entirely follow the conversation's grammar. She turned her attention to coaxing the cat down, greeting it warmly: "Hello, Crookshanks!"
The cat tilted its head, considered her blue eyes briefly, and then returned to its previous fixed contemplation of Sirius.
He looked like a stubborn, extremely well-groomed stone affixed to the branch, with no intention of moving.
While Fleur was occupied with the Willow's bark patterns, Sirius turned back to the buried vial and said quietly to the cat, "Do you want to come down? I want to bring her memory back."
Crookshanks remained nestled among the branches, stubbornly deaf to the suggestion.
"I know. You did something brilliant. You're a smart, brave cat, and she'd be proud of you," Sirius murmured, and then sighed. "But you have to look forward, don't you?"
"She won't come back to you. Just as he won't come back to either of us." He paused, blinking slowly in the cool night air.
Crookshanks flicked his bottle-brush tail and hissed with pointed irritation.
"Don't take it personally," Sirius said, then remembered Harry, and said in a more sober tone, "Harry is in danger. Serious danger. You have to watch over him, protect him. You can't simply leave him—can you?"
The cat stared at him sharply. He stared back, helpless.
"Don't waste your time here. Go to him. Guard him. Protect him, just as you once did." Sirius squinted up at it. "He's her son. You know what to do."
"Sirius Black, who are you talking to?" Fleur asked, puzzled.
"No one in particular." He stood, brushing off his hands, and began to walk away from the tree.
Fleur trailed after him, glancing back. "The cat's gone! Where did it go?"
Sirius didn't answer. Without turning, he raised his wand and flicked a pebble toward the base of the Whomping Willow. The tree shuddered back to life and began to sway.
"I need to learn how you do that!" Fleur said immediately, tugging at his sleeve. "How else am I supposed to get through the Whomping Willow when the time comes? You can't remain in Hogsmeade forever."
He gave her a sidelong look. "I'll make certain you're ready when the moment comes."
She bit her lip, her pride stinging slightly at his evasive tone.
Sirius glanced at her and offered a brief concession: "Knowing too much at the wrong moment isn't safe for you."
The passage under the tree led to the Shraming Shack. Even with the Wolfsbane Potion now available to Lupin, there were still risks.
Fleur stared at him with narrowed eyes, unsatisfied. She studied his face for a moment, taking in his unfocused, absent expression.
"Are you all right?" she asked at last, deciding to ask directly. "You seem out of sorts."
"I'm fine," Sirius said, with a flicker of impatience.
"You smell of Firewhisky. That's not 'fine.'" She looked at him squarely. "How much did you have?"
"A little—" He caught her expression and revised: "—quite a lot."
"I thought as much," she said. "No wonder you were talking to a cat for ten minutes."
It was a clear, full-moon night, without a cloud to soften it. She studied his face in the bright moonlight and saw something there she hadn't often seen in Sirius Black—undisguised anxiety and melancholy, stripped of all his usual bravado.
"What is it?" She examined his expression with quiet attention, then made a guess. "Harry? He's a good boy. I can't promise anything—but if I run into him in the maze, I'll look after him."
"It's more complicated than that. But thank you—your generosity means something. I do believe in Harry; he's a brave boy." Sirius gave her a sad, thin smile, drawing his feelings inward beneath lowered lashes.
What troubled him was Harry's scar, and the filthy soul sleeping beneath it.
He carried it like a stone.
He had failed once before. He hadn't protected James and Lily. He had planned meticulously, used every skill he possessed, and risked his own life—and they had still been taken.
This time, facing a situation with no clear solution and a child who might be Voldemort's Horcrux—could he protect Harry? Could he be the godfather James had trusted him to be?
He wavered, worried, doubted himself.
"Is this about Professor Moody?" Fleur ventured, remembering the months he had spent in that role, and finding the whole arrangement increasingly suspicious.
"It's not something I can explain easily," Sirius said, pacing restlessly, looking for somewhere to put his frustration. He ended up staring at a beetle that had settled on a leaf, blinking at it.
"I don't like seeing you like this," Fleur said, with a bluntness that was almost haughty. "You look like a coward."
Sirius looked up sharply. "Don't use words you don't understand."
"I understand perfectly well—because you won't tell me what happened!" She glared at him, genuinely angry now. "Whatever it is—don't be a coward about it. Go after what you want. Deal with whoever has made things difficult. Get back what matters to you. Standing here with your head down accomplishes nothing!"
"You are Sirius Black," she snapped. "They call you the bravest Gryffindor there ever was. Act like it."
Sirius stared at her.
For a moment, he was caught entirely off guard by the fire in her tone.
These past weeks had gradually softened some of his first impressions of her—the pleasant walks through the Forbidden Forest, the easy conversations, the warmth he hadn't expected. He had let certain memories fade.
But this was a reminder: she was not merely an elegant French girl who happened to be lovely. She was the young woman who had calmly faced a dragon.
She never lacked for courage.
"You're right," Sirius said quietly.
He looked at the defiant girl—her gentle face unexpectedly fierce in the moonlight, her silver eyes steady on his, a greenhouse flower unexpectedly, stubbornly growing wild.
Is he really less courageous than a seventeen-year-old girl?
Is Sirius Black going to be considered a coward by Fleur Delacour?
Something in him shifted. A difficult, weary smile began to form. "You're right. I need to pull myself together."
"I'll allow you one more night to feel sorry for yourself." She declared this with complete authority, her hands on her hips. "Tomorrow you return to being Sirius Black."
"Mind your own affairs," he said, beginning to walk, a genuine smile now at the corner of his mouth despite himself. "Why should I listen to you?"
"You dare say I'm meddling!" Under the warm silver light, she tossed back her long hair, pressed her lips together, and chased after him at a brisk, indignant pace. "Sirius Black, you impossible man—stop right there this instant!"