The back seat of the Grangers' sedan smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and aging paperback novels—the crisp, orderly scent of people who paid attention to details. My fingers traced the stitching on my new trousers (bought specially for this meeting, I suspected) as suburban London slid by in perfectly aligned rows of Georgian townhouses and pruned hedges. Everything here moved with the steady, rhythmic predictability of a metronome. No sudden bursts of green flame from the fireplace travel, no owls swooping past with howlers. Just... quiet.
Richard Granger drove with his left wrist resting casually atop the steering wheel, the sleeves of his button-down rolled to the elbows, revealing a faded tan line where a watch usually sat. The kind of man who removed jewelry before surgery, I noted. Beside him, Emily twisted in her seat to face him as much as the seatbelt allowed, animatedly recounting her morning's dental consult.
"—and then Mrs. Henderson actually pulled out a pamphlet from some conspiracy forum claiming fluoride calcifies the pineal gland!" Emily's laughter crinkled the corners of her eyes. "I had to bite my tongue so hard I nearly drew blood."
Richard's chuckle vibrated through the car seats. "Should've told her about the time I assisted on an emergency appendectomy where the patient swore government telepaths stole his appendix." His thumb tapped a jaunty rhythm against the wheel. "The scar's right there, I said. Then he claimed they'd implanted a tracking device in the incision."
Their laughter wove together like practiced dance partners, revealing a warmth that hinted at genuine connection, drawing the reader into their bond.
A sudden weightlessness twisted in my gut. Fifty years and two lifetimes, yet this simple dynamic remained utterly foreign.
"You're very quiet back there, Harry." Emily's reflection met mine in the rearview mirror. Her brown eyes held none of the clinical assessment I'd come to expect from adults—just open curiosity. "First time in a car?"
I've ridden in a few, though each time felt like a reminder of my outsider status. The Knight Bus hardly counts, but it's all I've known.
She nodded, twisting further to face me properly. The seatbelt protested with a sharp click. "We thought we'd start with an early dinner at this little Italian place near the park. Unless there's something you'd prefer?"
Italian. No treacle tarts or pumpkin pasties. No floating candles or singing suits of armor. My fingers flexed against my thighs. "That sounds... nice."
Richard's gaze flicked to me via the mirror. "Emily mentioned you enjoy reading?"
"Yes." Too quick. I forced my shoulders to relax. "Mostly nonfiction. Biology, sometimes history." The last word tasted like ashes.
"Really?" Emily's eyebrows rose. "Hermione adores history books, too. Though she's more partial to"—her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper—"the dramatic ones with swords and political intrigue."
A corner of my mouth twitched. The Grangers spoke of their daughter with the same casual affection they showed each other—no performative pride, no veiled expectations. Just... fondness.
Richard navigated a roundabout with practiced ease. "Any other hobbies? Sports? Music?"
My thumbnail traced the ridge of where a scar had long been on my palm—a souvenir from Nagini's strike in another lifetime, a reminder of past battles I can't forget.
Emily didn't recoil. "Oh! What kind?"
"A grass snake. Found it injured in the garden." Tom Riddle's bony fingers, smoothing back the creature's scales, flickered behind my eyelids. "It liked to curl around my wrist while I read."
"Did you name it?" Richard asked.
"Salazar." The word hung between us, heavy with unintended irony.
To their credit, neither Granger flinched.
"Strong name," Richard said mildly. Emily's smile didn't waver.
The car slowed before a red-brick building with checkered tablecloths visible through the windows. Richard killed the engine and turned fully in his seat. His expression held none of the wary calculation I'd come to expect from adults assessing a strange boy with reptile fascinations—just quiet attention.
Richard's gentle tone and the way he brushed Emily's knuckles conveyed genuine concern, making me feel cared for and safe in their presence.
The sincerity in his voice prickled behind my sternum. Fifty years and two lifetimes, and no one had ever asked Tom Riddle—or Harry Potter—that question quite so simply.
I met his gaze squarely. "I will."
Another lie. But for the first time, part of me wished it weren't.
The drive took about forty minutes. The scenery shifted from quiet suburban streets to the bustling outskirts of the city—traffic thickened, the air grew louder, and the buildings crowded closer together. Through the window, I watched a group of children dash across a park, their laughter swallowed by the honking of impatient commuters. Emily drummed her fingers against the armrest, her eyes flicking between the road and her watch.
The unremarkable, well-kept school with its trees and playground made me feel a quiet sense of safety and normalcy, easing my worries about the unknown.
Richard pulled into a parking space near the curb, the car settling with a quiet sigh of suspension. Emily twisted in her seat, rechecking the time.
"She should be out any minute," she murmured. Then, softer, to Richard, "I hope she had a better day."
He exhaled through his nose, his fingers tightening fractionally around the wheel. "Me too."
I said nothing. But I had already learned that Hermione Granger was not the kind of child who often had "better days."
The bell rang, sharp and metallic, and the school erupted.
Doors burst open, and children spilled out in a chaotic wave—backpacks bouncing, voices rising in overlapping shouts, laughter, and the occasional wail of a scraped knee. Some kids sprinted for freedom, others trudged with the weight of impending homework. Parents waited along the curb, arms outstretched for hugs, voices calling out reminders about dinner or chores.
Emily leaned forward, scanning the crowd. "There she is."
I followed her gaze.
Hermione walked alone.
Her steps were slow, deliberate—not the careless bounce of other children her age. Her shoulders hunched slightly, as if braced against an invisible weight. Her hair, usually tamed into a tight ponytail, had escaped in wild tendrils around her face. She clutched her bag to her chest like a shield, her knuckles white.
And then I noticed the tear tracks.
They were faint, hastily wiped, but the redness around her eyes betrayed her.
Emily sucked in a sharp breath. Richard went very still beside her.
Hermione reached the car and climbed into the back seat beside me. She shut the door harder than necessary, the sound final, like the closing of a book she never wanted to read again.
"How was your day, sweetheart?" Emily asked, twisting around to face her. Her voice was gentle, but I heard the tension beneath it.
Hermione's breath hitched. Then the words spilled out in a rush—teachers who dismissed her questions, classmates who rolled their eyes when she answered correctly, the whispered names ("know-it-all," "teacher's pet"), the laughter when she stumbled over her own eagerness. Her voice wavered between frustration and something worse—bewilderment as if she couldn't understand why intelligence made her a target.
And then Emily asked, softly, "And the book? The one we got you for your birthday?"
Hermione froze.
Her hands curled into fists in her lap. She swallowed hard.
"Some kids… asked to borrow it," she mumbled, staring at her knees.
A muscle in Richard's jaw jumped. Emily's fingers tightened against the seat.
I didn't need Legilimency to know the truth. Neither did they.
"Who?" Richard asked, his voice dangerously calm.
Hermione shook her head violently. "It doesn't matter."
"It does," Emily said quietly.
Hermione's bottom lip trembled. "They'll just—it'll get worse if you say anything. It always does."
A pause. The air in the car grew thick with helpless anger.
Then Hermione whispered, "They ripped out the last chapter."
Emily made a slight, wounded sound.
I unbuckled my seatbelt.
"Harry?" Emily asked sharply.
Hermione finally looked at me, really looked at me, confusion flickering across her face. "Are you… Are you my new foster brother?"
I nodded. "Yes."
She blinked. "Oh."
I stepped out of the car before anyone could stop me.
The school doors were still open, straggling kids drifting out in smaller groups now. Inside, the halls were littered with crumpled paper and the echoes of voices fading as classrooms emptied.
The laughter was unmistakable—the kind that curled around cruelty like smoke around a flame. I let my magic simmer just beneath the surface, molten and restless, as I followed the sound down the school corridor.
There they were—five of them, clustered near the lockers like a pack of wolves lounging after a hunt. The tallest, a boy with a buzzcut and knuckles already too big for his age, had Hermione's book wedged under his arm, its spine bent backward at an unnatural angle. A girl with a high ponytail and a smirk like a blade was reading aloud, dragging her finger under Hermione's neat annotations before deliberately wrinkling a page.
"You should see the way she writes," Ponytail sneered, flicking the edge of the paper. "Like a fucking robot."
Buzzcut snorted, tearing a corner off one of the pages. "Bet she cries if we burn it."
I didn't announce myself. Just stepped into their circle as I belonged there, hands loose at my sides.
"That book," I said, voice flat, "isn't yours."
They turned as one, eyes flicking over me—minor, ten years old, no threat. Buzzcut's smirk widened.
"Who the fuck are you supposed to be?"
"Someone who's going to ask nicely once," I said. "After that, I stop asking."
Ponytail barked a laugh. "Ooh, scary." She leaned down, her breath hot with mint gum. "Run along, little boy. Before you get hurt."
Buzzcut shoved me—hard, the kind of push meant to send a kid sprawling. I let myself stagger back a step, just enough to sell it.
"Last chance," I said quietly.
The boy with the buzzcut laughed and held the book up between two fingers like it was a prize he'd earned. He tore another page in half, slow and deliberate, letting the scraps flutter to the ground.
Something inside me went cold.
I didn't shout. I didn't warn them again. I stepped forward.
Buzzcut didn't even finish his grin before my fist snapped up and cracked into his nose. There was a sharp, wet sound, and his head whipped back, arms flailing as he stumbled into the lockers behind him. Metal rang as a bell struck too hard. He slid down, wheezing, hands clamped to his face.
Ponytail screamed and rushed me, nails out, sloppy and angry. I ducked under her swing, felt the air brush my hair, then drove my shoulder into her stomach. She folded with a grunt. Before she could recover, my elbow came down across her back, knocking the breath clean out of her. She hit the floor hard and stayed there, gasping like a fish.
"Get him!" someone yelled.
Three more came at once.
Bad move.
The first grabbed for my jacket. I twisted, using his grip against him, yanking him forward and smashing my forehead into his face. Stars burst in my vision, pain blooming sharp and bright, but he went down harder, clutching his mouth and howling.
The second swung wildly, all arms and panic. I stepped inside the punch, too close for him to react, and drove my fist into his ribs. Once. Twice. The sound was dull, ugly. He dropped to one knee, coughing, and I kicked his leg out from under him. He hit the floor with a thud and didn't get back up.
The last one hesitated.
I saw it then. The flicker of doubt. The sudden realization that I wasn't backing down, that I wasn't afraid.
I went to him.
He tried to run.
I caught him by the collar and spun, slamming him into the lockers hard enough to rattle teeth. When he sagged, I let him slide down and finished it with a short, brutal punch to the stomach. He folded over himself, retching, tears streaming down his face.
Silence fell heavy and stunned.
I stood there, chest heaving, knuckles throbbing, blood trickling from my split lip. My hands shook, not from fear, but from the echo of impact still buzzing through my bones.
I looked down at the torn pages on the floor and then back at them.
"Next time," I said evenly, "bring more friends."
None of them laughed.
A teacher rounded the corner, face pale. "What—what's going on here?"
I didn't answer. Just crouched beside Buzzcut, pried the book from his limp fingers, and murmured, "Reparo." The torn pages stitched themselves back together, the ink rewrote itself, the spine straightened—good as new.
The teacher grabbed my shoulder. "You—stop this—!"
I sighed. "Obliviate."
His grip loosened, eyes glazing. By the time he blinked, I was already walking away, leaving five kids groaning on the floor and a grown man staring blankly at the ceiling like he'd forgotten his own name.
The Grangers' car was idling by the curb. When Richard saw me sliding into the backseat, he asked, "Is everything alright?"
"Fine," I replied, handing Hermione her book.
Her fingers trembled as she took it, turning it over in her hands—no trace of damage was left. "How did you—?"
"I asked nicely," I said, buckling my seatbelt.
Richard snorted as he shifted the car into gear. "Well, since we're all here—dinner?"
The engine growled as he pressed the gas, and I didn't look back.