Albus Dumbledore sat behind his desk with the same infuriating calm he always wore when cornered.
The portraits on the walls had stopped pretending to sleep.
Even Fawkes was unusually still on his perch.
“You are of course correct in both your assumptions, Minerva,” he said quietly.
“That is something that should never have been mentioned in such a public place.”
Minerva McGonagall did not blink.
She had expected nothing less from him.
“What about ‘handling the school’s finances would be good experience for you, Minerva—give you practice for when you’re headmistress’?
In light of the fact we now know you were barred from doing business with Gringotts at the time, would you agree you are a manipulative, lying bastard?”
She gave him no time to conjure another layer of lies.
“Every time you told me Harry Potter was fine was nothing but a bloody lie.
You had no idea of the child’s condition or welfare.
He could have been locked in a cupboard for all you knew.
What will you do when this story breaks?
Because you know it must.”
Dumbledore’s fingers tightened fractionally on the arms of his chair.
“My great age has at least taught me one thing,” he said.
“Problems are like bridges—best crossed when you come to them.”
Minerva’s voice dropped to something colder than ice.
“And the scar you wanted to leave on young Harry?
It would appear that was another of your decisions the goblins did not agree with.”
“It would appear so, Minerva.”
“Since you’ve spent the last ten years lying to me, you no longer have the right to use that name, Headmaster.” She spat the title like a curse.
“Oh, and get that thing out of the third-floor corridor or I’ll go over your head and see it’s taken care of myself.
It would be a shame to have a decade of experience running this place and not get the chance to be headmistress.
It goes, or you do.”
She turned on her heel and marched out.
The threat hung in the air long after the door slammed.
Pomona Sprout shifted uncomfortably.
“Albus, could you please tell Minerva there is really no point in heading for Little Whinging?
The Dursleys had moved by the time I went back that summer.”
Dumbledore gave a tired nod.
Pomona hurried after her friend.
Filius Flitwick remained.
His small frame seemed to fill the room as he looked from Dumbledore to Snape.
“Mr Crow is a Ravenclaw,” he said, voice like flint, “and bound by law not to associate with either of you.
If I should discover either of you attempting to break that law, I’m willing to see how much of Master Silvershard’s teachings I still remember.”
He strode out without another word, leaving two thoughtful men behind.
It was Snape who finally broke the silence.
“Do you think the brat knows about the prophecy?”
Dumbledore’s reply was barely more than a whisper.
“The boy knows far too much for my liking.”
Hermione Granger was up before the sun had properly risen.
She had lain awake half the night replaying the promise Harry had made.
Every morning.
The words had felt solid, like an oath.
She wasn’t about to risk missing him.
She reached the common room early, smoothed her robes for the third time, and headed straight for the portrait hole.
If she timed it right, she could catch him on the way down.
What she did not expect was to collide—quite literally—with Harry as he came barreling out of the Ravenclaw entrance at speed.
The impact knocked the breath from her lungs and sent her stumbling back.
Strong hands caught her shoulders before she could fall.
“Sorry!” Harry said quickly.
“I didn’t see—Hermione?”
She looked up.
And froze.
This was not the boy from the train.
This was not even the composed, slightly formal Harry Crow who had sat beside her at the feast.
This was someone else entirely.
His black hair was tied back in a short, practical ponytail.
A sword—actual steel, not a practice blade—was strapped across his back.
But it was the tunic that held her attention.
Made of some dark animal hide, it fitted him like a second skin, glistening with sweat.
The garment stopped well above his knees, leaving powerful legs bare.
He looked like he had just stepped out of a Roman legion… or a myth.
Hermione’s brain, usually so reliable, short-circuited.
Three faces, she thought wildly.
He has three faces.
The first was simply Harry—the boy who had talked with her for hours on the Hogwarts Express, kind and a little awkward and wonderfully normal.
The second was Harry Crow: the public version, all quiet pride and old-world courtesy, Mr Darcy with a wand (or without one).
And this… this third face was something else altogether.
Here was a young Ares in training.
Son of Zeus and Hera, built for war and looking far too good at it for an eleven-year-old.
The sweat made the black tunic cling.
The muscles in his arms and shoulders were defined in a way that made her suddenly very aware she had never really looked at a boy like this before.
His posture was perfect, balanced, ready.
Even the way he held himself after nearly knocking her over spoke of discipline she couldn’t begin to imagine.
Harry seemed completely unaware of the effect he was having.
“Sorry,” he said again, rubbing the back of his neck.
“I was trying to get a shower before breakfast.
Didn’t mean to run you down.”
Hermione managed a nod.
Words had temporarily abandoned her.
He gave her a small, tired smile.
“I’ll be back down in a few minutes.
Don’t let them eat all the bacon.”
Then he was gone, taking the stairs two at a time with that same easy power.
Hermione stood there staring after him long after he disappeared.
A giggle escaped her before she could stop it.
She clapped both hands over her mouth, but the laughter kept coming—half-hysterical, half-delighted.
Her parents were going to get the shock of their lives when they read her first letter.
Not only did their bookish daughter have a best friend at Hogwarts, she was apparently going to need exercise clothes sent as soon as possible.
If morning training turned Harry into that, then Hermione Granger was more than willing to give it a try.
She was still smiling when she reached the Great Hall.
Breakfast was in full swing.
The smell of sausages, eggs, and fresh bread filled the air.
Hermione found a spot at the Ravenclaw table and tried very hard to look like a normal first-year eating breakfast and not like a girl who had just had her entire worldview rearranged by a sweaty tunic and a ponytail.
Harry joined her a few minutes later, hair damp from the shower, now dressed in proper school robes.
The warrior was gone.
The boy from the train had returned—mostly.
There was still something in the way he moved that hadn’t been there yesterday.
A quiet confidence that came from knowing exactly what his body could do.
He slid onto the bench beside her and reached for the pumpkin juice.
“Morning,” he said, like nothing unusual had happened.
“Morning,” Hermione replied, proud that her voice sounded almost normal.
She watched him eat for a moment, then glanced at the snowy owl that had appeared on the back of his chair without anyone noticing.
Eargit preened one white wing, looking far too pleased with herself.
“She’s beautiful,” Hermione said.
“And she really just… comes and goes as she pleases?”
Harry nodded.
“She’s a free spirit.
Never let anyone put her in a cage.
She flew ahead and only lands on my shoulder when there’s a letter to carry.
Took your letter home to Crawley yesterday without any fuss.”
Hermione smiled at the bird.
Then frowned.
“You said she was named after a goblin you read about?”
“Eargit the Ugly,” Harry confirmed, completely straight-faced.
“From a history book Barchoke gave me.
He was a famous warrior.
Very ugly.
Goblin humour.”
Hermione felt an involuntary shudder travel down her spine.
She suddenly had a vivid mental image of Harry one day naming a child Albus Severus.
The thought was so horrifying she nearly dropped her fork.
Both men gave her the creeps, but for different reasons.
Dumbledore tried to play the kindly grandfather, all twinkling eyes and lemon drops.
But every time he looked at Harry, something hungry and calculating moved behind the twinkle.
He wanted something from her friend.
Something big.
It made Hermione’s skin crawl in a way she couldn’t quite explain.
Snape, on the other hand, didn’t bother hiding anything.
The hatred in his eyes when he looked at Harry was pure and undisguised.
It was the kind of loathing that belonged in black-and-white horror films.
Give the man a moustache to twirl and Draco Malfoy as his snickering sidekick and he would be the perfect villain.
Dick Dastardly in billowing black robes.
She was extremely grateful they wouldn’t have to take Potions with him this year.
The very idea of being trapped in a dungeon with that man made her stomach turn.
Harry, oblivious to her internal casting of Hogwarts as a bad cartoon, buttered a slice of toast and passed her the marmalade without being asked.
Hermione took it, their fingers brushing for half a second.
Three faces, she thought again.
She was starting to think she rather liked all of them.
Especially the one that wore a short black tunic and carried a sword like he was born to it.