Chaos reigned supreme in Grimmauld Place that morning, a symphony of last-minute packing, shouted instructions and misplaced magical items that reverberated through every creaking floorboard and charmed appliance. The air vibrated with a frantic, yet undeniably joyful, energy.
"Fred! George! Stop charming Ron's trunk shut, for heaven's sake! We're going to be late!" Molly Weasley's voice, amplified by sheer desperation and the inherent magic of a worried mother, boomed from the kitchen, punctuated by the clatter of pots.
"Ginny, your cauldron's under the sofa! Again! How many times have we told you not to leave your school supplies lying around?" Arthur called, his tone strained but undeniably amused, as he narrowly dodged a flying schoolbag.
"Arthur! Where's Harry's ticket?! I put it right here on the mantelpiece, didn't I?! Oh, for Merlin's beard, has someone charmed it to disappear?" Molly shrieked from the hallway, a new wave of panic rising in her voice.
"Mum! I packed last night—stop going through my stuff! I swear you moved my socks, I can't find my lucky ones anywhere!" Ron's indignant yell punctuated the mayhem, followed by a muffled thump from upstairs.
The Weasleys, as ever, were in their element, running gloriously late and full of an infectious, if deafening, noise that felt both chaotic and deeply comforting. Amid the joyous storm, Harry and Hermione sat quietly by the fireplace in the living room, both already packed and ready, calm in a sea of familial pandemonium.
They sipped on steaming morning tea, watching the blur of red hair and flailing limbs with a mix of amusement and fond exasperation.
Harry chuckled as Fred zoomed past, his trunk magically floating after him like a rogue snitch, nearly taking out a priceless family heirloom—a rickety, enchanted clock that tracked where each family member was. "I don't think this house knows what peace is, Hermione. It seems to thrive on the brink of absolute disarray."
Hermione gave a long-suffering sigh, running a hand through her already slightly frazzled hair, a clear sign of her intellectual exhaustion. "I've resigned myself to the madness, Harry. It's a force of nature, really. At least no one charmed my toothbrush to sing again. I wouldn't survive another 'We Are the Champions' at dawn."
Harry smirked, remembering the ear-splitting renditions that had plagued her, The domestic chaos was a stark contrast to the divine battles he'd faced, a grounding reminder of the world he was still a part of.
Eventually, amid a truly spectacular symphony of Molly's desperate shouts, Arthur's reassuring spells, Fred and George's mischievous cackles, and a desperate hunt for a pair of mislabeled charmed socks, they all managed to make it to King's Cross.
They burst through the magical barrier between platforms Nine and Ten with mere seconds to spare, emerging onto the bustling platform 9¾ like a bright, boisterous explosion. The Hogwarts Express, a majestic scarlet behemoth, let out a sharp, impatient whistle, plumes of thick, white steam hissing dramatically beneath its gleaming engine, ready for its journey.
Goodbyes were quick and heartfelt—Mrs. Weasley's tearful, bone-crushing hug, Arthur's proud, firm handshake, Sirius who had followed as Padfoot couldn't help the whine that escaped him, he would miss his godson. he gave a bark and rubbed his head against Harry wishing him goodbye and then they were aboard, Hogwarts-bound once again.
Harry, Hermione, and Ron found a mostly empty compartment towards the middle of the train and settled in, spreading their belongings around, claiming their space for the journey.
"Can't believe we're in the fifth year already," Ron said, flopping dramatically onto the plush seat, already reaching for a discarded chocolate frog from his pocket. "Feels like we just got our letters yesterday, still wide-eyed first-years."
Hermione beamed, her face alight with eager anticipation, clutching a meticulously organized planner. "I know! It's exciting! Fifth year is a critical academic turning point, after all. Our O.W.L.s determine our career paths, and we need to be absolutely prepared for the intensive coursework and the demands ahead!"
"Oh, joy," Ron muttered under his breath, earning a sharp elbow from Hermione. "More studying. Just what I wanted."
"You say that now, Ronald," she sniffed, ever the conscientious one, her spine stiffening slightly. "But as a prefect, you should set an example. We both should, and we have responsibilities now, like keeping the younger years in line."
Harry raised an eyebrow, a genuine smile playing on his lips, a touch of amusement in his eyes. "That's right, You two, prefects. Never thought I'd see the day. Congratulations again, both of you. You'll be brilliant, Hermione. And Ron, well, you'll be… you, but with a badge."
"Oi," Ron grinned, puffing out his chest slightly, clearly proud despite his earlier grumbling. "We're responsible now. Sort of. Don't expect too much, though. There are still limits to my authority, especially when Fred and George are involved."
Just then, the compartment door slid open with a soft whoosh, revealing a wispy figure framed against the bustling corridor Luna Lovegood, and beside her was Neville Longbottom as they came in and Herminoe invited them in.
"Hi," said Luna Lovegood dreamily, her wide, pale eyes seeming to take in everything and nothing at once, her gaze oddly unfocused yet intensely perceptive. She carried a rather large, crumpled bag of what looked like various strange snacks, emitting a faint, sweet smell, and several copies of The Quibbler held resolutely upside down. Neville who sat beside Harry, offered a small, shy smile, clearly comfortable with her unique presence.
"Luna!" Hermione managed a polite, if slightly strained, smile, already bracing herself for whatever eccentricities were to come, knowing a conversation with Luna was rarely straightforward.
Harry let a smile cross his face. Luna Lovegood. One of Jacob's favorite supporting character—strange, brilliant, otherworldly, and, crucially, she was eccentric and unique.
Meeting her in person, seeing her, made something inside him flutter unexpectedly, a mix of fascination and a sudden, sharp apprehension. His Jacob memories had always painted her as a uniquely insightful figure, someone who saw the underlying truths.
She turned and stared at him. Really stared. Her unnervingly wide, pale eyes seemed to pierce through his very skin.
Harry blinked, "Er—something on my face, Luna?" he asked, but a tremor of unease ran through him, a premonition of something unsettling.
Luna tilted her head, her expression serene, almost angelic, as if she were simply observing a fascinating phenomenon. "No. It's just… I've never truly seen you before. It's nice to finally meet you, Jacob." Her voice was soft, melodic, utterly devoid of malice, yet the name hung in the air like a dropped potion vial, sending shockwaves through Harry.
Silence fell, absolute and deafening, save for the rhythmic clatter of the train on the tracks.
Harry's heart froze in his chest. Jacob. She said it so plainly. So casually. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, a common name, not the deepest secret of his very existence.
Neville, ever loyal and oblivious, blinked slowly, a slight frown on his face, trying to make sense of Luna's words. "That's Harry, Luna," he corrected gently, pointing. "Harry Potter."
Luna blinked once, her gaze still impossibly distant, then turned to Neville as if just noticing him. "Oh, Harry. It's nice to meet you. My apologies." She offered a small, placid smile, completely unfazed by her previous statement or the stunned silence it had created.
Then, without missing a beat, she sat gracefully beside Neville and promptly launched into an elaborate monologue about invisible whisper-worms that lived in spellbooks and caused students to mispronounce charms.
Harry, however, remained perfectly still, stunned. The internal shock was immense. Jacob. She actually said it. The fanfic rumors of her being able to "see the unseen" or perceive hidden truths as mere literary embellishment, a convenient plot device for writers.
He glanced at Luna, who was now arguing cheerfully with Hermione about the proper psychological application of calming draughts versus natural emotional regulation for students suffering from exam stress, her voice light and unburdened by the profound implications of her earlier words. She seemed to notice his gaze, turning briefly to offer him another smile.
He couldn't help the smile that crawled onto his face, she was just bright.
What exactly could she see? What parts of him, of Jacob, could she see more, see his acquired Authorities, were they visible to her unique perception?
Needing air, needing a moment to process this startling encounter and to re-anchor himself, Harry mumbled an excuse about needing to use the bathroom and quickly wandered out into the bustling corridor.
She had caught him off guard and it was a little frightening, to be honest. For someone to look at you and see what's essentially what's in your soul. Dam right terrifying.
He was so lost in thought, and collided with someone with a soft oomph, nearly knocking them off their feet. Dropping some books
"Watch it, Potter," came a sharp, cool voice, cutting through his distracted thoughts like ice.
Harry blinked, shaking off his daze, and looked down.
Daphne Greengrass.
Sharp, elegant, and notoriously aloof, she looked as if she'd stepped directly from a royal portrait, every silvery-blonde hair perfectly in place, her posture impeccable. Her eyes, as icy and piercing as her tone, held a distinct lack of warmth, mirroring her reputation as the "Ice Queen of Slytherin."
She was, he remembered vividly from Jacob's memories, often portrayed as the "Ice Queen of Slytherin," the best ship for Harry in so many fanfics due to her hidden depths and cool demeanor. He couldn't help but inwardly acknowledge that the fanon hadn't exaggerated; she was stunningly beautiful, precisely as she was described in those stories, with an almost ethereal grace.
"Sorry," Harry said automatically, stepping back, assessing her with a new, Campione-enhanced gaze that picked up on subtle nuances others would miss—the faint shimmer of her innate magical strength, the confident set of her jaw. He bent down to help her gather her fallen textbooks.
She narrowed her eyes, studying him with an intensity that few bothered to employ, her gaze analytical. "Potter? You actually apologized? And you're not scowling, or looking perpetually put upon. Taught the Boy Who Lived didn't care for snakes like myself, or did you just decide to grace we lowly ones with your presence" Her smirk was faint, barely there, but undeniably present, a hint of dry amusement.
Harry arched a brow, a flicker of amusement and challenge in his own eyes. "Must be contagious then, Greengrass. You've been giving off that 'frozen empress' vibe since third year, complete with the imperious glare and the aura of untouchable superiority."
He noted the impeccable cut of her dark green robes and the understated but undeniably expensive jewelry at her throat. She was naturally gifted if one knew what he meant.
Her smirk widened, if still cool, an expression that softened her features slightly. "With everything I've heard of you, Better an empress than a reckless martyr, Potter. At least my reputation precedes me with a touch of dignity, unlike some who seem to court disaster with an almost suicidal glee."
"Ouch," Harry murmured, a genuine laugh escaping him, low and throaty. He found himself surprisingly entertained, despite the bluntness. He knew that some of his adventures with Ron and Hermione had always been whispered about even when nobody knew the full thing, definitely courtesy of Ron's big mouth.
He looked at her, She had wit, her composure unbreakable, and her presence was undeniably captivating.
They stared at each other for a long moment, a silent challenge, a curious assessment.
"Later Potter".
Then she turned to go, her dark green robes swaying with an effortless grace that was almost mesmerizing, his eyes seemed to follow her backside, her posture regal even in the crowded corridor, a silent dismissal that was almost an invitation.
Harry couldn't help but watch her walk away, a faint, smile on his face.
Yeah. Fanfic writers weren't wrong. She truly was something.
When he returned, Hermione was deep into a discussion with Ron about advanced potion advancements and the theoretical properties of various dragon blood. Ron had, predictably, fallen asleep halfway through her explanation, head lolling against the window, a trail of drool escaping the corner of his mouth. Neville was tenderly feeding a baby Mimbulus mimbletonia, which periodically squirted foul-smelling sap onto the compartment wall, adding a pungent aroma to the already eclectic mix of train smells.
Harry took his seat, he gave a look to Luna before deciding that it didn't matter after all. Luna won't tell he was sure and that's all that mattered.
While he relaxed his mind seemed to wander to a certain Slytherin that he had just met as he smiled.
The train continued its rhythmic journey north, steam trailing behind as the rugged, mist-shrouded Scottish Highlands came into view, their ancient peaks seeming to hold untold secrets.
This year… is going to be very, very interesting, he'd make it so himself.
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