The attic smelled of dust and old parchment. Light cut through the narrow window in sharp bars, striping the boxes stacked in uneven piles.
Harry shifted a lid aside. His hand reached into a carton labelled, in Hermione's tidy handwriting, First Year to Seventh Year - Hogwarts. Inside, he found a tangle of things that made his chest tighten. A Gryffindor scarf with one frayed end. A half-melted candle from their N.E.W.T. 'study sessions'. The shattered remains of an old Sneakoscope.
And tucked between the cracked spines of two textbooks, folded with almost reverent care, was a small square of yellowing parchment.
Harry picked it up and turned it over. His eyes scanned the crooked handwriting. He hadn't seen this letter in years. His own scrawl, lopsided and rushed, was barely legible.
A soft voice came from behind him.
"That's not the one where you tried to rhyme 'Hermione' with 'my knee,' is it?"
He turned. Hermione stood at the top of the attic steps, arms crossed, eyes amused. She stepped over a box and sat down beside him, brushing dust from her sleeve as if she owned the place.
"Honestly," she said, looking over his shoulder, "your handwriting looked like owl scratches."
"You kept it," he said, smiling despite himself. "You actually kept this?"
She shrugged and took the letter from his hand, folding it along the same old creases. "Of course I did. That was the beginning, wasn't it?"
He looked at her, and she looked at the window, her expression soft.
"You mean... our friendship?"
Her smile was faint. "I mean everything."
The silence stretched, thick as the dust in the rafters. The only sound was the wind brushing the windowpane and the soft creak of floorboards under their knees.
"Do you remember," Hermione said quietly, "the first time I hugged you?"
Harry nodded. "In the dungeons. Before I went through the fire."
"I didn't know if you'd come back."
"I thought I wouldn't." He ran his thumb along the fold of the parchment. "All I could think about was whether I'd see you again."
Their eyes met. Neither of them said it out loud. They never really had to.
Hermione reached into the box and drew out a soft red scarf. She set it beside the note in his palm. "It started with little things," she said. "It was obvious. To everyone but us.
"And a hug I never forgot," Harry said.
He looked down at the note again, and as his fingers traced the faded ink, the attic blurred at the edges, memory tugging him away.
Memory opened like a door.
…
The fire in the Gryffindor common room burned low, its glow flickering across the ancient stone walls. The air smelled of pine and parchment. Most of the students had left that morning for the holidays. Only a few remained, sprawled across armchairs or gathered near the windows to watch the snow drift across the grounds.
Ron had pulled the chessboard out again and was already crowing over Harry's losing rook.
"Check."
Harry didn't respond. His attention had wandered toward the staircase, where Hermione was double-checking the straps on her bag.
Her scarf was looped tightly around her neck, and her trunk waited beside her like a silent companion. She had been unusually quiet since lunch. Even Flamel hadn't come up in conversation, though they still hadn't found a single book that mentioned him.
"You're still leaving tonight?" Harry asked.
Hermione looked up from her checklist. "The carriages leave at five sharp. I told you, my parents want me home early." She paused. "You'll both keep looking, won't you?"
"Course we will," Ron said. "We'll have loads of time now. No classes, no homework, no Madam Pince breathing down our necks."
Hermione gave a half-smile. "And owl me if you find anything about Flamel."
"I will," Harry promised.
She hesitated, then stepped closer, pulling something from her satchel. "Here. I wanted to give you this."
Harry blinked. "You got me a Christmas present?"
"It's nothing fancy," she said, offering him the small bundle wrapped in deep blue paper. "Just… open it later."
He nodded too quickly, fingers brushing hers as he took it. His heart gave a quiet stutter, but he didn't let go right away.
The wrapping shimmered with tiny stars, pulsing faintly in the firelight. He turned it over in his hands.
"I didn't get you anything."
"You didn't have to." She gave a small shrug, eyes flicking toward the fireplace.
He glanced around, then pulled a Chocolate Frog card from his robe pocket. Albus Dumbledore, the only one he'd gotten twice. Flipping it over, he grabbed a quill from Ron's discarded Charms essay and scribbled on the back.
He handed it to her.
She read it silently.
Thanks for being the cleverest person I know. And for dragging us to the library so often. —Harry
She blinked twice. Then slipped the card into her coat pocket like it was something breakable.
"Thank you."
Ron looked up and groaned. "Are we doing presents now? I thought we were still pretending we're too cool for that."
"It's a planner, Ron. Not a love potion."
"Same difference."
Hermione rolled her eyes, pulled on her gloves, and levitated her trunk with a swish of her wand. She started toward the portrait hole, then paused and turned back.
"Don't forget to check the Restricted Section," she said. "Carefully."
Harry gave her a small wave, the wrapped bundle still warm in his lap.
She smiled, nodded once, and stepped through the portrait hole. The Fat Lady swung shut behind her.
The room felt quieter without her.
Ron muttered, "Some of us didn't get anything."
Harry didn't answer. He stared at the space where Hermione had disappeared.
After a pause, he asked, "Are we a bad influence on her?"
Ron looked up from the chessboard, surprised. "What makes you say that?"
"She just told us to sneak into the Restricted Section," Harry said. "Hermione. The girl who nearly fainted when we lost house points."
Ron smirked. "You didn't see her at your first Quidditch match, did you? She thought Snape was jinxing your broom. She snuck under the stands and set his robes on fire. He looked like a dragon had coughed on him."
Harry blinked. "She what?" He had never heard that part before.
"She never told me."
"Of course not," Ron said. "She was too busy pretending she'd never broken a rule in her life."
Harry blinked again, slower this time.
Ron leaned back, grinning. "She's full of surprises, that one."
Harry looked down at the package in his lap. The fire crackled softly behind them. His fingers brushed the enchanted paper, still faintly warm.
"She really is," he said.
…
Gryffindor Tower – Christmas Morning
Morning light crept into the dormitory. Snow pressed against the windows, and the castle seemed hushed, too quiet. Somewhere beyond the frost-lined glass, the world was white and still.
Harry lay on his side, the blankets pushed halfway down. Balanced on his chest was the small enchanted planner Hermione had given him. He held it open with one hand, the tip of his finger resting lightly on a neat line of script as her voice drifted out, soft and scolding.
"If you've gone back to bed after breakfast, don't forget to write down your dreams. Honestly, Harry, I mean it this time."
He smiled faintly. The ink shimmered, vanished, and reappeared in a fresh curl of handwriting.
"And wear your scarf. You know the wind on the tower stairs will make you ill."
Harry reached out and traced the next line as it began to form, as if he could catch the shape of her voice by touching it. The dorm felt far too empty without her. He knew it was only a charm, but it sounded too like her.
The ink kept curling forward, each word forming so softly he almost held his breath to hear it.
"If Ron's pestering you to play chess again, just tell him you're revising. He won't ask twice."
His chest rose with a breath he didn't realize he was holding. He ran his fingers across the words again, slower this time, as if memorizing them by touch.
He shut the planner slowly, holding it against his chest for a quiet moment longer. A warmth lingered beneath the cover, faint but real.
Then from below, a voice echoed faintly up the stairs.
"Harry! You awake? Presents down here!"
Harry sat up, blinking as the air met his skin. The warmth of the bed clung to him reluctantly. He tucked the planner under his pillow, pulled on his robe, and padded across the wooden floor in stocking feet.
By the time he reached the common room, the fire was crackling cheerfully in the hearth, casting golden light across garlands draped under the windows. The fire smelled of pine logs, and someone had left cocoa cooling on the table. Someone had raided the lower half of the tree, its baubles were blinking sleepily, but the Chocolate Frogs had mysteriously vanished.
Ron was already camped by the hearth, surrounded by a sea of torn wrapping paper and half-eaten Bertie Bott's Beans. He was wearing the same maroon jumper as every year, stretched slightly at the shoulders, a bit of fudge smeared near the collar.
"Merry Christmas," he mumbled, licking fudge from his fingers.
Harry descended the last step, rubbing his eyes and tugging his dressing gown tighter.
"Merlin, your hair looks like a cursed broomstick," Ron added, inspecting Harry's hair with mild horror.
Harry grunted. "Festive of you."
Ron gestured toward the armchair with a sweep of one socked foot. "You've got a few presents there. Not as many as me, but I'm the sixth son, so that's the law."
Harry sat down cross-legged beside the modest pile. The top parcel was wrapped in thick brown paper, taped awkwardly at the corners. Hagrid's handwriting sprawled across it like a shout.
He tore it open and smiled. Inside was a roughly carved wooden flute. It gave a low, owlish hoot when he blew into it.
Ron leaned over. "That sounds like it wants to go back to bed."
Harry gave a tired laugh and reached for the next. A slim white envelope. Inside was a taped fifty-pence piece and a stiff note:
We received your message. Enclose your Christmas present.
—Vernon and Petunia.
He held it up.
Ron squinted. "What is that, a Muggle badge?"
"Money."
Ron blinked. "You're joking."
"You can have it."
Ron immediately pocketed it. "Cheers. Weirdest-looking coin I've ever seen. What do Muggles even buy with this?"
A third, much lumpier parcel waited at the bottom. Ron turned slightly pink. "Might've let Mum know you weren't expecting anything."
Harry opened it slowly. Inside was a thick emerald jumper and a box of soft, crumbling fudge that smelled like nutmeg.
"Green suits you," Ron said, picking at his own maroon sleeve. "She does this every year. She knows I hate maroon."
Harry smiled faintly. "This is brilliant."
He lifted it to his face. It smelled faintly of cinnamon and wool, like a warm kitchen after a snowstorm.
He tried the fudge. It melted instantly on his tongue.
Ron leaned over to grab another parcel from his own pile. "Hey, Chocolate Frogs. She remembered."
Harry glanced up. "Hermione?"
"Yeah." He tossed the box from hand to hand.
The final parcel sat quietly on the rug, long and weightless. Harry already knew what it was. Still, he opened it slowly, peeling back the paper like it might vanish if he hurried.
A soft, silvery fabric slipped into his lap. It shimmered faintly in the firelight, folding over itself like water touched by wind.
Ron leaned closer, his Every Flavor Beans forgotten. "Is that what I think it is?"
Harry ran a hand down the length of it. The fabric slipped like water through his hands, cold and unreal.
"It's an Invisibility Cloak," Ron said, almost reverent.
Harry nodded. "I think so."
"Try it on."
Harry stood and wrapped the cloak around his shoulders. The weight of it settled across his body, light and cold. When he looked down, his legs were gone.
Ron gave a low whistle. "Merlin. Look at that."
Harry stepped toward the mirror by the stairwell. Only his head floated in the reflection. He pulled the hood over it and disappeared entirely. Nobody. No outline. Just space where he had been.
"There was something else," Ron said. "A note. Fell out when you opened it."
Harry pulled the cloak off and bent to pick up the small folded parchment. The handwriting inside was narrow and elegant, unfamiliar.
Your father left this in my possession before he died. It is time it was returned to you. Use it well.
A very Merry Christmas to you.
There was no name.
Harry stared at the words for a moment longer, then folded the paper neatly and tucked it away into the sleeve of his dressing gown. He looked at the cloak in his lap and folded it up carefully, pressing it flat and sliding it under the nearest cushion.
Ron raised an eyebrow. "You're hiding it?"
Harry didn't answer immediately. "I just… I want to keep it to myself, for now."
Ron gave a small shrug and reached for another chocolate frog. "Fair."
Harry hesitated. "I could use it to sneak into the Restricted Section now."
Ron smirked. "Because Hermione told you to?"
Harry looked up quickly, ears going pink. "No," he muttered. "She just said we should keep researching. That's all."
"Sure," Ron said, grinning. "She practically assigned you homework."
Harry didn't reply. He rubbed at the corner of his eye and glanced toward the stairs.
Just then, the portrait hole opened with a low creak, and Fred and George stepped inside, already dressed and stomping snow from their boots.
"Merry Christmas, you miserable bunch!"
"Blimey, Ron, you're still wearing maroon!"
"Tradition," Ron grumbled.
Fred patted Harry's shoulder. "Nice jumper, mate. You've officially been Weasley'd."
Fred gave him a quick once-over. "You alright?"
Harry nodded a little too quickly.
Fred didn't push.
George peered around. "Wait a minute. Did Hermione not send you anything?"
Ron held up the box of frogs. "She did."
Fred turned to Harry. "Nothing for you?"
Harry shook his head lightly. "I already got something."
Fred raised an eyebrow but didn't press.
"Well," said George, flopping onto the armrest, "next year we're sending you a self-firing dungbomb. Way more exciting than sweets."
"Speak for yourself," said Fred, unwrapping one of Mrs. Weasley's treacle tarts. "This is what Christmas is about."
They paused as Percy entered, stiff as a lamp post, a folded jumper under one arm.
Fred leapt up. "Oh ho! 'P' for Prefect again!"
George snatched it. "No fun in that. Here, get festive, Perce."
Percy tried to sidestep, but they yanked the jumper over his head and marched him to the couch like royal guards escorting a prisoner.
"No sitting with the prefects today," George declared. "You're one of us now."
Ron flopped back, arms stretched behind his head. "Best part of Christmas? Watching Percy suffer."
Harry laughed, but his eyes drifted to the tree again.
As the room erupted in mock duels, flying wrappers, and shouted guesses about exploding snap cards, Harry quietly tucked the Invisibility Cloak back into its box.
Later, when the noise finally died down, he'd slip upstairs. He'd take the planner from under his pillow and open it, just to hear her voice again.
Wait to hear her voice.
Just for a little while.
…
Gryffindor Common Room, early January evening
The fire crackled low in the hearth as Harry sat on the rug, sorting through what little remained of his Christmas sweets. Ron lounged nearby, feet on a pouf, munching on a handful of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans and watching the flames dance.
The portrait hole creaked open.
Hermione stepped in, brushing snow off her cloak, cheeks pink from the cold. She looked directly at them, eyes narrowing.
"You," she said, striding over and lightly knocking her knuckles on both of their heads in turn, "are absolute menaces."
"Ow," Ron muttered, shifting away. "Welcome back to Hogwarts."
Hermione ignored him. "Three nights wandering around, Harry? And the mirror? You could have been expelled or worse."
Harry glanced away. "Dumbledore already talked to me about it."
She crossed her arms but said nothing else for a moment. Her mouth twitched, as if she were trying not to speak. Then she reached into her cloak pocket.
"You gave this to me before Christmas," she said softly, pulling the Chocolate Frog card from her cloak and holding it for a moment. Her fingers brushed over the edges before she settled beside Harry.
Harry blinked, then nodded. "Yeah. First one I ever got. Dumbledore."
"Well, listen."
Hermione turned the card over and began to read, her voice clear and precise:
"Considered by many the greatest wizard of modern times, Albus Dumbledore is particularly famous for his defeat of the dark wizard Grindelwald in 1945, the discovery of the twelve uses of dragon's blood, and his work on alchemy with his partner, Nicolas Flamel."
She looked up, eyes wide.
Harry sat up straight. "That's it. Nicolas Flamel. That's where I saw the name."
Ron sat forward, too. "Wait, really?"
"I told you I'd seen it somewhere," Harry said quickly. "It was right in front of me the whole time."
Hermione was already digging through her bag. "I have the book. I never thought to check it again, but it's right here."
She pulled out a thick brown tome and started flipping rapidly through the pages. "Light reading," Ron said dryly, smirking.
"Shush," she said without looking up, flipping faster.
Harry leaned closer as she muttered, searching. Finally, she stabbed a finger at the page.
"Here it is!"
She read quickly:
"The ancient study of alchemy is concerned with making the Philosopher's Stone, a legendary substance with astonishing powers. The Stone can transform any metal into pure gold. It also produces the Elixir of Life, which will make the drinker immortal. The only known Stone currently in existence belongs to Mr. Nicolas Flamel, the noted alchemist and opera lover. Mr. Flamel, who celebrated his six hundred and sixty-fifth birthday last year, enjoys a quiet life in Devon with his wife, Perenelle (six hundred and fifty-eight)."
The three of them stared at the page.
"A stone that turns metal to gold and gives you eternal life?" Ron said, eyes wide. "No wonder someone's trying to steal it."
"It must be what the dog's guarding," Hermione said. "And what they moved out of Gringotts."
Ron reached toward the card still clutched in Hermione's hand, fingers sticky with toffee.
"Let me see that—"
She smacked his hand away.
"You're eating treacle fudge, Ronald."
Ron looked wounded. "I wasn't going to smear it."
Hermione held the card protectively close, eyes still on the book. "So this is it. Nicolas Flamel is the only known maker of the Philosopher's Stone."
Harry glanced between them, thoughts racing. The Stone. Immortality. Gold. A vault at Gringotts. A three-headed dog.
And Snape.
Suddenly, everything made more sense. A long, tense quiet followed as they exchanged glances.
Suddenly, the portrait hole creaked open again, and Neville stumbled inside. He caught himself awkwardly on the edge of a table, legs bound stiff from ankle to thigh by a familiar curse.
A few third-years laughed from the corner.
"How'd he even get up here like that?" someone muttered.
Hermione stood at once. "Oh no. Neville, hold still."
She flicked her wand, muttered the counter-curse, and a soft spark leapt between them. Instantly, Neville's knees sprang apart, and he collapsed onto the carpet, breathing fast.
"Thanks," he mumbled.
Harry and Ron were already at his side. Hermione crouched next to him and helped him into the nearest armchair.
"What happened?" she asked, her brows drawn tight.
"Malfoy," Neville muttered, still catching his breath. "Outside the library. Said he needed someone to practice on."
Ron swore under his breath. "Slimy git."
"You have to tell Professor McGonagall," Hermione said firmly. "He can't keep getting away with this."
Neville shook his head. "I don't want more trouble."
"You've got to stand up to him," Ron said, arms crossed. "He bullies people because they let him."
Neville's face crumpled slightly. "He said I wasn't brave enough to be in Gryffindor," Neville mumbled. "I don't need to hear it from anyone else."
Harry reached into his pocket. He pulled out the last Chocolate Frog, a bit squashed but still wrapped. He held it out.
"You are brave enough," he said, quiet but clear. "The Sorting Hat put you here for a reason."
Neville took the frog slowly, nodding once. "Thanks," he said, barely above a whisper.
He curled into the armchair with the half-open wrapper in his hand and let the fire warm his face.
The common room quieted around him. Outside, snow clung to the windows in soft smudges, and the golden light from the hearth flickered against the walls.
Ron had slouched back into his chair and returned to his chess game. His brow was furrowed as he leaned forward to study the board. A knight was missing its head. He grumbled under his breath, shifting pieces around.
"Stupid knight. Lost his head," he muttered.
Across the room, Harry and Hermione shared the corner sofa. A thick book lay open across their knees. Hermione was reading in a low voice, one finger tracing the lines. Harry leaned in, nodding along. Every so often, he asked her something, and she answered without looking up.
Neville watched them from the armchair.
He wasn't jealous. Not exactly. But the way they moved so easily around each other, the way their heads tilted close, and their arms rested side by side. It was like watching something whole and friendly.
He didn't know if that was what best friends looked like. But whatever it was, it looked warm.
And for a moment, he wished he belonged in the newly named golden trio, too.
༺✿༻❀༺✿༺❀༻✿༻❀༺✿༺❀༻✿༻❀༺✿༺❀༻✿༻❀༺✿༺❀༻✿༻❀༺✿༺❀༻
This will be a pure Harmony fic, written for Harmony shippers who love teenage romance and drama.
Year 1 is already complete, focusing mostly on fluff. Year 2 will bring jealousy and their first real fight.
Year 3 will be full of teenage hormones and emotional growth, while Year 4 will be packed with danger, leading to Voldemort's final defeat. Year 4 will also be the last installment, and I hope to make it the best Harmony story I can write across these four years of Hogwarts.
I'm also open to suggestions for Years 2, 3, and 4. If there are moments, themes, or dynamics you'd love to see explored, feel free to share them with me.
Will there be lewd stuff? Honestly, I don't know. I've already written plenty of 'lewd' in Year 1, from handholding to hugs… and once you're that attached, it's hard to tell what could feel even more daring.
Chapter 2 will be uploaded in 2 days.
Early access: Chapters 1–4 are already available on my P*treon/OmniNymph.