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The familiar crooked chimney of the Burrow rose against the summer sky like a defiant middle finger to architectural sensibility, and Harry had never been so bloody grateful to see something so wonderfully, ridiculously normal in his entire life. After weeks in the Lands Between—golden trees and grafted madmen and assassins in the night—the sight of Mrs. Weasley's washing line felt like a warm embrace from sanity itself. Even the self-wringing dishcloths and what looked suspiciously like Mr. Weasley's polka-dot underwear seemed like miracles of ordinary magic.
"Right then, Potter," Tonks said, her hair shifting to a cheerful orange that somehow managed to clash spectacularly with everything in sight. "Remember what Dumbledore said—you can tell them about your little interdimensional holiday, but keep the doom-and-gloom bits to yourself. No need to give Mrs. Weasley nightmares about cosmic horror gods, yeah?"
"Got it," Harry nodded, though his stomach was doing something that felt suspiciously like the time he'd accidentally eaten one of Dudley's diet shakes. How exactly did one casually mention traveling to another world, learning to use grace magic, and fighting grafted monstrosities without sounding completely mental? Oh, and by the way, I might have brought some rather unfriendly visitors back with me.
The front door burst open with enough force to rattle the Burrow's precarious foundations, and suddenly Harry was engulfed in a tidal wave of red hair, freckles, and the overwhelming scent of Mrs. Weasley's lavender soap mixed with something that smelled distinctly like Dungbombs—probably courtesy of the twins.
"Harry, my dear!" Mrs. Weasley's voice could have shattered glass at twenty paces, and her embrace threatened to finish what the Black Knife Assassins had started. "Where in Merlin's name have you been? We've been worried sick! Hermione's been beside herself, sending owls every day, and when they started coming back undelivered—"
"Mum, let the poor bloke breathe," came Ron's familiar voice, though Harry could hear the relief bleeding through the attempted casualness. "You're going to suffocate him before he can explain where he's been hiding."
"I wasn't hiding," Harry managed, extricating himself from Mrs. Weasley's bone-crushing embrace and finding himself face-to-face with a sea of concerned Weasley faces. Ron looked like he'd been losing sleep—which, knowing Ron, probably meant something was seriously wrong. The twins were grinning, but their usual mischievous sparkle was tempered with genuine worry that made Harry's chest tighten with guilt. Ginny hung back near the doorway, chewing her lower lip in a way that reminded him uncomfortably of Hermione when she was working through a particularly difficult Arithmancy problem.
And speaking of Hermione—there she was, standing slightly apart from the Weasley cluster, her bushy hair caught in the morning sunlight like a bronze halo. But it was her eyes that made Harry's chest tighten with something that had nothing to do with Mrs. Weasley's enthusiastic greeting. Those warm brown eyes were studying him like someone cataloguing every change, every new scar, every sign that he wasn't quite the same Harry Potter who'd disappeared from Privet Drive weeks ago.
Because he wasn't the same, was he? The boy who'd struggled to lift Dudley's dumbbells was gone, replaced by someone who could wield the Lordsworn's Greatsword and channel grace magic. Someone who'd killed Godrick the Grafted and absorbed his runes. Someone who'd watched Captain Artan die protecting people Harry cared about.
"Blimey, Harry," Fred said. "You look like you've been wrestling dragons. And winning."
"More muscle definition," George added with clinical appreciation. "Definitely more scars. And is it just me, or do you seem... taller?"
"I haven't grown," Harry protested, though he caught Hermione's slight smile at his defensive tone. At least some things hadn't changed.
"Different, though," came a new voice from the doorway, and Harry felt a jolt of surprise. He'd heard about Ron's eldest brother—the curse-breaker with the long hair and dragon-hide jacket—but seeing Bill Weasley in person was something else entirely. Bill looked like he could handle himself in a fight, which made Harry wonder if all the Weasley brothers had that particular talent, or if it was just the ones who dealt with dangerous magical creatures for a living.
"Bill!" Ron said enthusiastically. "This is Harry—you know, the Harry I've told you about. Harry, this is Bill. He's here for the summer until the Quidditch World Cup."
The Quidditch World Cup. Harry felt his eyes widen as the memory hit him like a rogue Bludger. In all the chaos of assassins and outer gods and interdimensional warfare, he'd completely forgotten about normal wizard things. "Bloody hell, I'd completely forgotten about that!"
"How could you forget the World Cup?" Ron demanded, looking personally offended. "I wrote about it in my letters! Ireland versus Bulgaria! Viktor Krum! The greatest Quidditch match in—"
"Ron," Hermione said quietly, "Harry wasn't getting your letters, remember?"
An uncomfortable silence settled over the group like a wet blanket. Harry could practically feel the questions buzzing in the air around him. Where had he been? Why hadn't he received letters? What had happened to make him look like he'd been through a war?
"So," Mr. Weasley said, appearing from what Harry assumed was his shed—his hands were covered in some sort of black grease, and there were tiny gears stuck to his robes. "Where exactly have you been, Harry? Dumbledore was rather... vague... when he explained the situation."
Harry opened his mouth, then closed it again. Where did one even begin? With Melina appearing in his bedroom? With waking up in the Realm of Shadow? With learning that outer gods were trying to influence his world through him and possibly Voldemort?
"It's... complicated," he said finally, which was possibly the understatement of the century.
"Try us," Fred said cheerfully. "We like complicated."
"Especially if it involves disappearing from locked rooms," George added. "That's advanced magic, that is."
"It wasn't magic," Harry said, then immediately regretted it when every face turned toward him with renewed interest. "Well, not exactly. Not our kind of magic, anyway."
"What other kind is there?" Ginny asked, speaking for the first time since Harry's arrival.
"Where's Charlie?" he asked instead, grasping for safer ground. "Is he coming for the Cup too?"
"Charlie's on some sort of secret mission," Mr. Weasley said, his expression growing slightly troubled. "Ministry business, apparently. Something to do with dragons, but they won't tell us what. We haven't heard from him in weeks."
"That's not like Charlie," Bill said, frowning. "He usually manages to send word, even when he's in the middle of nowhere chasing Romanian Longhorns."
"I'm sure he's fine," Mrs. Weasley said, though her voice carried the particular brand of forced cheerfulness that mothers employed when they were anything but sure. "Charlie knows how to handle dragons better than anyone."
Harry nodded. He had enough to worry about without adding Charlie Weasley to the list.
"Right," Ron said, clearly tired of dancing around the elephant in the room. "Enough about Charlie. Harry, mate, what the bloody hell happened to you? Where have you been? And don't give us any more rubbish about it being complicated—we've been worried sick!"
Harry looked around at their faces again—these people who'd welcomed him into their chaotic, wonderful world without question. They deserved the truth. As much of it as he could safely give them.
"Alright," he said, taking a deep breath that tasted like Mrs. Weasley's cooking and home and everything he'd missed more than he'd realized. "But you might want to sit down for this."
Harry followed Mrs. Weasley toward the main room of the Burrow, his eyes drinking in every crooked detail of the place he'd come to think of as home. The wonky stairs that creaked in seventeen different keys, the self-washing dishes clattering cheerfully in the sink, the family clock with its hands pointing to various combinations of "home," "work," and "mortal peril"—it had only been two weeks for them, but to Harry it felt like returning to a half-remembered dream from another lifetime.
Tonks trailed behind him, her pink hair shifting to a more subdued brown as she tried to look professional while clearly thinking this was all a bit much. Harry caught her muttering something under her breath about "protecting the Boy Who Can Kill Six Assassins With A Glowing Sword" and had to suppress a smile.
"Are you hungry, dear?" Mrs. Weasley asked. "You look like you haven't had a proper meal in weeks."
Harry nodded, still taking in the familiar chaos of the Burrow's kitchen. The place felt smaller somehow, more fragile than he remembered. Had the walls always been quite so thin? Had the magical warmth that suffused every inch of the house always felt quite so... gentle?
"What's wrong?" Ron asked, noticing Harry's distracted expression. "You look like you've never seen our kitchen before."
"Nothing's wrong," Harry said quickly. "It's just... different being back here."
Ron frowned, clearly not understanding why being at the Burrow would feel bizarre to someone who'd practically grown up here. Before he could press the issue, heavy footsteps on the stairs announced the arrival of Percy Weasley, his Ministry badge gleaming on his chest and his hair slicked back with what looked like enough pomade to lubricate a Quidditch pitch.
"Morning, Percy," Ron said with a grin that promised mischief. "Finally get that badge clean enough? I could see my reflection in it yesterday, but today it's positively blinding."
Percy's jaw tightened, but he maintained his dignity with the sort of practiced restraint that came from years of dealing with Fred and George. "Hello, Harry," he said, pointedly ignoring his younger brother. "Good to see you're... well."
"Hello, Percy," Harry replied, noting how the older boy's eyes lingered on the small scars visible on his hands and forearms. Even Percy's bureaucratic sensibilities could apparently detect that something significant had happened.
"Harry," Mr. Weasley said, wiping his grease-stained hands on a dish towel, "would you mind coming to the living room? If you're comfortable talking about... well, whatever it is you'd like to share." He gave his assembled children a look that clearly communicated they were to behave themselves or face consequences involving permanent kitchen duty. "And if you don't want to discuss it, that's perfectly fine too. Not another question from any of us."
Harry appreciated the offer, but these people deserved to know at least some of what had happened. "I can tell you," he said. "Most of it, anyway."
The Weasley living room was as wonderfully cluttered as ever, with its sagging armchairs and the wireless crackling softly in the corner. Harry settled into his usual spot on the sofa, noting how the cushions seemed to remember the shape of him, while the others arranged themselves around the room like an audience waiting for a particularly interesting play to begin.
"Right then," Harry said, taking a deep breath. "I was in a different world."
The silence that followed was the kind that made clocks tick louder.
"A different world," Hermione repeated slowly, her voice carrying the particular tone she used when someone had just suggested that hippogriffs could fly to the moon. "Harry, that's... that's not possible. There's no credible magical theory that supports the existence of parallel dimensions accessible through—"
"Hermione," Harry interrupted gently, "I know how it sounds. But it's true. The place is called the Lands Between, and it's..." He paused, searching for words that wouldn't terrify them. "It's complicated. There's this massive golden tree that towers over everything, and people there use a different kind of magic called Grace."
"Grace?" Mr. Weasley asked, his curiosity clearly piqued despite his promise not to press for details.
"Here," Harry said, standing up and moving to the center of the room. "Let me show you."
He closed his eyes, feeling for that familiar warmth within him, and whispered the incantation: "Minor Erdtree."
Golden light bloomed from the floorboards beneath his feet, spreading upward in a cascade of warm radiance. The ethereal tree took shape before their eyes—trunk, branches, leaves—until a luminous sapling of pure energy stretched toward the ceiling, bathing the entire room in gentle, healing light.
The silence this time was of the stunned variety.
"Bloody hell," Fred breathed.
"That's the same thing!" George exclaimed, snapping his fingers. "The butterfly woman—she did exactly the same thing when she healed you at the hospital!"
Harry's heart jumped. "Butterfly woman?"
"Golden eye, turned into blue butterflies, healed you when the regular healers couldn't," Ron explained rapidly. "Said something about you defeating someone called Godrick."
"Melina," Harry said softly, and he couldn't keep the warmth from his voice. The golden tree flickered slightly, responding to his emotions. "Her name is Melina. She's... she's my friend."
The way Hermione's eyebrows shot up at his tone suggested she'd caught the nuance he'd tried to hide.
"You made friends in that horrible world?" she asked.
"Not all of the Lands Between is things trying to kill you," Harry said, letting the tree fade away as he sat back down. "There are good people there too. People fighting to make things better."
"What about that creature that attacked you at Privet Drive?" Ron asked, leaning forward with the sort of intense interest he usually reserved for Quidditch statistics. "Tonks described it, and it sounded absolutely mental."
Harry waved a dismissive hand. "That's not a danger to any of you. It won't attack again."
Percy, who'd been listening frowned. "But is your being here a danger to us?"
The question earned him sharp looks from the rest of his family, but Harry appreciated the directness. "Not for long," he assured them. "Once dusk comes, I'll be leaving."
Mrs. Weasley's face crumpled as if he'd just announced he was planning to juggle Hungarian Horntails. "Leave? But you've only just arrived! Where will you go?"
"Mad-Eye Moody has found a place for me," Harry said, hating the way her expression fell further.
"Nonsense," Mrs. Weasley said firmly. "You can stay here. We've got plenty of room, and—"
"Actually, Mrs. Weasley," Tonks interjected apologetically, "Dumbledore specifically wants Harry somewhere else for the time being. Just as a precaution."
Ron, clearly eager to move past the uncomfortable subject of Harry leaving, jumped in with renewed enthusiasm. "Tell us about your adventures then. What was this Godrick bloke like?"
Harry considered how much to share. "Godrick The Grafted was the lord of a castle called Stormveil. I had to fight my way through it to reach him." He paused, remembering the terror and exhilaration of those battles. "Godrick himself was... challenging."
"Why do they call him 'the Grafted'?" Ginny asked, she seemed to have been the only one who had noticed this little detail.
Harry felt his expression darken. "Because he was weak. So he decided to make himself stronger by... by taking the limbs and body parts of people and creatures he'd defeated and grafting them onto himself."
The collective sound of disgust that rose from the assembled Weasleys was immediate and heartfelt. Hermione actually went green around the gills.
"That's absolutely revolting," she managed.
"He had dozens of arms," Harry continued, noting their horrified fascination. "And various other additions. It was... disturbing."
"Do you have to go back there?" Hermione asked quietly, looking at Harry, wanting him to say no.
"Yes," he said without hesitation. "There are still things that need to be fixed. People who need help."
Mrs. Weasley made a sound of protest. "Harry, dear, you're just a boy. Surely there are adults in this other world who can handle these problems?"
"There are," Harry admitted. "But this is something I need to do."
Mrs. Weasley looked deeply unhappy with this answer.
"Why did you almost die when you came back?" Ginny talked before her mother decided to have a very long discussion on why Harry should stay safe, and that someone like Dumbledore should be the one handling these kinds of problems. "If you won against this Godrick person?"
Harry's expression grew distant as he remembered the final moments of that battle. "It took everything we had to bring him down. Me and my friends... we barely survived it."
He found himself thinking of Nepheli's fierce determination, of Captain Artan's sacrifice, of Melina's worried face as she'd tended to his wounds afterward. A part of him—a larger part than he wanted to admit—ached to return to them, to continue the fight they'd started together.
"This Grace magic," Fred said suddenly, his eyes lighting up with the sort of dangerous enthusiasm that usually preceded elaborate pranks, "could you teach us some of it?"
"Yeah," George added, grinning. "Imagine the possibilities for joke products!"
Harry shook his head. "I doubt you could use it. Grace seems to be... specific to people who've been chosen. Or marked by it, somehow."
The twins looked disappointed but not entirely discouraged, which worried Harry slightly.
"Right then," Ron said, clearly sensing that the heavy conversation needed to move toward lighter topics, "want to see my room? I've got some new Quidditch posters, and Mum finally let me reorganize my Chocolate Frog cards."
Harry felt a wave of relief at the return to normal teenage concerns. "That sounds brilliant."
As they headed for the stairs, Ron chattering about his latest Chudley Cannons acquisitions, Harry caught Hermione watching him with thoughtful eyes. There would be more questions later, he knew. Hermione never let anything go when it involved people she cared about.
"So what have you been up to these past two weeks?" Harry asked as they climbed the wonky stairs to Ron's room. "Besides worrying about me, I mean."
Ron launched into an enthusiastic description of his summer activities—helping de-gnome the garden (unsuccessful), attempting to teach Pig to carry longer messages (disastrous), and engaging in an ongoing prank war with the twins that had so far resulted in three minor explosions and one incident involving sentient pudding.
Harry listened with genuine pleasure, letting the familiar rhythm of Ron's rambling wash over him. This was what he'd missed most about his world—not the magic or the adventure, but the simple warmth of friendship and family.
Even as part of his mind remained focused on the dangers that might be following him, Harry allowed himself to enjoy this moment of normalcy. Whatever came next, at least he'd had this—the reminder of what he was fighting to protect.
Dumbledore
The Headmaster's office at Hogwarts sat empty of students for the summer, but not idle. Three wizards stood around Dumbledore's massive desk, upon which were stacked dozens of ancient tomes, scrolls, and what appeared to be a collection of charred diary pages preserved between sheets of glass.
"Nothing," Kingsley Shacklebolt said, his deep voice heavy with frustration. "Absolutely nothing of value in any standard magical reference. I've been through the Ministry archives, private collections, even dipped into some questionable sources in Knockturn Alley." He gestured to the books scattered across Dumbledore's desk. "These were the closest I could find."
Dumbledore picked up one particularly ancient volume bound in what appeared to be fish skin. "And these sources were..."
"Mostly the ravings of wizards considered unhinged even by our community's generous standards," Kingsley admitted. "This one was written by Archimedes Fizzlewit in 1723. He claimed to have traveled to another world through his bathtub drain."
Moody snorted derisively, his magical eye swiveling to examine the book. "Fizzlewit? The same lunatic who tried to prove dragons were just enlarged lizards with pepper-up potion addictions?"
"The very same," Kingsley confirmed. "Another text speaks of 'cosmic doorways' accessed through specialized potion use, but the author died after testing his own concoction. Became a rather nasty smear across his laboratory ceiling."
Dumbledore sighed, setting down the book and removing his half-moon spectacles to pinch the bridge of his crooked nose. "I feared as much. The kind of magic we're dealing with appears to be outside our traditional understanding."
"What about the Department of Mysteries?" Moody growled, his scarred face looking even more menacing in the flickering candlelight. "Unspeakables must know something about this sort of thing. It's right up their secretive alley."
Kingsley's expression darkened. "I've tried. Croaker was fascinated by the assassins' bodies, but when I pressed about interdimensional travel or world connections, he shut down completely. Said such research was 'classified beyond my clearance level,' even as an Auror."
"Perhaps he truly doesn't know," Dumbledore suggested.
"Or perhaps he does and isn't sharing," Moody countered. "Unspeakables and their bloody secrets. Trying to get information from them is—"
"Like trying to eat rocks with your teeth," Kingsley finished with a grim smile. "Exactly what I told Albus earlier."
Dumbledore rose from his chair and crossed to the window, looking out over the summer-green grounds of Hogwarts. The lake sparkled peacefully in the distance, giving no indication of the potential catastrophe brewing.
"We could consider more... direct approaches," Moody suggested, his voice lowering conspiratorially. "The Japanese Ministry has an entire division dedicated to spiritual boundaries. The Italians have been documenting dimensional anomalies since Roman times. We could—"
"Break into foreign ministries of magic?" Kingsley asked incredulously. "That would cause an international incident at best, and at worst..."
"At worst, we'd have information that might prevent this 'Frenzied Flame' from reducing our world to ash," Moody retorted. "Seems worth risking a diplomatic row."
Dumbledore turned back from the window. "Not yet, Alastor. Such actions would require careful consideration. If these entities from the Lands Between can appear at will, we must assume they can do so anywhere. Creating international tensions would only hamper our ability to respond cohesively."
"What about Snape?" Kingsley asked. "Any change in his... condition?"
A shadow crossed Dumbledore's face. "The red glow in the eye sockets of the Dark Mark has intensified. Severus reports occasional... whispers. Unintelligible, but disturbing."
"And you still think we shouldn't tell the Minister?" Kingsley pressed.
"Cornelius would either panic or dismiss the threat entirely," Dumbledore replied. "Neither response would be helpful. For now, we must continue our research while ensuring Harry's safety."
"Speaking of Potter," Moody interjected, "the Burrow's protections have been enhanced as you requested. Basic Muggle-repelling charms, advanced detection wards, and a few of my own specialties." A grim smile twisted his scarred features. "Anyone trying to get near them won't have an easy time, but since those bloody assassins were able to just appear right in front of us. I'm not sure if those wards will be a real defence and not just a minor inconvience for those from that other world."
"And Nymphadora remains with him?" Dumbledore asked.
"Hasn't left his side," Kingsley confirmed. "Though she reports he's showing no signs of distress. Quite the opposite—he seems to be adapting remarkably well to being back."
"Too well, perhaps," Moody muttered. "Boy spent what felt like months fighting for his life in another world, then comes back and acts like nothing happened? Not natural."
"Harry has always shown remarkable resilience," Dumbledore observed. "Though I share your concern that he may be suppressing his experiences rather than processing them."
Dumbledore returned to his desk, fingering the edge of an ancient scroll covered in symbols none of them recognized.
"What about that butterfly woman?" Kingsley asked. "She clearly knew about the Lands Between. Could we somehow... summon her...Melina, that was her name?"
"I've considered it," Dumbledore admitted. "But without understanding how she appears and disappears, any attempt would be guesswork. And guesswork, when dealing with powers of this magnitude, could be disastrous."
"So we're back to waiting," Moody said bitterly. "Waiting for another attack, waiting for more information, waiting for the bloody world to start ending."
"Not waiting, Alastor. Preparing," Dumbledore corrected gently. "And seeking. There is one avenue we haven't yet explored fully."
Both men looked at the Headmaster expectantly.
"Harry's sword," Dumbledore said simply. "The one he brought back from the Lands Between. Its properties are unlike anything I've encountered. It resists all known forms of magical analysis, yet clearly contains immense power."
"You think it might provide answers?" Kingsley asked.
"I think," Dumbledore said carefully, "that we need more information, and quickly. Whether from books, Unspeakables, foreign ministries, or mysterious artifacts, we cannot afford to dismiss any potential source." He glanced toward the window again, his blue eyes troubled. "I fear time may be running out faster than we realize."
Harry Potter
The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the Weasleys' garden as Harry wandered among the unruly plants.
Harry found himself drawn to the old stone bench at the garden's edge, where he could see the orchard stretching out before him. In the Lands Between, he rarely had moments like this—a peaceful interlude with no monsters lurking, no urgent task demanding attention. Just the whisper of wind through apple trees and the distant sound of chickens clucking.
"There you are."
Hermione's voice startled him from his reverie. She stood a few paces away, her bushy hair tamed into a loose braid that hung over one shoulder. She wore a simple blue sundress that Harry had never seen before, and there was something in her expression that made his pulse quicken.
"Mind if I join you?" she asked, sounding uncertain.
"Course not," Harry replied, shifting to make room on the bench.
She sat beside him, close enough that he could smell the lavender in her hair. For a moment, neither spoke. Harry found himself intensely aware of every detail—the way her fingers twisted nervously in her lap, the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she breathed, the freckles scattered across her nose from summer sun.
"I wrote to you," Hermione finally said, breaking the silence. "Every day after you stopped replying."
Harry felt a pang of guilt. "I'm sorry. I never meant to worry you."
"Fourteen letters," she continued, as if he hadn't spoken. "I sent fourteen letters over two weeks. The first few were normal—just telling you about Paris, asking about your summer. Then they got worried. Then frightened." Her voice caught slightly. "The last one was just begging you to let me know you were alive."
"Hermione, I—"
"Do you have any idea what it was like?" Her eyes suddenly blazed. "Not knowing where you were? If you were hurt or... or worse? Ron kept saying you were probably fine, that maybe your aunt and uncle were stopping your mail again, but I knew something was wrong. I could feel it."
Harry reached for her hand without thinking. "I would never intentionally put you through that," he said softly. "Time works differently in the Lands Between. What felt like months to me was only weeks here."
Hermione's fingers closed around his, her grip surprisingly strong. "I know that now. But then..." She shook her head. "I thought I was going to go mad with worry."
"I'm sorry," Harry said again, feeling the inadequacy of the words.
A small smile finally touched her lips. "Well, you should be. I was supposed to be enjoying Paris, and instead I spent half my time checking for owl post and the other half driving my parents mad with theories about what might have happened to you."
Harry couldn't help but smile back. "I can just picture it. Did you make one of your color-coded research schedules?"
"Don't be ridiculous, Harry," she said, the tension between them easing slightly. "It was a mind map, not a schedule."
They both laughed, and Harry felt something in his chest loosen. This was Hermione—his brilliant, loyal, sometimes maddening best friend. Except... there was something different now, something in the way she looked at him that hadn't been there before.
"Did you get my photos?" she asked suddenly, a touch of color rising in her cheeks. "From Paris, I mean. I sent them with my third letter."
"I did," Harry confirmed, remembering the surprise he'd felt seeing Hermione standing beside the Eiffel Tower, looking so different from the school-robed version he was used to. "They were... you looked..."
He faltered, suddenly unsure of himself. In the Lands Between, he'd faced down monsters that would make grown wizards flee in terror, but here, trying to express his feelings to Hermione, he felt completely out of his depth.
"What?" Hermione prompted, her eyes wide and vulnerable.
"Beautiful," Harry finally managed. "You looked beautiful."
Hermione's lips parted slightly in surprise, as if this wasn't the answer she'd expected.
"You never said anything in your reply," she said softly.
"I didn't know how," Harry admitted. "I'm not... I'm not good with words like that."
Hermione shifted on the bench, turning to face him more directly. "Harry, there's something I need to tell you. My feelings for you have been... changing. For a while now."
Harry's heart pounded against his ribs. "Changing how?"
"I think you know," she whispered, her eyes dropping to their still-joined hands.
"Hermione, I—" Harry began, but the words jammed in his throat. How could he explain what he was feeling? The connection to the Lands Between, the unfinished business there, the confused tangle of emotions for the people in both worlds?
"It's okay if you don't feel the same," Hermione said quickly, misinterpreting his hesitation. "I just needed you to know, especially after thinking I'd lost you without ever telling you."
"No, that's not it," Harry said, finding his voice. "When I was in the Lands Between, fighting for my life, do you know what kept me going some days? Thinking of you and Ron. Wondering if I'd ever see you again. Remembering your voice." He took a deep breath. "When I saw those photos, I realized something had changed for me too."
Hope bloomed in Hermione's eyes. "Really?"
Instead of answering with words, Harry leaned forward slowly, giving her every chance to pull away. She didn't. Her eyes fluttered closed as his lips met hers in a gentle, tentative kiss. Harry remembered his first kiss with Melina before his fight with Godrick, and now his second kiss with Hermione, both were soft, sweet, and amazing.
When they separated, Hermione's eyes remained closed for a moment longer, as if savoring the sensation. When she opened them, a smile spread across her face that made Harry's chest tight with emotion.
"That was..." she began.
"Yeah," Harry agreed, unable to stop his own smile, even if it was a dumb smile.
Hermione's expression turned thoughtful. "You have feelings for her too, don't you? Melina."
Harry stiffened in surprise. "How did you—"
"The way you say her name," Hermione explained. "Your voice changes. Your eyes get this faraway look." She squeezed his hand reassuringly. "It's okay, Harry."
"I don't understand," Harry said, genuinely confused. "You're not... upset?"
Hermione looked down at their joined hands, considering her words carefully. "I've had a lot of time to think while you were gone. About what I want, about who you are." She met his eyes again. "You've always been different, Harry. Your life has never been simple or... normal. Why should your heart be any different?"
"Most people would be jealous," Harry pointed out.
"I'm not most people," Hermione replied with a hint of her usual confidence. "And besides, I haven't even talked with this Melina. Maybe I'll hate her." A mischievous smile played at her lips. "Or maybe I'll like her too."
Harry's eyebrows shot up, and Hermione laughed at his expression.
"I'm not saying I know exactly how I feel about all this," she continued more seriously. "But I do know that I care about you, and that nearly losing you made me realize life is too short and too unpredictable to waste time with jealousy or rigid expectations."
"So what does this mean? For us?" Harry asked.
Hermione considered the question. "It means we explore these feelings. Slowly. No pressure, no expectations. Just... seeing where it leads."
"I'd like that," Harry said, feeling lighter than he had since returning from the Lands Between.
"Good," Hermione said decisively, standing and pulling him to his feet. "Now, we should probably get back before Ron sends the twins come looking for us."
Harry grimaced at the thought of the teasing that would follow if Fred and George caught them in a private moment. "Good point."
Night
The summer evening had settled over the Burrow like a comfortable blanket, with the last rays of sunlight painting the crooked walls in shades of gold and amber. Arthur Weasley was making his final rounds, checking the garden gnomes and ensuring the chickens were properly secured for the night, when a figure appeared at the edge of their property.
The man emerged from the gathering dusk like a specter, his travel-worn robes hanging loose on his frame and his face etched with the kind of exhaustion that came from days without proper sleep. Arthur squinted in the dim light, recognition dawning slowly.
"Dmitri?" he called out, setting down his watering can as the man approached. "Dmitri Petrov?"
The burly Russian wizard looked older than Arthur remembered, his magnificent beard now streaked with premature gray and his usually jovial expression replaced by something grim and haunted.
"Arthur Weasley," Dmitri said, his heavily accented voice carrying none of its usual warmth. "I am sorry to come so late, but I must speak with you."
Arthur felt his stomach drop. In all the years he'd known Dmitri—Charlie's team captain and one of the finest dragon handlers in Eastern Europe—he'd never seen the man look so shaken.
"What's happened?" Arthur asked, though he wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer.
Molly appeared in the doorway, drawn by the sound of unfamiliar voices. She took one look at Dmitri's expression and her hand flew to her throat.
"Charlie," she whispered.
Dmitri nodded grimly. "Your son and his team... they were attacked three days ago in the Carpathian Mountains. By something we have never encountered before."
"Attacked?" Arthur's voice came out strangled. "By what? Dragons don't usually—"
"Not dragons," Dmitri interrupted, shaking his head. "Something else." He paused, struggling with words that seemed inadequate. "A dragon, yes, but not like any we know. White as fresh snow, with four wings instead of two, and larger than anything in our textbooks."
Molly made a small, choked sound.
"Charlie..." Arthur managed. "Is he...?"
"Alive," Dmitri said quickly, "but badly wounded. We barely escaped. The creature... it wielded lightning like a weapon, crimson lightning that it shaped into blades." His voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "We lost two good people, Arthur. Just... gone. Vaporized."
The color drained from Arthur's face as the implications hit him. Charlie was in danger—mortal danger—from something that defied all known magical understanding.
"Where is he now?" Molly asked, her voice barely controlled.
"St. Bartholomew's Hospital for Magical Injuries in Romania," Dmitri replied. "The healers are doing what they can, but the wounds... they are not healing properly. Something about that creature's lightning—it leaves marks that resist magical treatment."
Arthur felt the world tilt slightly. First Harry's mysterious wounds that wouldn't heal, and now Charlie suffering from the same inexplicable condition. The coincidence was too stark to ignore.
"How soon can we leave?" Molly asked, already turning toward the house.
"I have emergency Portkey authorization," Dmitri said. "We can go immediately."
As they rushed toward the Burrow to gather their things, Arthur couldn't shake the feeling that whatever had attacked his son was connected to the strange forces that seemed to be converging around Harry Potter.
The supernatural threats were no longer abstract dangers—they were coming for his family.
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