25th December, 1998, #6

When Harry woke the next day, he slipped out of the room before Ron had managed to sit up and ran back to the classroom, his heart pounding in his throat. Barely anyone was awake in the castle, the corridors eerily empty among the twinkling decorations and distant music of professors setting up for the Ball.

He skidded around the corner, catching himself before he fell, and stared at the portrait. Henry slept on, oblivious to any changes, but there were changes, indeed. The Pensieve shone with the faint light of memory, its waters gently swirling. Harry stepped closer and closer, barely daring to hope, but as he brushed his finger across it, he was catapulted back into the memory of last night, exactly as he'd left it.

Even his ecstatic whoop of delight didn't wake the old wizard, although it did startle the children in the next portrait, who immediately went back to opening their presents and playing.

Harry's immediate thought was, of course, to get Ron and Hermione. With access to their memories through the loop, now, they could research this in earnest. Hermione would be able to build upon her complicated and nuanced knowledge every day, and they'd solve this, just as they always did.

But then he stopped.

He hadn't even begun to leave yet, but already the days stretched before him—hours spent in the library, everyone around them eyeing them strangely when they skipped the Ball. In his mind's eye, he saw Ron and Hermione's disappointment as they missed out on the event they'd looked forward to for months, not remembering that they'd already lived it once. And he saw, again and again, the mornings he would have to spend explaining this to them and dealing with their disappointment in him as he relayed their argument that first day.

It was all in the name of strategy and solutions, of course, but Merlin Harry was sick of that.

Everything was always in the name of strategy and solutions for him. When was it not about that?

He just wanted a life where no one needed anything from him. Where he didn't have to save the fucking world, from Dark Lords and invisible time loops alike.

Before he knew it, he was marching in the other direction down the corridor, away from Gryffindor Tower and down to the front doors. He cast a Warming Charm on himself, ignoring the strange look two older students gave him as he passed them in his brightly coloured Snitch pyjamas and slippers—his exit had not been well thought out—and walked onto the grounds, towards Hagrid's hut.

He had all the time in the world to solve the time loop, right? It wasn't fucking going anywhere; that was the whole point.

He wanted to see Hagrid.

Freshly falling snow kicked up around his ankles, not yet the strong drifts that would come later in the day, but enough to make him shiver despite the Warming Charm. He really should have grabbed some clothing before he left, but he hadn't wanted to run into Luna. It would have meant he felt bad and stayed to chat, and then had to slip away somehow to check the portrait... All in all, he'd take the slippers and Snitch pyjamas.

Smoke curled from the chimney of the little hut, bringing with it the faint scent of pine and something hearty—maybe a stew. Harry's stomach grumbled, reminding him that he was very ready for breakfast, and he hurried down the last few steps to the hut and knocked on the door.

Some shuffling sounds came from within, coupled with the squeak of a chair across floorboards and a faint groan.

"Jus' a minute!" Hagrid's voice called, and Harry felt an unexpected warm twinge of affection for the man who had brought him into this magical world.

When Hagrid threw open the door, looking down with his brow furrowed in confusion, Harry was already smiling. Hagrid's expression changed in a flash, a big beaming smile emerging from beneath his beard.

"Harry! Come in, come in. Get on out o' the cold." He stepped back to make room, the frown returning as he took in Harry's clothing. "You're not even dressed!"

"Left in a rush," Harry explained, not protesting as Hagrid turned to fetch a large patchwork blanket from the back of the armchair.

"Here ya go." Hagrid bundled the blanket into Harry's arms and led him to the table. "Tea?"

"That sounds great, Hagrid," Harry said earnestly, taking a seat and wrapping the blanket around himself. It smelled like fresh mint from Hagrid's garden, and instantly filled him with all the cosiness of three Warming Charms. Fang lifted his head from his bed as Harry sat down, then dropped it again, his tail wagging twice in two giant thuds against the mattress.

"Now," Hagrid said, as he sat opposite Harry and pushed one of two giant, steaming mugs of tea across the table. "Wha' brings you 'ere on Christmas morning? Everything alright?"

"Of course, yeah," Harry lied. "Everything's fine." Everything was not fine. Everything was increasingly less fine with every passing second, and yet... as he sat here, the steam from the mug rolling gently across his face and the warmth from the fire and the blanket enclosing him, he felt peaceful. As though he might be able to tackle how very not fine everything was if he just rested here a while.

Coming to see Hagrid was the right choice.

"I just wanted to see you," he said, this time telling the absolute truth. He took a sip of his tea, deliciously toasty and sweetened with honey. "Happy Christmas, Hagrid."

Hagrid's face brightened in surprise, a pleased smile hidden behind his beard. "Happy Christmas, Harry. I've gotta say, I didn't expect to see you today. Or for a while, for tha' matter."

"It's been too long since we had tea," Harry agreed, feeling guilty as he realised just how long it had been. Why hadn't he come to see Hagrid? It felt like, ever since... Merlin, fifth year, probably, he'd just kind of... stopped. Hagrid was his first friend in this world—the first adult who had ever been kind and honest with him, offering him nothing more than genuine companionship and care, and Harry couldn't remember the last time he'd made time to see him.

He remembered suddenly that he'd left Hagrid's gift up in the tower. "I have a present for you in the castle; I'll have to bring it later."

Hagrid startled. "Oh, that reminds me. Over 'ere, by the window—you can bring the blanket. Don't matter if it gets a bit dusty."

Harry stood obediently, the blanket dragging along behind him like a cape, and followed Hagrid to the window. He peered out into the gently falling snow, searching for a sign of what Hagrid might want to show him.

"I don't see anything," he said after a moment, blowing on his tea and cupping the mug between his hands.

"Wait for it," Hagrid said, clearly delighted with whatever was about to come.

Harry waited, finding himself relaxing a little more as they stood there, an unexpected lack of urgency accompanying the anticipation. He trusted Hagrid, had always trusted Hagrid, and while this surprise would likely have fangs or venom or possibly fire included in it, it would be safe because Hagrid was with him.

"There!" Hagrid pointed suddenly, tea spilling over the side of his mug in his excitement.

Harry leaned forward; there, in the middle of the snow-covered parsnip patch, was a bright light. He blinked, watching it dart back and forth across the frosted leaves. It was quickly joined by another, and then another.

"What are they?" he breathed, strangely mesmerised by the soft glow. "Pixies?"

"Nope," Hagrid said proudly. "They're Parrot Doxies. All the way from Australia. They were introduced 'ere 'bout fifty years back, but rare as hen's teeth to find. Found a nest in near Aragog's web when I—When I—" He broke off to blow his nose loudly into a patched handkerchief from his pocket. "Well, I went to visit, you know. I know it's been years, but I 'ad to visit."

An odd sense of recognition flooded Harry, but he didn't have time to pay attention to it.

"Anyway, thought you lot might enjoy seein' 'em, and o' course they drop their feathers righ' about this time o' year, so they make great presents. Might be a bit later than Christmas, but I'll collect 'em up as soon as they do."

A creeping thought emerged from the wonder of watching the Parrot Doxies fly. "You said these were from Australia?" Harry asked, chewing his lip when Hagrid nodded enthusiastically. "So... can they kill you, then?"

"Wha'?" Hagrid looked puzzled, then laughed. "Absolutely not. Safer than Flobberworms, these are."

Harry found it hard to believe Hagrid would be so invested in anything safer than a Flobberworm. But then he looked up and found Hagrid watching him shrewdly.

"Had a good chat with a couple o' first years this summer," Hagrid said, tapping his fingers on the side of his mug. "They're a good sort. Remind me o' you and Ron and 'ermione. But they're a bit keener on the dragons and things than you lot ever were." Hagrid sniffed, returning his attention to the Parrot Doxies, who had swooped in closer to the window now. Harry could almost see what they looked like. "It made me realise that mos' people don't... well... they don't really like that stuff. So we did a bit of hunting together, looking through books. We found a bunch of safer creatures that reminded us of ones we really liked." His beard twitched as his eyes crinkled in the corners. "These Parrot Doxies remind me o' Fire Crabs. So we start off with these in class, and then, if any students want to get a bit more adventurous, we have an Advanced Curriculum"—Hagrid raised his eyebrows importantly, leaning in to nudge Harry with his elbow—"where they can get to know the feistier ones."

Harry stared up at Hagrid, that unexpected warmth curling through him once more. "That's brilliant, Hagrid," he said, unable to keep the smile from taking over his face.

Hagrid looked down at him, a hint of vulnerability in the way his lips pursed together and his eyes widened. "You think so?"

"Yeah. I really do. And..." Harry swallowed. "I'm sorry we weren't more into that stuff. Really, I—"

Hagrid waved him off. "Ah, forget it. You can't help what you like, Harry. And I reckon you 'ad a fair taste for danger in other places. Stands to reason you'd want your magical creatures to be a tad more predictable."

Harry laughed softly, blowing on his tea and taking a refreshing gulp. "Yeah, that's probably not too far off, actually."

"Anyway." Hagrid clapped him on the shoulder, returning to the table to sit down again with a creak of the chair and a big sigh. "That was all I wanted to show ya, and when the feathers shed I'll collect 'em up for you three. They make brillian' lampshades." He waggled his eyebrows again. "Dazzle like fireworks, they do, and when you need 'em to keep still, they illuminate that which can't otherwise be seen."

Harry blinked, laughing a little in confusion. "Well, don't all lamps illuminate what can't be seen?"

Hagrid lifted his chin, taking a proud sip of his tea. "You'll see." He leaned over, squinting at the clock. "Look a' that, it's nearly lunchtime. I 'spect you'll be off now?"

Harry hesitated. Outside, the snow was picking up, and he knew that the Weasleys would soon be walking by the lake, no doubt wondering where he was. Malfoy would be talking to Professor McGonagall; Pansy would be practicing Charms... and Harry had done all that. And even when he did it, he hadn't really wanted to. He hadn't actively not wanted to, as such, but... there was no real urge to join any of those things.

He wanted to be here.

Harry had tried ending the time loop by doing the same thing as the first day, taking Pansy to the Ball; Pansy hadn't even let him. He'd tried to end it by doing the right thing, correcting his mistakes with compromise and self control. He'd even tried doing what he thought he really wanted, telling everyone to buzz off and leave him alone, but that hadn't even felt like him in the end.

This time he'd spent with Hagrid—that felt like him. He felt like he was eleven years old again, walking through Diagon Alley with his strange new friend who hadn't yelled at him, and hadn't told him he was doing anything wrong, and hadn't seemed to want to get rid of him the first second he could. Hagrid had liked him. He'd bought him ice cream, and an owl, and had listened when Harry was excited over silly little things that Hagrid must have seen a hundred times before. He'd even answered Harry's questions without complaining or telling Harry he was stupid for not knowing.

Harry didn't know how to end the time loop, but for the first time in a long time, he knew where he wanted to be.

"I actually don't have any plans," Harry said carefully, drinking the last of his tea and setting his mug down on the table. "Could I stay with you today? Only if you're not busy!"

Hagrid's entire face lit up, brighter than Harry imagined the feathers from the Parrot Doxies could possibly shine. "O' course! You're always welcome 'ere, Harry, you know that."

*

After Transfiguring his pyjamas into some sturdier wear, they spent the morning tending to the garden, clearing the netting over the cabbages so it wasn't weighed down—Harry added some light Shield Charms to prevent the snow from piling up again—and checking the mulch in the other patches before the snow came down in earnest. Then they rugged up with warm cups of tea again, this time outside under the eaves, and swapped stories from the year. Harry told Hagrid about the small traffic jam he'd accidentally caused in Charms, when they'd all been practicing their Locomotion Charms, and Hagrid—once he'd stopped laughing—shared his difficulties with feeding the Parrot Doxies.

"They only eat what grows in dry climates, you see," he said, frowning. "And I didn't work tha' out until they'd eaten half me roof, now, did I?"

Harry looked up at the thatched ceiling above them, its mixture of straw and hay carefully woven together—and, now that he was looking, obviously hastily repaired with less tasty alternatives—and burst out laughing.

When lunchtime had rolled around, Harry felt as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. The time loop seemed trivial, now; an inconsequential tangle of magic that would sort itself out as soon as he discovered the key. For now, he was with an old friend, he had nowhere to be, and he was happy.

His thoughts turned, briefly, to Malfoy. It was a daydream, to be sure, but he still wondered what it would be like to have Malfoy here with him—if that same cautious openness would appear on his face, like the last two times they'd been together.

Or if he'd close off, like Harry was used to, instead.

"I'd planned to head into Diagon for lunch," Hagrid confessed when they'd rinsed their mugs and given Fang a juicy bone. "But if you'd rather stay 'ere..."

"No!" Harry said, shaking his head. "Diagon sounds great."

They left Fang outside with his treat, each with a finger on the old watering can Hagrid had arranged as a Portkey, and disappeared into the dazzling lights of Diagon Alley.

Harry realised, with no small amount of shock, that he hadn't been here since before the war. He'd ordered all of his school supplies this year via owl, not wanting to deal with the threat of being recognised, even under disguise, and he'd had no reason to come otherwise.

Stepping into the alley now, it was like the war had never happened. And yet this didn't feel like the Yule Ball—like glittering lies held up in desperation. This felt like healing. Harry let out a giant sigh and stepped into the street.

Hagrid swept them along at a fair pace that was quick without rushing them, stopping every few minutes to admire the lights or the decorations that swooped by. The shops were all closed, but the street was full of people hurrying through with laden baskets full of gifts, visiting the flats above the shops for a hearty Christmas lunch, or simply taking in the sights and sounds like Harry and Hagrid were. A choir of carollers had set up in the square, standing on the lip of the water fountain as the burbling water gave a soothing accompaniment to their gentle singing. As they strolled past, Hagrid burst into song with them, his voice a surprisingly crisp baritone that sent the sopranos into a joyous and spontaneous harmony.

"Look 'ere!" Hagrid called as they left the carollers behind, waving Harry over to a lit shop window.

Inside, a festive scene played out among the lights. Miniature house-elf figurines sang joyous songs in tinny little voices, bedecked in the strangest array of woollen socks Harry had ever seen. Tiny wixen flew on brooms above the scene, sending sparks of magic into the air, and owls nestled into the hollows of the miniature trees, warm and snug as their humans threw snowballs below.

"I helped with this one," Hagrid confessed, grinning and pointing to a familiar looking plant that wound around the base of the scene.

"That's the potted fern from your window," Harry said, recognising it after a second.

Hagrid nodded, and then he was tugging Harry into the shop's doorway and rapping an intricate rhythm on the door.

"Isn't everything closed?" Harry asked, bewildered as the door seemed to melt away with a twinkle of lights.

"Yep," Hagrid said, stepping into the corridor behind the door and leading Harry through the building, towards the back. "But a few o' the shopkeepers are having lunch together, and I was invited." He chuckled. "Doubt they'll mind you turning up."

A hint of unease prickled Harry's spine; it had been so long since he spent time with strangers. But it didn't have time to blossom, because Hagrid swept them through a door at the other end and into an elaborate courtyard. It was decorated almost as carefully as the Yule Ball, with giant sweeping ferns and Monsteras lining the brickwork and twinkling with charms and lights. Christmas baubles hung in the air above them, glinting softly in the circles of candlelight that shone from the long table down the centre.

A chorus of "Happy Christmas, Hagrid!" came from the people seated around the table, and then there was a hush.

The hush broke instantly.

"Happy Christmas, Harry!" The declarations echoed over and over each other, coming from so many corners that Harry couldn't tell who said what. There were witches he faintly recognised from behind counters, bundled up in brightly coloured scarves and bobbled hats; wizards he'd never met before, dressed smartly in coats and gloves, and a dozen people scattered about in various winter adornments—all of them wearing the same delighted smiles.

They found two seats at the end of the table and settled in, hands instantly full of plates loaded up with food that excited guests passed to them. A bon bon scampered up the table to Harry, eagerly jumping into his lap, and he held it out to the witch beside him with a shrug. She gave him a toothy grin, latching onto her end and tugging it with relish.

The bon bon burst, confetti and sparks flying up into the sky, and a paper crown wrapped around her head and began trotting out an impressive rendition of Oh Come All Ye Faithful.

The table laughed and sang along, and they all began to eat.

"This casserole is beautiful, Edith," Hagrid said, tapping his fork on his plate and leaning over to speak to a grey-haired witch with delightful crows' feet. "What'd you put in it this time?"

Edith winked at him, her rich Nigerian accent filling the courtyard as she laughed and leaned in closer to say, "It's all in the spices, Hagrid. I'll owl you a packet."

"Ooh, me too!" A wizard down the other end of the table called out, his voice rising in a squeak. "I'll trade you my Dahlia Moonfire seeds for them!"

"Owen's Moonfires are the best in England," Hagrid murmured to Harry, who was looking around at the ensuing trade discussion with confusion. "And Edith's cooking is jus' incredible, it is."

"As are your rock cakes," Edith put in, a twinkle in her eye as she caught their conversation. "How many can I score for the spices?"

Hagrid startled. "Oh, I nearly forgot." He reached into his coat pocket, fumbling around for a bit before producing a large container. "There's plen'y for everyone! And I'll send you another two packages for the spices, Edith."

To Harry's surprise and confusion, the table at large dived on the container as soon as it landed. Hagrid wasn't lying, though—there was plenty for everyone, and soon each plate was decked out with at least two cakes.

Edith passed Harry the container and he hesitated, not wanting to offend, but also incredibly curious as to why they all wanted the cakes so badly. Did they not have any teeth left? Were they all rocking steel dentures?

Hagrid nudged him. "I changed the recipe," he said shrewdly. "Didn't know you lot 'ad such soft teeth, now, did I?" He frowned suddenly, opining, "if one of you 'ad jus' told me."

Harry blinked at him, a strange bubbling emotion rising within him. He realised abruptly that it was laughter—surprised, giggling, childish laughter. It bubbled free, a little sheepish as he realised that he'd never even thought of telling Hagrid the truth. He took two rock cakes, biting into the first carefully and finding, to his utter astonishment, that it was bloody delicious. Crunchy like hardened caramel, but gooey too—rich and sweet.

As he settled into his lunch, he realised that this was the first good day he'd had in years. He wasn't even sure if he knew how to have a good day. How could he possibly know how to have fun, when he'd spent eleven years with the Dursleys, followed by roughly two wonderful years nonetheless spent waiting for the other shoe to drop, which it had, and then another five fucking years with that inevitable shoe crushing him further and further into the ground. Voldemort, the prophecy, and death, death, death around every corner.

This day with Hagrid had been as shocking as it was familiar. He'd had this before, only it had been very brief. He'd been too young to understand that he could relax now, to let down the years of hypervigilance that kept him safe with the Dursleys—and, after all, he hadn't truly been safe from them until he was seventeen. And then he was fighting in a war.

Harry hadn't had a day without the weight of fear looming over him in... ever.

The conversation ebbed and flowed around him, inviting him into its warmth and celebration, and Harry let it.

*

25th December, 1998, #7

When Harry woke the next day to the raucous sound of Seamus singing, he felt light and breezy for the first time in years. The sun crept through the cracks in his curtains, illuminating the golden stars of his hangings. He hadn't noticed the stars in years, and his mind went, bizarrely, to the Parrot Doxies and their feathers—how they might illuminate what would otherwise remain unseen.

And speaking of things unseen; he thought he might know how to stop the time loop now. If the spell had been designed to right the wrongs of his first tragic attempt at December 25th, then he had to right the wrongs, right? Which meant sorting himself out and attending the Ball. It wasn't just about doing right by everyone else—mainly Pansy and his friends—it was about Harry, himself, as well. It was a gift, and gifts weren't about either sacrifices or selfishness. Or, at least, Harry was determined to believe the loop was a gift, even if a sneaking part of him was falling deeper and deeper into the despairing thought that maybe this whole sodding thing was a curse instead, and he was never meant to end the loop but rather go slowly more insane within it.

No, he was thinking positive.

He was going to fix today for himself, for his friends, for Pansy, and even for Malfoy. And if that didn't work, he'd throw it all to hell and show Ron and Hermione the Pensieve until they worked it out. When all else failed, go to Ron and Hermione. And don't fucking yell at them this time.

He jumped up from the bed, parting the curtains with a flourish, and joined Seamus in singing.

Delighted, Seamus whirled him around the dormitory, laughing as Neville stared, bleary-eyed at them—right up until Dean tugged him up into a dance as well.

Harry escaped them as his own song came on, running away from the merry sound of laughter and skidding to a halt in front of Luna. He had to do this day right—on all accounts.

"Hey Luna," he said, sitting down with a welcome sigh. "Happy Christmas."

Luna beamed at him. "Happy Christmas, Harry. You look enlightened today."

"I feel it."

She reached forward and patted his knee. "I'm so glad to hear that. You've been quite heavy this year; you could do with some unburdening."

Wasn't that the truth?

Harry spent a few minutes with Luna, sticking as closely as he could remember to the first day, since that had gone perfectly, and then he escaped to find Pansy.

He found Malfoy first.

The sight of him made Harry stumble a little. It was the first time he'd seen him since their time under the Quidditch stands, but all Harry could think of was how much he wished Malfoy had been with him yesterday. He wanted to see what Malfoy looked like when he wasn't hiding away from other students, or hunched and brooding in corners. He wanted a glimpse of what being friends might have looked like if none of this had ever happened—if they didn't have all of Malfoy's shitty mistakes and Harry's shitty anger to get past—and it was only the two of them.

Well, there was no reason he couldn't revisit Hagrid for lunch, was there? The middle of the day had gone terribly the first time, after all. He needed to rewrite it somehow.

Spurred on by the bubbling anticipation of success, Harry invited Malfoy to lunch—forgetting, momentarily, that absolutely none of the interactions that had so changed Malfoy in Harry's mind had actually happened. At least, not in this timeline.

Malfoy stared at him, then asked coldly, "Did you hit your head too hard this morning?"

Harry bristled, the sight of Malfoy's pinched expression temporarily wiping those interactions from Harry's mind as well. What a little shit.

"Oh, piss off, Malfoy," he snapped, something ugly and twisted unfurling in his belly. It made him think of forgotten dinners and closed cupboard doors. "I was only being nice."

"I don't need your fucking charity," Malfoy hissed, enraged now.

"Oh, is that why McGonagall is begging me to take your girlfriend to the Ball, then?" Harry spat.

He knew instantly that he'd gone too far. Malfoy's already pale face whitened further with rage, and he opened his mouth—lips twisted with fury—to yell something at Harry, and Harry abruptly decided he wasn't going to stick around to hear what it was.

"Merlin, you're so full of it," Harry said, shoving past him and stalking off towards the empty classroom.

"Takes one, Potter," Malfoy yelled after him, words choking in his throat like he was almost too angry to speak, and Harry's blood boiled.

How could he ever think he could rewrite this day into something good? There was one crucial element that remained unchanged through all the possible iterations—one pivotal component that kept fucking everything up: Harry.

The castle passed by in a blur as he strode down the corridor and kicked open the door to the classroom. The Pensieve shone before him, full of his own memories, and he went over to add his day with Hagrid to it. He didn't want to lose that day, especially with how everything was turning out immediately after.

He'd have to let the loop reset. He couldn't keep going on with today like it was.

Harry couldn't explain why it was so important that Malfoy be included in the reset, but it was. It was vital that his experiences with Malfoy were of the star-filled, lingering gazes in the moonlight variety. Not the fistfight on the floor of the ballroom type, which was where he was headed now.

When his memory was added, he dropped onto his newly Transfigured bean bag to wait out the long, long hours of the day. He didn't even notice when Helena arrived, bringing with her two ghosts he wouldn't have recognised even if he had seen them. They watched him silently for a while, before drifting to settle on the tables between him and the door, as if standing guard.

They didn't leave even when midnight struck, and the mess of the day swirled back into nothingness

*

25th December, 1998, #8

Can you dance like a Hippogriff?

Harry took a deep breath. Then another, and one more for good measure.

Step number one was to not insult Malfoy today. Having failed at this step for a good seven years now, Harry wasn't brimming with confidence, but he thought that if he clung to the memory of lunch in Diagon Alley, he might succeed.

He found Malfoy coming out of Professor McGonagall's office, and cleared his throat. Malfoy turned to him, the same cold expression on his face as the one he'd worn when Harry asked him to lunch, but something struck Harry about it now. He squinted, studying Malfoy's face. Was it actually contempt there? He'd assumed it was because it always had been, but... was it still?

Or was Malfoy unsettled?

"I heard Professor McGonagall was looking for me," Harry said neutrally, when he realised he'd been staring at Malfoy's face a bit too long.

Malfoy nodded slowly. "She wants to ask you something."

"About Pansy?"

Malfoy's eyes widened. "Yes... How did you—"

"Heard a rumour. I'll take her to the Ball. It's fine."

One carefully groomed eyebrow flicked up. "Don't sound too enthusiastic, Potter," he drawled, eyes glinting.

Harry laughed, although there was an edge to it. "Well, she did try to sell me out to Voldemort that one time. You might remember."

The hallway fell silent, but then, very carefully, Malfoy swallowed and nodded. "You have a history. Still, I'd appreciate it if you looked out for her tonight."

Realising that he was poised on the precipice of either success or catastrophic failure, Harry arranged his features into sincerity. "I will, Malfoy, it's alright."

Malfoy nodded tightly. "Good. I'll be going then."

He moved to leave, but Harry caught him by the shoulder. "Listen," he said, slightly rushed. "I was wondering if you wanted to... look, I know we're not friends, but..." He shook his head. "I was heading into Diagon Alley for lunch with some people. Do you want to come?"

Malfoy stared at him. After a long pause, he said, "Why?"

Because you fascinate me.

Harry shrugged. "Because it's Christmas and while we might have a history too, I think it's time we moved past all that shit."

A dozen responses must have passed through Malfoy's mind in the space that followed, but eventually he simply nodded. "Fine, then. When do we leave?"

Harry needed time to warn Hagrid, so he suggested they could meet in two hours by the gates, and then he ran off, relieved that something had gone smoothly for once.

*

Breakfast with Hagrid did not go smoothly. Oh, it went fine while Harry followed the memory, but then it fizzled and exploded the second he suggested bringing Malfoy along to lunch.

"Malfoy? What the ruddy hell d'ya wanna bring him for?"

Harry grimaced, not sure how to answer at all. But the hurt on Hagrid's face compelled him to answer with something.

It was less of an explosion, and more of a deflation, really. Which was far worse.

"He's... lonely?" Harry tried, rather thinking that, actually, Harry was the one who was lonely, and why wasn't Hagrid enough for him? Was he selfish?

If he was, then Hagrid was a saint, because he just shook his head, muttering that he didn't understand it. And then he picked himself up and talked about his beets for the next hour. When they met Malfoy by the gate, Hagrid greeted him with a nod and gruff 'ello, before they each held the Portkey and disappeared.

"This way, this way," Hagrid said, ushering them down Diagon Alley with none of the joyous anecdotes he'd given the first time.

Harry felt sicker and sicker the further they went. Malfoy was clearly regretting coming, and Harry couldn't help but think he'd made a terrible mistake.

It was almost a relief when the entire thing came crashing down only minutes into the lunch.

The merry chorus of "Happy Christmas, Hagrid" died midway through, and the partygoers stared at the three of them with stunned uncertainty.

Hagrid began chatting loudly about his garden, guiding them to their seats at the end of the table. Malfoy picked up a sticky dessert from the plate in front of him and stared at it as if he couldn't see it. As they settled in, Harry began to think that maybe it would all be alright, if they could just get through the meal without anyone talking to them, but then a witch Harry hadn't spoken to asked, "Aren't you the Death Eater boy?" and the table fell silent.

Malfoy blanched, getting up very suddenly from the table and all but running from the room. Harry gave Hagrid an apologetic grimace and followed him.

"Why am I here, Potter?" Malfoy spat the second Harry caught up to him—alone, in the shadowed archway of an empty shop, his face turned into the corner.

Harry could just make out the broken twist to his mouth, the way his teeth clenched tightly together.

"Er... because I invited you?"

"Don't play stupid." Malfoy spun around now. "Why did you invite me? Is this some kind of test? Or did you just want to humiliate me?"

Some of Harry's shock and distress must have shone through on his face, because Malfoy immediately backed down.

"Look, I'm sure it wasn't—just tell me why."

Harry looked down at his feet, finding himself suddenly incapable of coming up with a plausible lie. He shrugged. "Would you believe me if I said I just wanted to get to know you?" he gritted out, suddenly counting down the minutes until this godawful day reset.

When he looked up, Malfoy was staring at him very strangely. "Potter, we already know each other," he said flatly. "We know each other better than half the bloody idiots in that castle. I know you're terrified of Dementors because you relive your parents' death whenever you see them. I know the Dark Lord marked you as his equal out of pure chance, but you were the one who rose to meet what the prophecy demanded of you." Harry sucked in a breath, but Malfoy wasn't finished, the words tumbling free faster now. "I know you died out there in that forest, and when you came back you trusted the word of a Death Eater to ensure your safety. And I know you stood up for that Death Eater and her son when no one else would, and when they probably didn't fucking deserve it."

Harry opened his mouth, but Malfoy covered it with his hand, shockingly close now. His eyes burned so bright. "I know you have second helpings of treacle tart, and chocolate pudding, but you won't touch ice cream. I know you take your tea with three sugars, and it's disgusting, but you get the most stupid look of contentment on your face whenever you take it, so no one could ever call you on it. And I know, Potter, that you are lonely, even though you are surrounded by people who love you." His nostrils flared, his gaze never shifting from Harry's. "So tell me: why. Am. I. Here?"

Malfoy's hand was still covering Harry's mouth, and he had the most insane urge to kiss it. To lick the tart sweetness of Malfoy's dessert from his fingers, to press him back against the wall and devour his mouth and his neck and his jaw. But he didn't. He swallowed, carefully removed Malfoy's hand from his face, and said:

"Because I wanted you here, and I'm sorry it didn't go well."

Harry had no hope of reading the expression on Malfoy's face. None at all. It was like... anguish mixed with regret mixed with such fierce hope it was almost blinding.

Something hit Harry then: nothing made up for what Malfoy had done, but Malfoy wasn't asking it to. He was simply trying to change, and Harry, to his sudden shock, realised he wanted to be there to see it.

Malfoy's eyes fell to Harry's lips, just for a moment, and then he pulled away.

"Well, it went terribly," he said, adjusting his lapel with an angry flick of his wrists. "And now we have to get back to the Ball."

Harry's eyes slid sideways. It was only a small gesture, but Malfoy turned sharply to face him.

"You're coming, aren't you?"

"I—"

"You promised," Malfoy said through gritted teeth. "I thought you Gryffindors kept your fucking promises."

"I can't," Harry said, clutching at his hair with one hand as he stared out at the merry streets of Diagon.

He wanted to. Merlin, he actually fucking wanted to, though he couldn't have said why. Maybe it was just because he hated letting people down, even Pansy, but Harry suspected it was more than that.

He wanted to want to go, and that was something he simply couldn't control. Because he hated that fucking thing. He hated it so much he wanted to burn the whole thing down.

When he turned back, Malfoy had already Disapparated, and all Harry was left with was the memory of his cold disappointment, burning far stronger than the strange hope that had preceded it.

Harry knew he should find Ron and Hermione. He should show them the Pensieve and get them to help him, so they could end this. They'd need more than a day to fix it anyway, so it didn't matter that he'd so spectacularly ruined this run through.

In the end, though, he didn't. He wandered around the glittering displays of Diagon Alley until the sun set, and then he went back to the classroom. When he got there, he found it unexpectedly full. Helena looked up at him from where she appeared to be playing Gobstones with two younger ghosts.

"Harry," she said, her icy voice as warm as it appeared to get. "You're just in time to referee."

Harry tried to find the words to refuse her, like he'd refused so many other people today, but he couldn't. In the end, he perched backwards on a chair, arms folded along the top, and awarded points based on how much attention he was paying at the time. The ghosts didn't seem to notice.

"Is it true that we can see your memories?" one of the students asked shyly, surprising him out of a particularly maudlin sulk involving Malfoy, starlight, and the swirling mess of unfamiliar feelings in Harry's stomach.

"What?" he asked, shaking his head. "Sorry, what was that?"

Helena eyed him shrewdly. "The girls would like to view your memories. It's been thirty years since they were alive; would you mind if they shared this with you?"

Harry stared at her. "Is that..." He trailed off, not really sure what he was saying. It just seemed as though he might be... taunting... the ghosts with all his life.

But then, as he looked over at the students, their eyes shining hopefully, he realised—that was their decision, not his.

"Go right ahead," he said, waving his hand towards the painting.

Eagerly, the girls leaped up, stumbling over themselves to reach the Pensieve.

"You can let anyone view them," Harry said to Helena as the girls sighed with awe, lost in Harry's memories. "I don't mind."

Helena twirled a ghostly Gobstone between her fingers. "We will wait for you, nonetheless."

The thought warmed Harry, though he couldn't explain why. Before he could try anyway, a large object crashed into the window. Startling, he fell backward off the chair, the world blurring around him as he tumbled and showing him a split second flash of a familiar face.

"Buckbeak?" he asked, pulling his shirt back down over his face.

Buckbeak—or Witherwings, Harry supposed he should now be called—cawed angrily and tapped the window with his beak.

"Right," Harry muttered, hurrying to let the hippogriff in. "Of course; why wouldn't you be here?"

Witherwings clawed himself onto the stone lip of the window, heaved himself through, and immediately settled into Harry's beanbag, whereupon he turned to glare at Harry.

Harry blinked at him. "Do you want something?" he asked after a moment.

Witherwings clacked his beak angrily and glared harder.

"Are you... mad at me?" Harry asked indignantly. "What the hell did I—oh." He stared at Witherwings, taking note of the ruffled feathers and agitated, bloodshot eyes. "You've time travelled before," Harry said slowly. "Can you... sense the loop?"

Witherwings snorted loudly and then settled down with his head mournfully on his two front feet.

Harry felt wretched. The loop wasn't just affecting him; it was affecting the ghosts and the portraits, and now poor Buckbeak, too—Witherwings. Carefully, Harry conjured a new beanbag and settled in it, resting a hand on Witherwings' neck.

He gave a sad little moan, nuzzling his beak up into Harry's hand, and Harry's heart broke. He had to fix this. He just... didn't know where to start, not without Ron and Hermione.

He also felt there was something else holding him back, although he couldn't say what it was.

While the ghosts played in his memories, Harry lifted his wand to his temple, withdrawing more and more. The memories from today, and from the day before—the memories he'd wanted to forget. They were all important, really. He couldn't just ignore them, so he made sure they were all included, each one carefully recollected and ordered. They swirled before him on the air, waiting for a Pensieve, and captivating both his and Witherwings' attention. Especially Witherwings'.

The Hippogriff watched the swirling light, almost hypnotised by it—even latching onto the tiny glimpses of vision that accompanied the memories. A face here and there, a snatch of conversation. He especially seemed to like Hagrid's voice, his eyes slowly beginning to close as Harry swirled that memory again, stirring up the conversation in random chunks.

Silver light danced across their faces, mixing with the light of the moon and the faint glow of the ghosts, as slowly, Witherwings went to sleep—apparently content simply to be with people who understood. When the ghosts returned to their game, Harry sent the memories one by one into the Pensieve, and then leant back against the Hippogriff's side, waiting for tomorrow.

*

25th December, 1998, #9

Harry realised, upon waking for approximately the eighth time on December 25th, 1998, that he could not recapture the past. He was stuck within it, entirely incapable of moving on from it or escaping it, and yet somehow, when he most wanted it to return, to spend the day once more in the gentle haze of a childhood he should have had, the past eluded him. It was irretrievable, unattainable.

Talk about a paradox.

He lay there for a while, knowing that he needed to go find Ron and Hermione, but not being able to bring himself to do it. So far, it hadn't gone well, and Hermione had looked ready to cry both times he'd managed to tell her the full story, and honestly, he just didn't know if he could face that again.

They wanted today to be happy, and Harry had ruined it over and over and over.

He'd ruined it and they didn't even know. He'd had the best day of his adult life, and Hagrid would never even remember it or know how much it meant to Harry. Everything was utterly, utterly meaningless, and Harry was sick of it.

What if, maybe, Harry didn't solve this one? What if he just waited to be saved, like a princess in a tower? He rather felt he'd earned that by now. That's it, everyone else could save him for a bloody change. He'd spend the time waiting for his knight in shining armour by composing a song about them, just to really set the tone, since that seemed to be the done thing and all.

On cue, the wireless switched to his personal theme song, and Harry closed his eyes as the lyrics washed over him.

Harry, oh Harry

You brought back song when we could not sing

Harry, oh Harry

You brought back laughter, how joyous it rings

His name will reign for a thousand years

The Saviour strong through a thousand tears

Music, and laughter, and light from above

Our Saviour, triumphant(!) with the power of love

Honestly, it was a fucking shit song.

His bedframe rattled as Seamus began to belt the chorus with accompanying rhythm, his childhood choral training really coming to shine in equal magnificence to his lack of any recognisable drumming lessons. Harry groaned.

"I'm up! I'm up!"

Harry swung himself out of bed, hunting for his glasses and plastering a stoic smile on his face. Then he escaped as soon as he could, using the song as an excuse.

"Are you protesting today, Harry?" Luna asked, firelight warming her features as she perched on the edge of the armchair.

"Er, no," Harry said, biting back a smile. "Wasn't planning on it."

"Oh, of course," Luna said, unperturbed as her gaze drifted to his feet. "Your socks."

"Not green," Harry agreed, wiggling one foot in the air before he sat down opposite her. "How did you get in here so early?"

He knew, of course, that it was the elusive Melinda. But he couldn't ask who she was until Luna told him she existed, and if he couldn't solve the mystery of the time loop, he was determined to at least get some form of answer today. While he waited for his knight, that was.

"Melinda let me in," Luna explained dreamily. "You know, she said the funniest thing, too."

Harry froze. This was new. How was something new happening when he'd followed the script? Did the day change depending on the precise second he emerged from the dorms? How did—

"She asked if you were feeling alright," Luna continued. "And said to tell you that if you ever needed a listening ear, to seek her out. It was all very mysterious, and she only tapped her nose when I asked what she meant. Melinda does love a good secret; I don't blame her. But it did worry me. Are you feeling okay?"

"Sorry, Luna," Harry interrupted, shaking his head as the unease grew, "but who is Melinda? I don't think I've ever met her."

Luna laughed. "Of course you have, Harry. She's the Gryffindor Tower portrait."

Harry froze. The Fat Lady.

Merlin.

Had she chosen the nickname, or had it been chosen for her?

Had anyone ever asked her name before?

Harry swallowed. "I'm feeling fine, thanks Luna. I'll tell you everything as soon as I can." He'd tell her now, but he didn't have time. Not if he was to fix the loop today.

"Whenever you're ready," she said agreeably. Then she reached behind her. "I brought your Christmas present. I thought you might appreciate it more away from the breakfast crowds."

Still reeling from the identity of a portrait he'd seen every day for seven years, Harry accepted the present and unwrapped it, keeping as closely to the original conversation as he could remember. It wasn't difficult to follow, because he was still just as charmed and comforted by Luna's presence as always.

Until, that was, the Consilium emerged from within the paper and it appeared to glow. The light went out after a second, but Harry had already lost track of the conversation.

"Oh!" Luna said, leaning in. "It must already hear you, Harry. That's wonderful. It means it has answers already. It may even open tonight."

Answers were brilliant, but what was the bloody question? Would it tell him how to end the loop? Because that was the biggest question on Harry's radar right now, and yet he didn't think it was the question of his heart. He didn't think his heart had room for questions. It was too full of instinct and survival.

"Thanks, Luna." Harry carefully set the Consilium beside him. "I'll give you your present over breakfast, if that's alright? I won't be there long though."

"I look forward to it." She patted his knee and left him there, heart thudding and more questions than ever whirling through his mind.

He joined Ron and the others as they came down, ready for breakfast, but as they passed through the portrait hole—still singing—Harry paused and turned back. He lifted a hand hesitantly, not sure if he'd ever actually greeted The—Melinda before.

Melinda winked at him, shimmering her fingers where her hands lay folded in her lap.

"I'll be back," Harry mouthed, trying to hint that he'd like to talk to her but wondering if instead he just sounded like he was setting up a strange tryst with a painting.

But Melinda only nodded, her smile widening, and Harry left to catch up to the others.

Breakfast went much how it had the first time, with Harry sticking carefully to what had worked on day one. Again, though, the timeline seemed to shift. When they all stood up to go for a walk, and Harry said he'd join them after lunch, George looked at him strangely.

"How d'you think old Minnie will feel about a gatecrasher tonight?" George asked after a pause.

Harry frowned. Why would him skipping the walk lead to George coming to the Ball? He shrugged, opening his mouth to invite George as his guest until he realised that, no, he had to take Pansy.

"I don't think she'd mind at all," he said. "You've got to know you're one of her favourites."

"From one favourite to another, you mean?" George nudged him and grinned. "Right. Save me a dance then, Saviour. I'll be back."

Harry waved goodbye to the rest of them, ignoring Ron and Hermione's curious looks and acting as casual as he could. If this was the day that was going to stick, he wanted to visit Hagrid. And if he said that's where he was going, they'd all come.

Being very careful to follow the perfect day for both himself and whoever might have cast the spell, Harry spent the morning with Hagrid, recreating that first time in as much detail as he could. When Hagrid invited him to Diagon Alley though, he told him he should meet up with the Weasleys, and left.

Just before he went though, he spontaneously turned back and gave Hagrid a hug. A surprised oof escaped the gigantic man, and then his arms came around Harry and he squeezed him right back.

"Wha's that for?" he asked gruffly, his voice catching a little as a beaming smile twitched his beard.

"Just wanted to," Harry said, pulling away enough that he could look up at Hagrid's face. "It's weird that we stop hugging people when we're older, right?"

It was weird, too, that Hagrid had been the only person he ever really hugged. Other people hugged him—occasionally, rarely—but Hagrid had been the first, and the person Harry chose to hug most of all. And then he'd stopped.

"Too right," Hagrid said, giving him a deliberate squeeze before he stepped back and wiped his eye. "You run along now, then, Harry. Don't wanna be late."

Harry left with a final wave, but as he neared the castle his steps slowed. He knew he had to make sure this afternoon went perfectly, if he was to reset the time loop. But... he didn't know how to make it perfect. He could recreate the night he'd sat with George, since he'd be there—inexplicably—but somehow, Harry wasn't sure he could pull it off. His mind would be too stuck on every portrait that watched them or ghost that drifted past. And how could he forget the dinner in Diagon? Especially when he was getting ready for a night of dancing with Pansy Parkinson. And dodging Kingsley.

He supposed those were only small hurdles; surely he could work out something. And yet... as he thought that, he came to a complete standstill. Even if he ended the loop, what then? He was so close to his goal, and once again, he felt... restless. Prickly. Unhappy.

Sighing, he pivoted just before he reached the castle. His footsteps led him, unexpectedly, to the Whomping Willow, and before he knew it he was aiming a concentrated, light, Flipendo at the knot, hitting it with just the right pressure to duck in through the tunnel towards the Shrieking Shack.

What was he doing? This should be the last place on earth he wanted to be, and yet his feet kept moving, taking him further and further in.

The memories hit him as soon as he emerged. He could almost see Sirius in front of him, could feel once again the immense confusion and betrayal he'd felt when Lupin had arrived and taken Sirius' side. And then the tentative hope, the cautious wonder that had begun to grow right up until Snape had arrived and ruined everything.

There, too, was a man who couldn't let go of the past, for better and for worse.

This was the place where everything changed, although Harry hadn't realised it at the time. If he could only have moved in with Sirius, he felt like he might have begun to heal from the things in his past he hadn't known were wounds. Voldemort would still have happened, of course, but maybe he would have faced him with Sirius and the Order at his side. Not alone and on the run.

They could have gone to the World Cup together. They could have gone on holiday together.

Snape ruined everything, and yet Harry couldn't even be angry because the fucking idiot hadn't known that Sirius was innocent—not then. He'd thought Sirius betrayed Lily, and he'd sought revenge, like Harry himself had done only minutes earlier.

Something wet slid down Harry's cheek, and he lifted a hand to find, to his horror, that he was crying. The memories hit him, one after the other: Sirius laughing. Sirius promising him they could live together. Sirius, broken and alone once more.

Harry fell to his knees. The tears kept coming, wave after wave as he shuddered and clutched at the wooden floor. His nails drove into the wood, clutching reflexively as if searching for something. Whatever it was, he couldn't find it.

He crouched there for what felt like hours, until the sun had risen too high to shine through the cracks in the boarded-up windows anymore. Lunch must have come and gone while Harry had lain here, alone on the floor where he'd lost everything. The fact that he'd only continued to lose everything, again and again, on many different floors in many different places, didn't seem to matter. This was the first. The moment when his bright bubble of Hogwarts, his home, had burst—as he'd always known it would.

When he finally rose to his feet, he felt... different. He couldn't say lighter. If anything, he felt heavier, but it was a different kind of weight to the one he hadn't realised he carried before.

It felt like... and this made no sense but it was true nonetheless... all of him was present. Like he'd had his back turned on himself for eighteen years, and he'd finally turned around. What he found there was just as painful and awful as he'd thought it was, but it was also bearable. He could carry this. He hadn't known he could, but there it was, that heavy weight he'd been running from, and he wasn't crushed beneath it.

Shakily, he made his way back through the shack, letting his feet lead him where they would, and it was almost no surprise when he found himself standing just before the tunnel entrance, in a place that would have been innocuous if not for Harry's memories.

He knelt to the ground, slower this time than before, and traced his fingers over the place where Snape had died. Tears began to fall once more, but it was different this time. Softer. Harry very rarely cried—in fact, he could not remember a time he ever had—and yet this felt like he imagined most crying did, rather than the violent sobbing from earlier. This felt easy. Free. His body's acknowledgement of something he felt, and a way to release it, all in one.

The tears dripped from him, sliding down his nose and falling with wet thuds on the floor. He almost didn't hear the footsteps and the sharp intake of breath, they sounded so similar to his own muffled sounds. Who would possibly be coming to the Shrieking Shack in the middle of the day on Christmas day? Only an idiot would come here.

"Potter?"

Harry lifted his head and found Malfoy staring at him, eyes wide, from the tunnel entrance. It was a bizarre parody of how Snape must have felt, looking up to see Harry himself witnessing his most vulnerable moment. At this point, after everything he'd gone through in the last week, Harry figured it may as well happen.

"What do you want?" he asked, his voice croaky from disuse.

He paused to wipe his sleeve across his face, and then shifted back on his arse, drawing his knees up below his chin and propping his wrists on them. Malfoy watched him like he was a wild animal, very slowly moving into the room and around the perimeter until he came to a position opposite.

"Professor McGonagall was looking for you," he said hesitantly.

Harry snorted, laughter unexpectedly mixing with the tears. "And you found me all the way out here. Merlin, I didn't know you were so bloody dedicated to the cause."

Malfoy sniffed. "I saw you come this way earlier, and when you couldn't be found anywhere... I..." He trailed off.

Harry lifted his head curiously. "You what?"

Malfoy shrugged. "I wanted to know what you were doing," he admitted with a surprisingly wry smile.

Gesturing broadly to the room at large, Harry grimaced. "Well, you found it."

They fell into an awkward silence. When Harry looked up again, he found Malfoy staring around the room, eyes flicking urgently from one spot to the next.

"It isn't haunted," Harry said flatly. "That was all a rumour to protect Lupin when he was a kid and had his transformations here."

"What?" Malfoy asked distractedly, gaze landing once more on Harry out of the corner of his eye.

The panic in his eyes seemed to grow, and Harry realised, uncomfortably, that Malfoy hadn't even been thinking about the shack. He was panicking because of Harry, and for the life of him Harry could not work out why.

"Look, you've found me, and I'll take Pansy to the Ball, so everything's fine," Harry gritted out. "You can piss off now."

Record-scratch sharp, Malfoy pivoted his head to face Harry properly. Anger flashed in his eyes, and Harry felt his own rising in fierce delight, and then—

Malfoy softened. He ran a hand through his hair, strands of blond flicking between his fingers. His mouth twisted in an ugly grimace and he said through gritted teeth. "You're clearly hurting, Potter, and I don't see your two shadows anywhere near. So all you've got is me." He slid down the wall, mirroring Harry's posture. "So out with it."

Harry gaped at him. His head was full of white noise as he waited, almost instinctively, for the fight to come. He'd insulted Malfoy; that was all it took. It had never taken much anyway, but especially within this loop, when they were talking again after months of avoiding each other, the two of them could be at each other's throats with barely a word if they weren't careful. But then...

Who started it?

Who started all the fights?

As Harry stared at him, he realised with dawning horror that it was Harry who fought with Malfoy—not the other way around. No wonder Malfoy felt so erratic these days; he was reacting to Harry.

And Harry was a fucking mess.

It was yet more evidence that Malfoy was moving on in ways Harry couldn't access, but strangely, it didn't bother him as much as it had the first time.

Harry swallowed. "I was just... thinking. About everyone we lost."

Malfoy frowned. "Here? Couldn't you do this somewhere cleaner?" He ran his finger down the dusty wall and examined it, sneering, but despite his words, his tone was gentle. A genuine question.

Clearing his throat, Harry debated keeping it a secret—there was no need to share after all—but something made him say it. "Snape died here."

Malfoy blanched. "What?" His voice came out so quiet, Harry actually felt bad.

With a frown, Harry waved a hand at his feet. "It was here. N—" He started to say Nagini took him, but it occurred to Harry that Malfoy probably had some particularly bad associations with the snake, and so he kept that detail to himself.

"Fuck." Malfoy stared down at Harry's feet, his eyes wide, and fell silent for a long time. When he finally spoke again, his voice was shaken. "Why the hell are you thinking about that?"

"I—" Harry began and then stopped. He didn't know. Why was he here, thinking about all this? He'd been given the chance to live the same day over and over, no unexpected surprises, Christmas presents waiting for him and festive lunches only a decision away... and he was here. "I don't know," he said, horrified to hear his own voice cracking again.

Malfoy seemed equally disgusted, his face crumpling in a fierce grimace. Then, slowly, he kneeled and began to shuffle across the floor to Harry—presumably to Obliviate them both. He reached Harry's feet, his knees bumping Harry's shoes, and sat back down on his heels.

"Potter," he said carefully.

"You won't remember anyway, so you needn't bother," Harry said flatly, aware he would be making no sense. "Just give it a few hours."

Malfoy frowned at him, but didn't ask; he just kept leaning in closer, his arms raised strangely—

Did Obliviation have to be in such close quarters? Maybe Malfoy was really shit at the spell.

—and hugged him.

What?

Harry's first instinct was to pull away, check Malfoy for signs of concussion, and Apparate far, far away in shock.

His body had other ideas. It slumped forward, his shoulders began to shake, and his arms came up of their own accord to wrap around Malfoy's waist. For a second, Malfoy stiffened, as if shocked that this thing he initiated was happening, and then he, too, relaxed.

And then they were simply hugging each other.

Dust swirled around them, and the room echoed strangely with each shuffle of their knees on the floor, with each rustle of fabric as one of them gripped the other tighter. Hugging Malfoy should have felt weird—it should have been the weirdest thing that had happened so far. He might have wanted to kiss Malfoy, and he might have used daydreams of a lot more than kissing to distract him from this shit awful time loop, but he'd never...

Kissing Malfoy—fucking him, even—didn't involve hugging. It never had, and Harry had never imagined it could...

And now he realised there was nothing he wanted more, right now, than this moment. Malfoy's arms were tight around him, his body a warm, safe, firm press against Harry's chest. The comfort he offered was spikey and raw, but it was real—a genuine offering for the simple reason that Harry needed someone to offer it, and Malfoy wanted to.

"I've never seen you cry," Malfoy said conversationally, an undercurrent of fierce curiosity beneath it.

Harry couldn't say the same about Malfoy. Whatever Harry's major malfunction was, Malfoy seemed unafflicted.

"I never really have," Harry said.

Malfoy stiffened at that, and then began a slow trace of his hand, up and down Harry's shoulders. Up and down. Back and forth. Harry's knees were beginning to hurt, but he didn't move. Didn't ruin the moment, despite the fact that every repeated day for the last week had been a glittering showreel of Harry doing just that.

He sighed, the sound a deep, low exhale, and it seemed to signal something. Malfoy began to pull away, his brow furrowed and his eyes so, so bright, just like they were that night near the beginning of all this, before Harry had been swallowed up by despair and before he'd realised just how much things had changed between the two of them.

Harry moved without thinking. He pressed his lips to Malfoy's, the sharp gasp of air between them somehow an invitation, a pause of longing, right before Malfoy kissed him back. Their hands slid downward, grasping at the fabric of their shirts, each pulling the other tighter, desperate. Someone groaned, Harry couldn't work out who, but it didn't matter because the sound was echoed immediately.

He stumbled, his knees finally giving out on the hardened floor so that he fell backward. Malfoy followed, bracing himself above Harry, one hand fisting in his hair as he deepened the kiss—tongue and teeth and lips meeting in a desperate, aching, messy clash that felt more right than anything else possibly could.

Fuck. The Ball.

Harry slid his hands to Malfoy's jaw, cupping his face as he kissed him fiercely one more time before pushing him gently back. "We have to get to the Ball," he said, thinking of the time loop and how he had to make this day perfect or he'd lose it all.

He'd lose Malfoy.

Malfoy's eyes widened incredulously. "You want to go to the fucking Ball after this?" he hissed, hair mussed and pupils blown wide with lust, even while the evidence of his fear and shock was still evident in his pale skin.

"Well," Harry began, searching for a reason that would make sense. "Isn't it really important to Pansy?"

Malfoy stilled above him, an unreadable expression passing across his face. Slowly, he leaned back, kneeling over Harry's thighs, staring down at Harry with half-lidded eyes. He ran a hand through his hair, still with that same strange look on his face, and then offered his hand to Harry to pull them both up.

"She'll get over it," he said quietly. "But let's not stay here."

Blinking, Harry followed on autopilot, and then he followed again as Malfoy led him down the tunnel and back through the snow-covered grounds to the castle.

"I'll just get changed," Harry said when they reached the doors. "I won't be long."

"Potter," Malfoy said, his voice low. "You're in no state for a fucking Ball."

They stared at one another for a moment. Somewhere in the distance, people were singing, and they could hear the chatter of conversation coming from the floors above them. None of it seemed to matter.

"Alright," Harry said, jerking his head towards Gryffindor Tower. "My dorms then."

Malfoy didn't protest.

They made their way through the mostly empty castle, aware that everyone was getting ready for the Ball and so wouldn't notice them.

When they reached the portrait, Harry cleared his throat, glancing sideways at Malfoy, before asking, "Er... Melinda? Is there any chance you could check if the common room is empty?"

Melinda beamed at him, reaching her hand towards his face—managing to communicate wordlessly how sorry she was for this whole loop—and then disappeared. She returned in a flash and announced, "Clear but for a handful of third years! I trust those aren't who you're hiding from."

Harry shook his head, relief flooding him. "Thanks so much."

"Don't want to be seen with me?" Malfoy asked tightly, his face pinched into a hint of a sneer.

"I don't want to see Ron and Hermione at all," Harry said, his voice coming out so flat and heavy it was obvious he wasn't lying.

Malfoy startled, glancing at him before shaking his head quietly. "What the fuck happened to you, Potter?" he muttered under his breath.

The world moved on without me, Harry thought. But I'm catching up.

Then they were stepping through into the common room, ignoring the shocked expressions on the third years' faces, and hurrying towards the bathroom down the hall from the dormitories.

"They'll be gone soon," Harry explained. "We just have to wait a few minutes."

Malfoy raised his eyebrows, looking around with interest as Harry shoved him through the bathroom door and into an empty stall before the occupant of the single shower in use could emerge.

"And they say romance is dead," Malfoy muttered, executing a complicated manoeuvre that somehow ended up with Harry standing in front of the toilet and Malfoy leaning back against the door, arms folded, even though he'd entered first.

"You want romantic, do you?" Harry asked, lips twitching into a smile. "I think I've got some dead flowers by my bed if you like. They fell down there in autumn."

Malfoy shuddered dramatically. "Don't bother, Potter. Your raw sex appeal will have to make up for it."

They fell silent, watching one another as the taps squeaked three stalls over and the occupant hummed under their breath. But it was different to all the other glances they'd shared so far. There was an anticipation within it rather than suspicion. And there was ease, which was stranger still.

Malfoy lifted his hand, reaching out to trail his fingers across Harry's jaw, watching the movement with a fierce, intense gaze. His grey eyes glittered in the light, making Harry's breath catch, and still he didn't look away from the path of his hand touching Harry.

"Mal—" Harry began, but Malfoy cut him off.

"Draco," he insisted, and then his mouth pressed to Harry's once more.

"Fuck," Harry breathed against his lips just before the kiss deepened and he couldn't speak anymore.

The shower cut off, sending the bathroom into silence, but Draco didn't stop. He slid his hand down Harry's chest, hooking two fingers into the waistband of Harry's jeans and pulling him closer. Harry gasped, trying to slow things down so they weren't caught, but Draco grinned wickedly against him and stopped him with one hand on the back of Harry's head.

Not to be outdone, Harry gave up trying to leave, slammed his hands on either side of Draco's head, and kissed him properly. He relished the startled heave of Draco's chest, laughing as the sounds of the person getting dressed faltered.

"Is someone there?" Neville's voice came, hesitant.

"No," Harry replied, the sound muffled against Draco's mouth, his heart stuttering at the surprised laugh that escaped Draco.

He felt giddy. Giddy and ridiculous, considering he'd just been crying on the floor of the Shrieking Shack. But he felt alive, alive and free—the weight still dragged at him, but it hadn't returned to the sticky mess it had once been. It felt like grief. Grief for the past, and Harry wasn't living in the past anymore. He lived in the heat of Draco's mouth, in the sharp hitches of breath that replaced the laughter as Harry kissed his neck, his jaw. He lived in the hard length of his cock riding Harry's thigh, and the clutching of his hands against Harry's waist.

He didn't know when Neville disappeared, but the bathroom was long empty when they finally tumbled out and made their way through the deserted corridor to the dorms. Ron had left him a note on his pillow, which he threw aside with only a hint of guilt, and then the curtains shut around them and there was only Draco.

Now that they were alone, their kisses slowed, urgent touches making way for long, luxurious explorations. Draco knelt above him, head nearly hitting the canopy, and unbuttoned his shirt button by button. His eyes were fixed to Harry's as he slowly slid it over his chest and back. Harry, by contrast, tore off his t-shirt in one move, making Draco laugh again, and Harry was surprised by how much he liked the sound.

"I'd say we should talk about this first," Draco drawled, his eyes roaming down Harry's torso with undeniable hunger. He paused, fingers fidgeting over the fly of his trousers. He sighed. "But I don't fucking want to."

Harry laughed and pulled him down again. "Me neither," he admitted, and he didn't think they had to. Not really. Whatever this was, it had obviously been building between them all year, or it couldn't possibly have happened in a small handful of hours. Harry had just been blind to it, somehow.

They could talk about it later. Right now, it was inevitable.

Draco slid down his chest, teeth finding a nipple and making Harry gasp before he grinned against his skin and continued down. His fingers danced across Harry's fly, flicking it open quickly before sliding the jeans down and over Harry's thighs. His own trousers followed, but Harry didn't get to appreciate the sight because Draco's mouth closed over his cock and he couldn't fucking think at all.

"Fuck," he whispered, clutching at the bedsheets as he struggled not to thrust into Draco's mouth.

Draco pulled off with a slight pop, just enough to say, "That's the idea," before he returned to sucking Harry off.

Harry had never—not with—there just hadn't been the chance. He closed his eyes, unable to keep from rolling his hips just a little, but from the noises Draco was making he didn't seem to mind.

"God, Draco, I—" He broke off when Draco gave a deep, throaty moan at the sound of his name in Harry's mouth. Smiling, Harry threaded his fingers through Draco's hair and said it again.

The sound vibrated around Harry's cock, accentuated by the stuttering of Draco's hand against his thigh.

"Draco, God, I'm close," Harry said, because he was a little shit, and because he was fucking close.

With something like a snarl, Draco reached between his thighs, finding his own cock and pumping his fist up and down as his tongue swirled over the head of Harry's cock, sucking and sucking until–

Harry cried out, gasping Draco's name, hips thrusting between them as he came. In the heady afterglow, he reached for Draco, tugging him higher until his knees were braced on either side of Harry's chest.

For a moment, he almost looked hesitant, despite the flush on his cheeks and the desperate way his lips parted in desire, in need.

"Come on me," Harry said, reckless with the knowledge that this would disappear in less than an hour, that it didn't matter what he said or did—there was only what he wanted, and he wanted this.

Draco's eyes widened, gasping as his rhythm stuttered and he came, all over Harry's chest, his eyes fluttering closed and the most delicious moan escaping him.

He collapsed beside Harry, blond hair faintly slick with the beginnings of sweat, bringing with him the scent of sandalwood and clove.

"We'll talk in the morning," he promised Harry, his hand reaching for him and then falling back to his side as if hesitant.

Heart aching, Harry lied, "In the morning," knowing that by the morning Draco would have forgotten it all.

He took Draco's hand in his, fingers threading together, ignoring how this looked—how fast it was all moving when, to Draco, they had only had today. For Harry, it had been days now, days of secret looks, of small confessions. Of wanting not just a distraction, but a conclusion to this dance they'd played for years. An answer to a question Harry hadn't known to ask.

He had to fix this bloody loop. If this was his life from now on, living these moments over and over while Draco either forgot or relearned from the Pensieve in an increasing sense of uncertainty and confusion, he couldn't bear it. He couldn't live like this.

As Draco's breathing evened out into the steady rhythm of sleep, Harry Accio'd the note Ron had left.

Hey Harry,

We're really worried about you. Hagrid said you were with him for the morning, but then you took off and no one knows where you are. If you get this note, can you send a Patronus?

It's alright if you don't want to come tonight. We get it. We just want to know you're safe.

Ron

Harry's heart clenched, and he felt, briefly, like the biggest piece of shit. He considered sending a Patronus now, but a quick Tempus told him there were only a few minutes left until midnight.

The time loop would reset, and he would lose all of this. He needed to fix this loop; he needed answers.

By his feet, the Consilium shuddered, dancing lights flickering across its surface, but it didn't open.

*

25th December, 1998, #10

The first thing on Harry's mind when he woke, alone, was Draco. There was no sign he had ever been here, no hint of his presence in Harry's sheets or bed. The wireless warbled along as time repeated itself, and Harry had to make a decision. Did he try to solve the time loop today? Or did he leave it?

It had been two cycles now of him failing to test out his theory of the perfect day for everyone. Perfect days were hard to find, it seemed, even when you had a cheat code for the whole twenty-four hours.

It had been well over two cycles of the loop since he'd discovered the Pensieve, and therefore how to get help outside of himself, and yet he still hadn't shown it to anyone. He'd stored his own memories in it, so he wouldn't forget, but every time he'd gone to include someone else, he just... hadn't.

Should he show Draco?

He cringed even as he imagined how it would go. He'd already tried telling Draco once, and admittedly they hadn't been fucking then, but technically they weren't fucking now, so there wasn't really anything to stop Draco from sending silver birds at him again, was there?

But he also wanted to show Draco. Had wanted to show him for days now, because he was sick of being the only one who remembered what was building between the two of them. He supposed he was just also scared that maybe Draco wouldn't want to remember. Maybe, to him, it was a mistake.

Shaking his head to clear it, he got out of bed, ducked around Seamus while forcing a smile, and tumbled downstairs to the common room.

He really should get Ron and Hermione, if he wanted to solve this thing. He couldn't do it alone; he never could.

A creeping thought occurred to him: did he actually want to solve this? He hated it, of course. Hated how it robbed him of the past and the future in one smooth go. Hated how he was the only one to remember these pivotal moments in his life—the only one to witness his healing, slow and delayed as it was. But the time loop was also safe. It was contained. Nothing unexpected happened in it, or if it did, it was wiped clean within twenty-four hours. Harry had never had that kind of security before. He'd never been able to let down his guard like this for so long.

Maybe that was why he hadn't tried very hard to fix it.

"Are you protesting today, Harry?"

Blinking, Harry looked up to realise he'd made it all the way down to the Gryffindor common room. Glittering decorations streamed over the walls, held in place by sprigs of holly. The warm light from the fire flickered across the room, lit otherwise only by the early morning sun that streamed lazily from the windows. Luna had asked him that every morning, and it was probably the one constant that had anchored him. He froze, his brain crunching through the unfamiliar terrain of a New Idea, and suddenly he thought, fuck it, why not? He'd done just about everything else available to him.

He promised himself that tomorrow, he would ask Ron and Hermione for help.

"Yeah, I thought I would," he said with a grin. "Just got to change my socks."

Luna beamed at him. "Would you like some company?"

In short order, he found himself setting up beside two sixth years, each of them wearing fuzzy green socks, while Luna handed out flasks of hot chocolate from the kitchens.

"So," Harry said, pausing with his wand over his blank placard and trying not to feel like a complete wally. He'd already been caught trying to copy someone else's slogan, but really, what do you put on these things? This was so much more Hermione's thing than his. "What's with the socks? And, er... the pyjamas?"

The sixth year girl eyed him with a squint. "You mean you don't know?" she asked airily.

"We're new to the cause," Luna said pleasantly, setting up her own placard beside Harry's.

It was decorated with a beautiful pattern of flowers, reminding Harry of the murals in her bedroom. She wasn't dressed in either pyjamas or green socks, although he hadn't yet asked why. He couldn't imagine it was because she felt uncomfortable in them.

The girl relaxed, but still eyed the two of them suspiciously. Harry supposed they'd probably been given a lot of shit for protesting something the rest of the school loved, so it was fair of her to be cautious. He tried to paste his best I'm on your side and am perfectly willing to do what you tell me, knobbly green socks or otherwise smile on his face and waited.

"Well," she said slowly, apparently satisfied by Harry's expression—or perhaps pitying him for it. "It's because of the elves, yeah?"

Harry blinked. "In what... sense?"

"The elves want to protest, too, but they can't. So we're wearing socks to show that they're here with us in spirit. And the pyjamas, well." She shrugged. "We're not dressing up and participating in this farce, are we?"

There was a lot to unpack there. Harry opened his mouth, closed it, and then opened it again. "Sorry, why can't the elves protest?"

Apparently done with his stupidity, the girl rolled her eyes and turned back to her sign. "The magic of Hogwarts keeps them from turning against the school, even for something so trivial. Haven't you read Hogwarts: A History?"

Harry experienced a brief flashback of curly hair and judgement, and then promptly shook it off. "Guess that makes sense," he muttered, even if it was grossly unfair.

He turned back to his blank sign. The others were all brightly painted with catchy and abrasive slogans, like The Dead Can't Dance and Blissful Ignorance, with 'blissful' crossed out and 'vulgar' written in its place.

Harry rather felt that wasn't him. Besides, they were a bit fucking grim. Eventually, he traced his wand in quick, economic lines. Luna leaned over his shoulder and nodded admiringly.

"Very elegant, Harry," she said, patting his shoulder and holding up her own flower sign behind his.

"We Should Honour The Dead," the sixth year girl read out, studying his sign. She pulled a face, but it seemed mostly approving. "To the point. I like it." She turned away, her lip curling. "And the Yule Ball isn't honouring the bloody dead."

No, it wasn't. Harry had lived this day over and over, and each time he woke up to it, it felt the same: a glittering curtain pulled to hide a ton of mess. All the decorations, all the glamour, all the laughter and joy. It had to be fake—a cover, a pretence, hiding the truth of the grief and pain that still haunted this castle. It couldn't be real, because if it was real, it meant everyone really had forgotten, and that was so much worse.

He lifted his sign just as Draco rounded the corner. It was almost comical, the way Draco's eyes widened, his jaw dropping at the sight of Harry standing there and waving a sign. Despite his embarrassment, Harry grinned and waved, finding that he was—oddly—enjoying himself.

They sang a few songs, the lyrics passed out on hastily scrawled parchment for the newcomers, emptied their flasks, waved their placards menacingly to anyone who walked by with even a hint of glamorous clothing, and talked. It was idle chatter at first, nothing really important until the sixth year who didn't like Harry much confessed in a flat tone that this would be her first Christmas without her aunt and uncle—both of whom had been killed in the war.

The floodgates opened after that.

His new companions shared stories of loss, of grief. The placards came to rest against the wall in an unspoken lunch break of sorts, and they ended up sitting cross-legged on the ground as the stories came forth one by one. Luna sent her Patronus off in the direction of the kitchens with a polite request for lunch, and then settled with her hand on Harry's knee.

Strangely, there didn't seem to be a lot of blame behind these stories. Harry waited anxiously, and with no small amount of exhaustion, for the grief to turn to anger, but it never did. Even when Draco passed them once more, this time not even bothering to pretend he wasn't goggling at them, they never directed their loss at him.

And then, they turned to Harry. His eyes widened, and he swallowed reflexively. "Oh, well, it wasn't really—" he began, trying to pass it off.

But then Luna patted his knee encouragingly, pinning him with her soft gaze, and the words began to pour out.

"I lost Sirius, but it was years before the actual war started, and I don't think I actually processed it until now," he confessed, thinking of how he'd broken down only the night before. It felt like days ago. "I didn't have the chance to think about it, you know? Because V—" He paused, looking around at the rest of them, but no one seemed upset at his mention of Voldemort so he kept going. "Voldemort was still after me, and I didn't know what the future would bring, and so it wasn't... it wasn't—"

Safe. It wasn't safe for Harry to stop. He stared down at his hands, feeling the weight of that truth settle into his bones. It was safe now, here, in this time loop where nothing ever changed except the things Harry wanted to.

Around him, the circle of people nodded in understanding, but it wasn't a pretence. They really did understand; Harry could see it in the sombre expressions on their faces.

"And then, of course, the war brought more losses," a fifth year who seemed far too young to be speaking of loss said to him. "And it's almost too much to stop, then, isn't it?"

Harry huffed a bitter laugh, nodding as he thought of Remus and Cedric and everyone else who had gone so quickly it seemed like a mistake. Like something that would be corrected as soon as everyone realised just how wrong it was that they were gone.

The small pop of house-elf Apparition startled him, and he looked up in surprise to see two baskets laden with food were being hovered into the centre of their small circle.

"Kreacher!" Harry said in surprise, recognising the elf at once.

"Master Harry," Kreacher said, bowing and offering one of the baskets directly to Harry. "You'll find a number of favourites in this basket in particular."

Harry accepted the basket on autopilot, ignoring the curious looks of the rest of the people in the circle.

"Er, I'm not your master anymore, Kreacher," Harry pointed out.

Kreacher nodded indulgently. "Master Harry is not Kreacher's master, no. But a master nonetheless." His eyes landed on Harry's feet, and his expression did something curious. His lip wobbled and then pressed tightly together, and his eyes blinked rapidly. "Master Harry is wearing Kreacher's gift."

Harry stared down at the knobbly green socks, his own eyes wide. "They're—" He stopped, registering belatedly that everyone was staring at the two of them with a mixture of affection and admiration. "Of course," he said instead, with a slightly croaky voice. "They're very warm, Kreacher."

Kreacher nodded enthusiastically. "Kreacher is knitting them himself," he said slyly. "Dobby was a most meticulous teacher."

Harry's heart twinged, and it hit him in a rush why the elves were protesting the celebrations. They were mourning Dobby.

Kreacher disappeared just as the others began to dig into the baskets, and soon the conversation was full of the happy sound of people laughing and eating. The ache was still there, but it was fading.

"Harry?"

Harry spun around to find Ron and Hermione staring at him in shock. They were clearly returning from lunch, Ron still munching away on a bread roll, and they both had twin expressions of confusion and... hurt.

"Hey," Harry said awkwardly. "I was, er..."

"Harry wanted to express his thoughts today," Luna chimed in, and since there wasn't really any way to argue that without looking like an arse, Ron and Hermione softened.

"And, um, what are your thoughts, Harry?" Hermione ventured, glancing at Ron—who was looking at the basket of food.

Wordlessly, Harry shuffled back to make room for them. Ron dived in immediately, while Hermione gingerly sat beside Luna.

"Well," he said slowly. "I just think it's a bit shit that we're acting like nothing happened."

"You don't want the Ball tonight?" Hermione's eyes widened in surprise.

Merlin, had he really been that quiet about his opinion? Harry thought it was obvious how much he'd hated it. He'd thought it was so obvious that he'd tried to keep it quiet at every opportunity, so he didn't keep dragging his friends down.

But maybe he'd succeeded in keeping it quiet entirely.

"Not exactly..." he offered, well aware of how this had gone the first time. "It's more that I think we're jumping into it a bit... well... desperately." He was surprised to find that the words were true. "Everyone has this air of wanting to celebrate so much and so perfectly that it's like they're just... lying. To themselves. It's like they're trying to forget that Cedric died last time, and so many other people died since. Even the speech in his honour seemed a bit trite, don't you think?"

Harry wasn't sure he'd ever used the word trite in his life, and judging by the wide-eyed expression on Hermione's face, she thought so too.

"You're right," she said softly, her brow crumpling in deep thought. She turned to Luna. "What do you think, Luna? You don't want the Ball either, obviously?"

"Oh, I'm mainly here to support Harry," Luna explained, handing a plate of fresh scones to Ron, who accepted the entire lot with a beaming smile.

Harry startled. "You don't want to protest the Ball?" He'd thought she must, at least a little. Why else was she here?

Luna hummed thoughtfully. "Well, I think there needs to be some sort of conversation, because you're right Harry—a lot of people are choosing to pretend Hogwarts is just as it was four years ago instead of accepting the world as it is now."

Faint cheers of agreeance came from the rest of the circle.

"But what do you think of the Ball?" Ron asked, his mouth full of roast potato. Harry hadn't realised he'd even been listening, but Ron leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, intent on Luna as he waited for an answer.

"Yes," Hermione agreed. "If we're having the... conversation... what are your thoughts?"

Luna gave the question serious consideration, as she did most things in life. After a moment, she said, "I think happiness and celebration are never inappropriate, but like Harry's sign says: you need to honour everything else, too. You can't just ignore it. And if you're not truly happy, not even a little bit, then you're not ready to celebrate."

Hermione nodded thoughtfully, and even Ron had a furrowed brow as he took in Luna's words, but Harry barely noticed. His mind buzzed, thoughts churning one over the other as he processed the meaning behind what Luna had just said.

Harry wasn't happy. He hadn't been happy for a long time, and he wondered now if he'd truly ever been happy, when the safety and joy of Hogwarts had been shattered so soon after it appeared. He'd had moments of happiness, of course, but to say that he was happy? That he lived a happy life?

He didn't even know how.