The countryside blurred past the windows of the Hogwarts Express, golden fields giving way to sleepy towns and winding hedgerows. Most students were either chatting excitedly about summer plans or dozing with heads against the glass, the quiet rumble of the train making it feel like the end of a long, strange dream.
Harry sat in his compartment, idly tracing his finger against the fogged glass. He hadn't said much since they boarded. His bag was already stashed above, robes tucked away, wand resting in his sleeve. Across from him sat Hermione, curled up with a book half-open in her lap, though her eyes weren't really reading.
Ron and Neville had gone off to find the trolley a while ago, and the silence between Harry and Hermione had stretched longer than either was comfortable with. She kept glancing at him, as if waiting for the right moment. When she finally spoke, her voice was softer than usual.
"You're not... upset, are you?"
Harry blinked, pulling himself from whatever thoughts had kept him staring out the window. "Hm? No. Not really. Just thinking."
"About Quirrell?" she asked quietly.
He paused, then gave a slow nod. "Yeah."
It wasn't a lie — but it wasn't the full truth either.
"He saved your life," Hermione said, her voice not quite steady. "I mean... you've never said, but Ron and Neville told me what they saw. In the forest."
Harry didn't respond immediately. He didn't need to. She could see the weight in his eyes, the quiet way his shoulders held tension. Not the kind born of grief, exactly — something deeper. Like guilt. Or memory.
"I keep replaying it," he admitted. "If I had reacted a second earlier, maybe... I don't know. Maybe it wouldn't have gone that way."
"You can't know that," Hermione said. "You're not—" She caught herself. Not invincible. Not responsible for everything. "You're just... Harry."
He gave her a small smile, brief and tired. "Yeah. Just Harry."
Hermione closed her book and leaned forward slightly. "You always act like you know what's going on. Like you've seen all this before and you're just... walking through it again."
There was no accusation in her voice. Just curiosity. A quiet, searching one.
Harry leaned back against the seat, eyes turning up to the roof of the train carriage. "Maybe I have," he said, almost too quietly.
Hermione frowned. "What do you mean?"
He hesitated for a long time, then shook his head. "Doesn't matter. Just a feeling."
She didn't push. Somehow, she knew that if she asked more, he'd only shut down. Instead, she offered something different.
"I didn't expect this year to be like it was," she said after a moment. "I came here thinking everything would be about books and spells and exams. And instead, there were trolls. Forests full of monsters. And stones people were trying to steal."
Harry chuckled, a genuine sound for the first time in days. "Yeah. Welcome to Hogwarts."
She smiled faintly at that. Then her voice turned more thoughtful. "Do you think... next year will be worse?"
Harry looked at her. "I hope not. But I wouldn't bet on it."
There was a lull again. Comfortable, this time. The rhythm of the train filled the space between their words.
Then Hermione asked, "Will we still be friends? Over the summer, I mean?"
Harry blinked. "Of course we will. Why wouldn't we?"
"I don't know. People change. They go home and forget. Or get busy. Or just... drift."
"I won't," Harry said immediately. "Not unless you want me to."
Hermione's ears turned a little pink. "I don't."
"Good."
She reached down into her satchel and pulled out a small, carefully folded parchment. "I wrote my address. If you want to write over the summer. Or visit, maybe."
Harry took it, carefully, and tucked it into his pocket like something important.
"I'll write," he said. "You can count on it."
The door slid open then, and Ron returned, cheeks stuffed with something from the trolley and a chocolate frog in hand. Neville followed, munching on a biscuit and looking unusually pleased with himself.
"Got the last pumpkin pasty," Ron said, flopping into the seat beside Harry. "Almost had to hex a third year for it."
Harry grinned. "You're a real hero."
Ron puffed his chest. "You know it."
Hermione rolled her eyes, but her smile lingered. The tension that had hung between them for days felt a little lighter now, like something heavy had been aired out.
As the train neared the station, students began to stir. Robes were packed away, trunks levitated down, owls hooted in their cages. The buzz of returning home filled the corridors.
Harry stood with the rest of them, watching the blur outside slow to a crawl.
"So what're your plans?" Ron asked.
"Going back to Godric's Hollow," Harry said. "Mum and Dad are expecting me."
Ron looked mildly envious. "Wish I had a proper house like that. All old and wizardy."
"You've got a proper family, though," Harry said, glancing sideways at him. "That counts for more."
Ron blinked, then smiled, quiet and genuine.
The train finally stopped with a hiss of steam. Outside the windows, Platform 9¾ shimmered with motion. Parents waited eagerly, waving, calling names.
Harry stepped off the train with the others, the sun high overhead.
Ahead, his parents stood waiting, and his younger sister Lilian jumped up and down excitedly when she spotted him.
James Potter, tall, wind-blown, laughing as he tried to wrestle with his youngest son, and Lily, who stood with her arms crossed but a warm smile on her face.
Harry walked toward them slowly, a mix of emotions bubbling beneath his calm exterior.
He didn't really wanted his parents to ever find out the truth about him but with the gates and the demons one day the truth is going to come out
But they had welcomed him home once. Maybe they could again.
And this time, maybe he could open upto them.
He turned back once, catching sight of Hermione waving. He waved back.
"Write!" she mouthed.
"I will," he mouthed in return.
And just like that, the first year of Hogwarts came to a close — not with a bang, but with a quiet promise, a long summer, and something warm that lingered beneath the surface.
A beginning, not an end.
---
Harry hadn't realized how much he missed the smell of home until he stepped through the front door of the Potter household. It wasn't anything extraordinary — a mix of wood polish, parchment, and the faint aroma of lavender his mum insisted on using in every room. But to him, it meant peace.
His trunk levitated itself upstairs as he walked through the familiar hallway. Sunlight spilled through the windows, catching dust motes in the air like floating stars. The chatter of his parents and the excited squeals of Lilian echoed from the kitchen.
It was all so painfully… normal.
Harry set his wand down gently on the stand by the staircase and exhaled, as if releasing a breath he'd been holding since the train left Hogsmeade.
He stepped into the kitchen just in time to see Lilian tackle him around the waist. "You're back!"
Harry staggered slightly, grinning. "You grew."
"I did not," she declared, then paused. "Did I?"
"A bit." He ruffled her hair, eliciting a groan of protest.
His mother was at the stove, stirring something that smelled vaguely of stew. She turned and opened her arms with that same warmth she always had. "Welcome home, love."
He accepted the hug a bit stiffly. Not because he didn't want it — but because the part of him that had walked through fire and fought demons still didn't know how to relax in a world so gentle.
His father, seated at the table reading the Prophet, lowered the paper with a smile. "How was the year?"
Harry offered a faint grin. "Eventful."
"That's one way to put it," his mum muttered, turning back to her pot. "We saw the article, by the way. About the Forest incident. They didn't mention names, but we knew."
"Are you angry?"
She glanced over her shoulder. "I'd be angrier if you hadn't come back in one piece."
His dad folded the paper and set it aside. "You did good. You came back. That's what matters."
Harry didn't answer, just gave a short nod and took a seat at the table. Lilian sat beside him, her feet swinging under the bench.
She leaned in conspiratorially. "Did you see any dragons?"
"No dragons," he said. "But there was a giant dog guarding a secret vault, a forest full of monsters, and a demon."
Lilian's eyes widened. "You're lying."
"I'm really not."
"Don't tease your sister, Harry," his mum said over her shoulder, but there was a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
Dinner passed quietly, the comfort of food and family slowly grounding him. But Harry's mind wasn't here — not entirely. He kept thinking of the stone. Of Quirrell. Of the way the demon's blood had evaporated like mist under spellfire, but the stink of its presence lingered longer than its form.
Later that night, when the house had gone quiet and Lilian was long asleep, Harry sat at the edge of his bed with the lights off. The window was open, summer air drifting in.
He pulled out his wand and stared at it.
Quirrell's last stand — the barrier, the scream, the blood. The demon's claws piercing him like parchment. Harry had been ready to throw himself into the fire if he had to.
But Quirrell had chosen instead.
Harry still wasn't sure why.
He reached into the drawer and pulled out a sealed letter — one he'd written on the train but hadn't yet sent. It was addressed to Hermione.
He hadn't said much in it. Just enough.
> "You asked me once if I always knew what was going on.
I don't.
Sometimes I just act like I do because it's easier than admitting I'm scared.
I've seen people die before.
I've killed things I can't name.
But I've never felt more helpless than I did in that chamber."
He ran a finger across the parchment.
> "You make me want to try again.
Not at fighting. I already know how to do that.
At being normal. At being just… someone."
A soft knock broke his thoughts.
He quickly tucked the letter away and stood up.
The door opened slightly, and his mum peeked in.
"You're not asleep?"
"Couldn't."
She entered with a quiet smile and sat on the edge of his bed. For a long moment, she just looked at him. Not like a mother sizing up her child — but like a woman seeing someone older than he should be.
"You've changed," she said softly.
"I had to."
She nodded, her fingers brushing a stray lock from his forehead. "That doesn't mean it was easy."
"No."
There was a long silence.
Finally, she asked, "Are you safe?"
He hesitated.
"I don't know," he said honestly. "I hope so."
She took that in without pressing. "Then we'll be here. For whatever comes next."
Harry wanted to believe that was enough. That the warmth of home, the steady pulse of family, could protect against the shadows waiting at the edge of the world.
But he knew better.
Still, when his mother kissed his forehead and wished him good night, he allowed himself a moment of stillness.
One night. One summer. That's what he had.
And when it ended — when the train took him back to the castle, and the whispers of things lurking deeper than dungeons stirred once again — he would be ready.
---
The summer heat settled gently over Godric's Hollow, brushing golden warmth against the windows of the Potter home. Outside, birds chirped and a breeze rustled through the garden where Lilian was showing Ginny Weasley her herb collection.
Inside, Harry worked quietly at the desk in his room, sorting through parchment notes and small glass vials filled with powdered minerals and rare herbs. The books he'd borrowed from his father's library—most of which hadn't been touched in years—lay open around him, pages filled with arcane diagrams and esoteric runes.
He paused, glancing at a worn scrap of paper filled with a delicate sigil he'd designed. Not yet. He had everything ready. The moment he returned to Hogwarts, he'd have the privacy—and the leyline resonance beneath the castle stones—to safely begin both the crafting and the ritual. The house here... it wouldn't hold.
His eyes flicked toward a closed box beside the desk. The early-stage prototype of the artifact rested inside, inert. Once it was complete, it would do what few items could—store ambient magic, refine it, and return it to the bearer in times of need. But it wasn't for him.
"Harry?" Lilian called from the hallway, then poked her head in. Her red hair was tied back in a braid, and her cheeks were pink from running around the garden. "You're not gonna hide in here all day, are you? Ginny's getting bored."
Harry exhaled and closed the book. "Coming."
In the sitting room, Ginny sat curled up on the sofa, flipping through an illustrated copy of Fantastic Beasts. When she noticed him, her gaze sharpened. It wasn't subtle—there was a wall between them. Harry didn't blame her. The Harry she'd known before had been petty, attention-seeking, and prone to sulking whenever he wasn't the center of things.
This Harry was quieter. Sharper. Not cruel, just... distant. And she didn't trust that.
Lilian tugged on his sleeve. "We're going to the meadow. You should come."
"Alright," Harry said. "Let me grab my coat."
The three of them walked out together, Ginny trailing behind slightly. The meadow was only a few minutes from the house, a wide patch of wildflowers and soft grass sloping down toward a stream.
They sat under the shadow of an old oak tree. Lilian began braiding flower stems. Ginny watched the stream flow past with her arms crossed.
Harry sat nearby, pulling out a small leather notebook and a graphite pencil. He began sketching the final array for the artifact's mana filter, mind only half in the moment.
"You know," Ginny said suddenly, "you're different."
He looked up, surprised.
"You're not fooling me," she added. "You act polite, but it's not the same as before. You're... off."
Lilian frowned. "Ginny—"
"No, it's fine," Harry said. He closed the notebook and set it aside. "You're right."
Ginny blinked. She clearly hadn't expected him to admit it.
"I've been thinking more. Trying to be better," Harry said, shrugging. "I didn't like who I was before."
That, at least, wasn't a lie.
Ginny narrowed her eyes. "Why? What changed?"
"A lot of things," he replied, evenly. "Things I can't really talk about. But I don't expect you to believe me. Or forgive me."
Silence fell. The wind stirred the grass.
Eventually, Ginny looked away, unsettled.
Lilian broke the tension. "He gave me something," she said proudly. She pulled a thin silver chain from beneath her collar. Hanging from it was a tiny disc of dark metal inscribed with a simple rune. "He said it'll help when I'm learning magic."
Ginny leaned forward. "What is it?"
"A focus charm," Harry said calmly. "It collects trace magic from the air and lets her use it for small things. Just a trickle, really. Nothing dangerous."
Ginny looked at him for a long time. "You made that?"
"Not yet," he replied. "Not fully. The final version will be better."
"That's... not something most students can do."
"I'm not most students."
His tone wasn't boastful. Just honest.
Ginny sat back, uncertain again.
They spent the rest of the day there, not speaking much. When the sun began to dip below the trees, they walked back in silence.
---
That night, after everyone had gone to bed, Harry sat again at his desk. The faint moonlight spilled through the window, and the pages in front of him glowed with ethereal diagrams.
He added the final note to his checklist:
Artifact design complete. Materials ready.
Ritual prepared. Location: Sub-level chamber, Hogwarts.
Lilian: protected. Charm stable.
Unknowns: rising.
He tapped the end of his quill against the desk.
Something still lingered in his mind—an unease he hadn't been able to shake since the Philosopher's Stone incident. The demon that had been summoned… weak as it was, it shouldn't have been able to cross over that easily. There were safeguards, natural and arcane, that had to be bypassed.
Someone had known how to weaken those.
And that someone hadn't been Quirrell.
Harry closed the book. He wouldn't act yet. Not without more information. But next year—next year, he would start uncovering what really lay beneath the quiet surface of Hogwarts.
---
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