“Bertie Bott’s is a type of sweet that comes in every flavour,” Harry said, leaning back slightly as the rhythm of the train settled around them.
“That describes me perfectly.”
Hermione blinked.
“That… sounds like a very strange way to describe yourself.”
A faint smile touched his lips.
“My mum was like you,” he continued.
“Muggleborn.
My dad was a pureblood.
Both gave their lives to save mine when I was just a toddler.”
The words landed heavily in the small compartment.
Hermione’s expression shifted instantly—curiosity sharpening into concern.
“I can’t remember anything about them,” Harry added more quietly.
“And now my adoptive father is a goblin.”
That made Hermione freeze.
“A goblin?”
Harry nodded.
“Director Ragnok named me ‘Old Crow’ because of how I ended up in Gringotts.
My father calls me Harry Crow.
But my mum and dad named their newborn baby Harry James Potter.”
A sharp gasp escaped Hermione before she could stop it.
Harry watched her reaction carefully, as if measuring whether she would pull away.
She didn’t.
Instead, she moved.
Without thinking, Hermione crossed the compartment and wrapped her arms around him.
“Oh Harry,” she said softly, almost fiercely.
“You know I’ll help you any way I can.”
Harry went completely still.
Goblins did not do hugs.
Hugs were inefficient.
Uncontrolled.
Unnecessary contact.
And yet—
Something in his chest tightened in a way he couldn’t immediately classify.
Not danger.
Not calculation.
Warmth.
Slowly, cautiously, he relaxed.
For the first time in a long time, he let himself stay there.
“Bertie Bott’s,” he murmured again, almost absently.
“Different flavours.
Never sure what you’re going to get.”
Hermione tightened her hold slightly.
“I think I understand,” she said.
And Harry believed her.
Which, in itself, was new.
Eventually, Hermione loosened her grip—but she didn’t move away.
She stayed beside him, close enough that their shoulders almost touched.
Harry exhaled slowly.
“When my parents were murdered,” he said, voice quieter now, “I was left on the doorstep of my mother’s Muggle sister.
They didn’t want me.”
Hermione’s expression darkened.
“So they made a deal with Gringotts,” Harry continued.
“The goblins took responsibility for me until I’m old enough to take over House Potter.”
He glanced down at his hands.
“I have this… strange mixed heritage.
And eventually I’ll have to choose where I belong.”
Hermione frowned.
“But you don’t have to choose, do you?”
Harry gave a small, humourless laugh.
“That’s what I keep hoping.”
Hermione hesitated.
“I read about Harry Potter in some reference books.
All of them speculated about what happened after Halloween.
None of them even came close.”
“That’s the thing about speculation,” Harry said.
“It’s rarely interested in the truth.”
A brief silence settled between them.
Then Harry added, almost offhand:
“There were books written about me once.
‘True stories,’ they called them.”
Hermione blinked.
“Were they?”
“No.”
A faint smirk returned.
“Some of them had me doing things I didn’t do, meeting people I’ve never heard of.
My father had them banned eventually.
Illegal to profit from my name.”
Hermione stared at him.
“That sounds… extreme.”
“It was necessary,” Harry said simply.
That tone ended the discussion.
Not harshly.
Just final.
The first interruption came shortly after.
The compartment door slid open.
A boy leaned in.
“Have you seen Harry Potter?”
Then another voice from behind him.
“He’s supposed to be on the train!”
And suddenly the corridor outside filled with movement—students peering in, whispering, searching.
Boy-Who-Lived fever had arrived.
Hermione watched as Harry’s posture changed instantly.
Not dramatically.
Subtly.
His shoulders straightened.
His expression softened into something more distant, more composed—like a mask being placed over something deeper.
When the compartment was empty again, it dropped just as quickly.
Hermione noticed.
But didn’t comment.
Instead, she bit her lip.
Harry glanced at her.
“You want to ask.”
It wasn’t a question.
Hermione sighed.
“Is it that obvious?”
“To me, yes.”
She hesitated.
“You just… change.
When people come in.”
Harry leaned back slightly.
“The goblins say there are three faces.”
Hermione listened carefully.
“The one the public sees,” Harry continued.
“The true face reserved for family and friends.
And the final one…”
He paused.
Hermione felt a chill.
“The final one,” he said quietly, “is the last thing enemies see before they die.”
Her eyes widened slightly.
“That’s… dramatic.”
“It’s goblin philosophy,” Harry replied.
“They’re bankers now.
But they were warriors first.”
Hermione swallowed.
“Are you saying—”
“I’m saying I was raised among them,” Harry said calmly.
“So I learned how they think.”
That, more than anything else, felt like a warning hidden inside an explanation.
Hermione shifted slightly closer.
“Was it… hard?” she asked carefully.
“Growing up with them?”
Harry seemed almost relieved by the question.
“I grew up as a goblin,” he said.
“Or at least… I was raised that way.
I knew I was different, but that didn’t change much.
Goblins and wizards don’t exactly get along.”
He shrugged.
“I got into a lot of fights as a kid.”
Hermione frowned.
“Fights?”
“Mostly training,” he corrected.
“Sometimes not.”
That made her hesitate.
Harry continued anyway.
“My adoptive father is powerful.
He legally adopted me.
Some goblins objected.”
His voice dropped slightly.
“There were duels.”
Hermione stiffened.
“Duels?”
“To the death,” Harry said simply.
The words hung in the air far too long.
“If my father had lost,” Harry added, “I don’t know what would’ve happened to me.”
Hermione’s arms slipped around him again without thinking.
Harry blinked.
Then, slowly, he continued.
“I had to learn quickly.
Stand on my own.
My father trained me.
Properly.”
A faint, almost proud note entered his voice.
“By six, I was taller than most of my class.
Now I’m taller than him.”
A pause.
“Though he still beats me in duels.”
Hermione let out a small, shaky laugh.
“He sounds like a wonderful—sorry—goblin.”
Harry actually smiled at that.
“It’s fine.
I just call him father.”
He exhaled.
“And I’m sorry.
I didn’t mean to dump all this on you.
We only just met.”
Hermione shook her head immediately.
“I’m glad you told me.”
Harry studied her for a moment.
“Don’t ask me to explain why I trust you.”
“I won’t,” she said softly.
But she looked like she understood anyway.
Hermione hesitated.
Then, carefully, she decided to answer in kind.
“I understand being different,” she said.
“I’ve been bullied since I was little.
Because I was… not like them.”
Harry listened without interrupting.
“I thought Hogwarts would fix it,” she admitted.
“That I’d finally fit somewhere.
But today…” Her voice wavered slightly.
“The girls I tried to talk to wanted nothing to do with me.”
Harry’s expression darkened slightly.
Hermione swallowed.
“I’m twelve soon.
And you’re the first person who’s actually wanted to be friends with me.”
For a moment, Harry didn’t respond.
Then he moved.
Without hesitation.
He pulled her into a hug.
This one was different.
Not uncertain.
Not careful.
Certain.
Hermione froze for half a second.
Then relaxed.
And the train kept moving forward, carrying them both toward a place neither of them fully understood yet—
but no longer faced alone.