Harry Potter and the Battle of the Scourge (Part One of Seven)

PART ONE OF SEVEN

ABOUT THIS FAN FIC:

I wrote Harry Potter and the Battle of the Scourge shortly after J.K. Rowling released The Half-Blood Prince, when the wait for the final book felt unbearable. This story became my way of imagining what might come next—a blend of friendship, romance, tension within the Order, and the kind of magic and danger only Harry could face.

Almost twenty years later, I’m revisiting and refining each chapter, giving the entire story a fresh brush-up for today’s readers. Writing this fanfiction all those years ago is what ultimately inspired me to create my Boundless Magick series—the moment I realized how much I loved building worlds of my own.

Because this novel is forty-nine chapters long, I’ll be sharing it in seven parts (the magical number of completion, fullness, and spiritual perfection!) for easier reading. I’ll include a link at the end of each section so you can move smoothly on to the next.

Follow along as I repost my story chapter by chapter, and check back regularly for new updates.

CONTENT WARNING:

Harry Potter and the Battle of the Scourge is a darker, older-YA Harry Potter fanfiction. It includes themes of war, grief, violence, trauma, manipulation, complex romance, and distrust within the Order. Certain chapters contain sexual themes and instances of unwanted or non-consensual physical contact (non-graphic but potentially distressing). These scenes are written at a PG-13 level but may still be triggering.

This story is recommended for older teens and adults (16+). Please read with care and take breaks if needed. ✨

SUMMARY:

Harry Potter heads into his final summer before seventh year expecting loneliness, danger, and the shadow of Voldemort—but nothing prepares him for the arrival of a mysterious witch who saves his life on Privet Drive and keeps the deepest parts of herself tucked behind carefully chosen truths. With powers Harry can’t explain and knowledge she shouldn’t possess, she drags him into a web of secrets far more dangerous than anyone realizes.

As old protections fail and new enemies rise, Harry must navigate Grimmauld Place and the rare enchantments the witch has woven through it, the tightening grip of Voldemort’s forces, and the deep, inexplicable pull he feels toward the witch he barely knows. Whispers of prophecy, hidden bloodlines, and loyalties that shift like smoke threaten to unravel everything he thought he understood. Allies may be enemies. Enemies may be saviors. And the truth—whatever it is—threatens to destroy Harry, everyone he loves, and anyone who isn’t already claimed by Voldemort’s rising darkness.

In this darker, older YA continuation of the Harry Potter wizarding world, trust is a luxury, secrets are weapons, and every choice edges Harry closer to a fate he never saw coming.

CHAPTER 1

Little Whinging’s Mysterious Stranger

A brooding darkness settled over Little Whinging on the night of July 30th. The neighborhood of terraced houses lay still beneath a low veil of fog; not a curtain stirred, not a car passed by. Streetlamps cast pale light across the pavement, their glow fading into the mist that wound around hedges and garden walls like smoke.

Upstairs at Number Four Privet Drive, Harry Potter lay wide awake. The silence pressed close, thick and watchful, against his bedroom’s faded green walls. The owl from Remus Lupin had come hours ago, delivering a message that left Harry too alert to rest: members of the Order of the Phoenix would arrive by midnight to take him into hiding.

In just a few short hours, Harry would turn seventeen, an adult in the wizarding world. At midnight, the protective enchantment that Dumbledore had placed over the Dursleys’ house would expire, and so would Harry’s safety.

Remus had been clear in his note: Don’t leave the house until the Order arrives.

Even with anxiety knotting in his chest, Harry felt a flicker of relief. He would soon be free of the Dursleys: Aunt Petunia’s glares, Uncle Vernon’s shouting, and Dudley’s endless whining. He wouldn’t miss any of it. When he’d told them he was leaving, they’d collectively muttered, “Good riddance,” followed by Uncle Vernon’s trademark grunt, and then, “Try not to wreck the place on your way out. And tell your freaky little friends to keep it down; we don’t need the whole neighborhood minding our business.”

Harry hadn’t even flinched. Nothing they said to him mattered anymore. All he cared about was seeing Ron and Hermione again. It had been weeks since they were all together at Bill and Fleur’s wedding at the Weasleys’ Burrow, a place that already felt like another world compared to this miserable little town.

Harry’s mind wandered to his upcoming seventh and final year at Hogwarts, and then to Dumbledore. A familiar weight settled in his chest, the kind that always came when he thought about his mentor. He could still see the green flash, hear Snape shouting the Killing Curse, then feel the helpless rage of being frozen under his cloak, forced to watch as Dumbledore, the greatest wizard he’d ever known, fell from the Astronomy Tower—betrayed by the man he’d trusted.

Harry clenched his fists at the thought of Voldemort, Snape, and the Death Eaters spreading terror throughout the magical and Muggle worlds unchecked. He gritted his teeth, more determined than ever to destroy every Horcrux, bring down Voldemort, and make Snape pay for his treachery.

He exhaled and glanced at the clock. It was just past ten. He’d spent most of the evening packing, anything to keep his mind from dwelling on what lay ahead. But now that everything was ready, time itself seemed to have stalled, his thoughts looping in anxious circles.

He closed his eyes, wishing he could go back to being eleven again, to that first golden glimpse of Hogwarts, when everything shimmered with promise and Dumbledore was still alive.

Then came the sound of footsteps. Heavy ones, echoing outside. A second later came dull pops, like fireworks swallowed by fog.

Harry reached under his pillow and grabbed his wand. The Ministry couldn’t fault him for using magic freely mere hours before his seventeenth birthday, especially if his life were in danger. The thought steadied his nerves—barely. Moving to the window, he slipped behind the curtains and whispered, “Apiro.” The glass lifted with a creak.

The cool night air swept across his face as he glimpsed a tall woman with long dark hair cutting through the mist and racing down the street. Her cloak flared behind her, revealing fitted black clothes and the gleam of high-heeled boots that struck the pavement in sharp rhythm. As she passed beneath the lamplights, Harry noticed that the mist didn’t touch her; it bent away, repelled by a faint, shimmering barrier. She held her wand high, sending bursts of violet light into the night. Each flash made the houses along the street ripple and vanish as if the street itself were folding in on nothingness.

“She’s a witch,” Harry whispered.

His heart hammered faster with each burst of violet light that left the witch’s wand, the air outside shivering under the strain of her magic.

Then Harry was moving before he’d even decided to, wand in hand, every nerve alive with warning. He kicked on his trainers, grabbed his invisibility cloak, and bolted for the stairs. At the bottom landing, he pressed his eye to the front-door peephole to monitor the witch’s progress.

An inexplicably familiar bright green eye stared back at him.

He stumbled, then wheeled around and sprinted down the hall into the kitchen, where the back door waited. Since the witch was out front, he would have to slip out the back and circle around the row of terraced houses, staying unseen until he could decide whether she was a friend or an enemy.

At the door, he unlatched the locks, lifted the chain, and tightened his grip on his wand, just in case this were an ambush and the witch a distraction. Suspense pressed against him like a thousand pounds of uncertainty. He drew a breath and yanked the door open.

There stood the girl from the street.

Up close, she looked only a little older than he was—tall, lean, and strikingly beautiful. Her dark hair fell in hypnotic waves around her face, framing sharp green eyes that seemed to glow in the dim light. Around her throat hung a heavy gold locket—large, oval, and gleaming faintly even through the mist. The serpentine “S” inlaid with green jewels seared itself into Harry’s mind the instant he saw it. The Slytherin locket. He knew it well. But his thoughts were spinning too fast to stop and question how—or why—it was here, on her.

Her face was pale and wild with panic, her breath coming in sharp bursts. It wasn’t fear for herself—Harry could see that instantly—but a desperate urgency, like someone racing a clock that had already run out.

Then her knees buckled.

Harry lunged forward and caught her just before she hit the floor, violet sparks shooting from her wand—the brief aftershock of her spell.

CHAPTER 2

The Witch at Number Four

The air crackled with anxious energy after the witch collapsed outside Number Four, Privet Drive. Every nerve in Harry’s body snapped taut; the world narrowed to the urgent task of keeping her hidden from the Dursleys—and everyone else.

The Dursleys had spent years trying to conceal the magic that lived inside their house, and one unconscious witch on the floor would shatter that fragile illusion in an instant. Harry dragged her upstairs as quietly and quickly as possible; if he roused his aunt and uncle from sleep, they would throw him out on his ear and leave him wide open to Voldemort.

A Muffliato Charm sealed the noise; a Sticking Spell locked the door. One candle burned low—the faintest slit of yellow—enough to see, but not enough to draw attention.

The witch lay unconscious across his bed, her dark hair tangled across her face, soot streaking her cloak and the fitted bodice beneath it. Her trousers were dusted with ash and tucked into sharp-heeled boots, the kind of outfit that suggested confidence, maybe even defiance. One arm was flung above her head and tangled in her hair; the other lay draped across her chest, her bruised fingers locked around her wand. Even in unconsciousness, her grip stayed rigid, as if a Warding Spell bound it there, keeping anyone from prying it free.

The sight of her filled Harry with equal parts intrigue and alarm. Anyone bold enough to use magic so openly in Little Whinging either had a death wish or a serious mission to execute—a mission like moving Harry Potter to safety. But the Order hadn’t said anything about a lone witch coming to retrieve him. Remus’ owl had specifically promised a full guard.

The clock struck eleven. Time was slipping, and the Order was nowhere in sight. Before Harry could puzzle further, the witch stirred. She moaned softly and shifted against the rumpled sheets. When she opened her bright green eyes, Harry felt the oddest flicker of recognition—gone before he could name it. He inched closer to her, but with caution. “Hey—easy. You fainted.”

She blinked, steadying her breathing as her gaze flicked across the room, taking everything in—the owl cage, the faded green walls, Harry’s luggage, the cluttered desk.

“I’m Harry,” he said carefully. “Harry Potter. Who are you?”

Her voice came faintly. “Hannah… Hannah Morley.” She winced and sat up, slipping her wand back into her cloak and bracing herself against the bed. “You have to leave this house. Now.”

Harry frowned. “I’ve been given strict instructions to wait for the Order.”

“They can’t make it,” she said. “I’m with them. I came instead.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Remus would have sent another owl if plans had changed.”

Her voice was low and urgent now. “Harry, there isn’t time to argue. No one from the Order knows I’m here. Dumbledore’s protection over you is at its weakest point. The Death Eaters have found a way through it. They’re coming for you now. I’ve cast a temporary invisibility charm over the town, but it won’t hold for long.”

Harry’s stomach dropped. “Remus would have warned me. He has spies stationed all over London.”

“And I’m one of them,” Hannah said. “Harry, no one else from the Order but me has this information. And I didn’t have time to send an owl to Remus or anyone to warn them. I came straight to you as soon as I found out. Had I waited for approval, it would have been too late.”

Harry studied her closely, trying to gauge the truth in her words. Her eyes were steady, though her hands trembled slightly in her lap. “Prove it,” he said. “Prove you’re with the Order.”

She hesitated, then unclasped the chain at her neck and handed him the heavy gold locket Harry had noticed instantly when he’d confronted her at the back door, but had nearly forgotten in the chaos.

He turned the locket over in his hand, feeling its unnatural warmth. The carved serpent seemed to shift under the candlelight. Inside his head, the initials pulsed: R.A.B. He swallowed hard, his voice breaking as he spoke. “Dumbledore and I found the fake one in a cave. But this—this is the real Slytherin locket. I can feel it.” The locket vibrated faintly in his palm, and his scar flared in pain. He winced, rubbing the sting from his forehead.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “That is the real Slytherin locket.”

Harry looked up sharply. “How did you get this? Who gave it to you?”

“It was passed to me, with instructions to keep it safe until the time was right. Harry, I know about the Horcruxes—proof that Voldemort can be undone. We just have to figure out how to find and destroy each one without losing our lives in the process.”

His pulse jumped. Other than Dumbledore, Professor Slughorn, Ron, and Hermione, Harry hadn’t spoken to anyone about Voldemort’s means of tying himself to the physical world. Apparently a man named R.A.B. had discovered Voldemort’s secret, too, but as far as Harry knew, he’d died long ago, whoever he was. So, how could Hannah have known?

He thought back to everything Dumbledore had taught him—the diary, the ring, the locket that had turned out to be fake. Seven Horcruxes in total, or so Dumbledore believed. Two destroyed. One missing (now found). The rest, uncertain—stored in objects and hidden in places Harry had yet to discover.

Before he could speak, Hannah reached out and gripped his shoulder. “Yes, Dumbledore taught you much of what you need to know, and there’s so much more to discover.”

Harry drew back sharply. “How did you know what I was thinking?”

She hesitated, then sighed. “I should’ve warned you. I’m a Legilimens. A gifted one. I can hear you—your thoughts, your emotions.”

He felt as if a window had been thrown open in his skull, private thoughts fluttering into the cold night air. The sensation made his stomach turn—Snape’s voice, Snape’s sneer, that awful feeling of being cornered, stripped of privacy. Legilimency. The very word made his blood boil.

Memories of Snape prying into his mind flooded back until rage burned hot in his chest.

Hannah watched him quietly. “Ah. Professor Snape,” she said softly. “You studied privately with him last year. He’s a brilliant wizard, beyond accomplished in Occlumency, Legilimency, and Potions.”

Harry glared at her, furious. “He killed Dumbledore. He’s evil.”

Her tone stayed calm, though her eyes darkened. “Things aren’t always what they seem, Harry.”

His wand was out before he realized it. “What’s that supposed to mean? I saw him do it! He killed my mentor—a man I trusted and loved!”

“Yes,” she said quietly, “but Dumbledore was prepared to die. The curse from Marvolo’s ring had already doomed him. He also knew his death would protect you.” Her voice softened. “Why do you think he spent so much time teaching you last year? He knew his time was short.”

Harry stared at her, torn between fury and disbelief. “You talk like you were there.”

Her eyes flickered. “Not there,” she said carefully. “But I knew enough to understand what had to be done.”

He didn’t trust her—not yet—but her words carried the same quiet certainty he’d once heard from Dumbledore himself, and that terrified him. Still, every instinct screamed caution. “How is it you have this information but no one else in the Order does? How do I know you’re not a Death Eater trying to lure me to Voldemort?”

A blast of invisible force slammed into him. His wand flew from his hand. The air folded inward with the sound of cracking glass; his ribs counted every ounce of pressure before he hit the floor hard, the room tilting as gravity righted itself again.

Her next words came through like a thunderclap. “How dare you call me a Death Eater!” She retrieved his wand from the floor with a wordless spell—more wandless magic—and leveled it at his chest.

Harry lay there, stunned that she’d unleashed a silent, wandless spell powerful enough to shake the room itself. He’d only known three wizards capable of magic like that: Dumbledore, Voldemort, and Snape.

As Harry scrambled to his feet and snatched his wand back, she stood panting, her eyes locked on his as if rifling through his thoughts. Then, as if some dam had broken, she began to speak. “Voldemort killed my family, Harry. He destroyed them all, just as he destroyed yours. Now, you have a choice. You can either trust my word and come with me willingly, or I can drag you out of here, but I won’t stand here and watch you die on my watch. We’ve got to go. Now.”

Harry studied her face. The panic in her eyes wasn’t self-preservation—it was a countdown, a race against something closing in. For the first time, he saw the same raw grief he carried mirrored back at him.

He hesitated only a moment longer. “Alright then,” he said quietly. “Let’s go.”

CHAPTER 3

The Hidden Heir

Hannah helped Harry gather his belongings and banish any trace they’d ever been there. When his room was bare, Harry stood in the center, looking around one last time. Every mark on the wall, every creak of the floorboards, every bit of dust in the corners carried the weight of seventeen long years of suffering he’d endured at his aunt and uncle’s hands. The smell of floor polish and cold toast still clung to the air; even that felt like a chain being broken, link by link. This was the last time he would ever stand inside Number Four, Privet Drive.

Freedom should have felt like release. Instead, it pressed down on him—vast and uncertain. The whole idea tasted hollow and metallic, like biting a coin. He would have given anything to trade this night for one more moment with Dumbledore alive and his friends safe.

He exhaled sharply and turned to Hannah. “So, where are we going and how do we get there? Do we fly under my invisibility cloak?”

Hannah shook her head. “Too risky. Voldemort can trace that sort of magic. He’ll be watching for you. Apparition is cleaner—faster. We’ll Apparate.”

“Erm…” He scraped his shoes against the floor. “I haven’t passed the test yet.”

“That’s right; it’s a seventh-year test,” Hannah said, as if with recollection. “Take my hand. We can go together.”

Before he could think twice, Harry grasped her hand, clutching his belongings with the other. The candle Harry had lit guttered out the instant they vanished from Number Four, its smoke curling toward the ceiling like a fading spell.

Harry hated the feeling of Apparition—the suffocating pressure, the spin, the squeeze—but he held on. It was like being yanked through a narrow tube of wind, his lungs crushed and ears ringing until the world snapped back into focus, the floor solid beneath his feet.

He recognized the street where they landed at once—Grimmauld Place. Even shrouded in mist, he could feel the old magic thrumming between the houses. Number Twelve lay hidden, waiting, its doorway invisible until Hannah reached for it.

At her touch, the concealed house slid into view, wedging itself between its unsuspecting neighbors. She pushed open the door, and they stepped inside.

The peeling wallpaper, the suffocating gloom, the faint smell of decay—everything was exactly as he remembered. Grimmauld Place was still haunted by his godfather’s ghost, in memory if not in spirit. Every inch of the place reminded him of Sirius: the loneliness, the wasted years, the loss. He’d never wanted to come back here. The silence felt wound tight, as if the old house itself was bracing for what came next.

“It’s dreadful, I know,” Hannah said softly. “But I’ve been working on undoing the protective charms so I can fix it up while I stay here. Looks like we’re stuck with each other, at least for a time.”

Harry almost laughed. “It could be worse.” Then, quieter: “Is anyone else here? Remus? The Order?”

“Not yet. Remus is on duty in Muggle London. The rest won’t arrive until after midnight. I’ll send him an owl explaining why I came for you early. For now, we should get your things upstairs. We both need some rest.”

They climbed the creaking stairs, dragging his trunk and Hedwig’s cage. But something in Hannah’s manner felt restrained—like she was keeping something from him.

They reached the hallway at the top of the stairs, where Hannah swirled her wand through the air. A door materialized from nothing—a tall, golden-trimmed frame that shimmered faintly under her spell. But Harry’s eyes had focused elsewhere, on the door next to the one Hannah had just conjured. The initials R.A.B. glinted in gold letters, making him stop in his tracks.

“Hannah, wait.” Harry pointed to the door, his stomach knotting.

Hannah’s gaze followed the point of his finger, and her eyes welled with tears. “Yes, Harry. R.A.B. is Regulus Arcturus Black. He’s the one who discovered Voldemort’s secret.”

Harry watched her carefully. Something in the way she held her breath, as if fighting back a sob, kept him rooted to his spot. “There’s something you haven’t told me. I’ve been around enough secretiveness over the past few years to recognize it when I see it.”

She turned, studying him for a long moment. “I think you’ve had enough shocks for one night.”

“Tell me. Please.”

Her shoulders sagged. “Alright.” She sat on the top step and gestured for him to sit beside her. The air between them seemed to vibrate; Harry could almost hear the tick of unseen clocks counting down to something he didn’t yet understand. “My real name isn’t Hannah Morley. It’s… Hannah Black. Regulus was my father. That’s how I know about the Horcruxes.”

Her reveal struck Harry like a physical blow, the air seeming to thin around him. He jumped to his feet. “Regulus was a Death Eater!”

“Was being the key word. He left Voldemort’s ranks and died trying to end him.”

“I can’t believe this,” Harry said, his mind racing. “How did I never know about you? None of us did—not even Sirius.”

“Regulus married my mother, a half-blood. He knew his family wouldn’t approve, so he kept their marriage, and my birth, a secret from them—though Voldemort and the Death Eaters knew. But once he defied Voldemort and was marked for death, along with the rest of my family, Regulus sought Dumbledore’s help to protect me. Dumbledore agreed to train me in secret and gave me a new identity—Hannah Morley. He erased every trace of who I truly was.” Her voice trembled. “My father devoted the rest of his life to understanding how Voldemort had made himself immortal. He discovered the truth about the Horcruxes long before Dumbledore learned the full truth. He found the real Slytherin locket and replaced it with the fake that you and Dumbledore found. I watched him die a slow, painful death because of it.”

Harry swallowed his own grief, his heart aching for all those Voldemort had stolen from him. “How are we supposed to end him when even Dumbledore didn't know for sure how many Horcruxes there are or where they are?”

Hannah smoothed a kind hand down his back. “We’ll find them all and destroy Voldemort for good. I swear it.”

Harry wanted to believe her. Trust was a fragile thing, but hope—hope was louder. Something in her voice—steady, certain—made him feel like maybe he could.

“You must promise never to reveal my true identity to anyone, not even Ron and Hermione. The fewer who know, the safer they’ll be. For all our sakes.”

“Now let’s get some rest.” She gave a weak smile and opened the magic door she’d conjured.

The secret room was beyond breathtaking. Pale blue walls glimmered like moonlight, and the air smelled faintly of lavender and vanilla. To the right, the floor dipped into a sunken sitting area, where a velvet couch faced a crackling fire and two high-backed chairs flanked a polished oak table. The hearth’s glow spilled in waves of gold and amber, casting warmth across the lowered nook and painting soft light along the stone walls.

Straight ahead stood a king-sized four-poster bed draped in silver-beaded curtains that shimmered with every flicker of the fire’s flame. A pair of nightstands framed the bed, each topped with a single flickering candle enclosed in glass, while a carved walnut dresser stood against the far wall, its surface neatly arranged with books, potion vials, and a single vase of wildflowers. A narrow doorway near the dresser led into a private bath tiled in blue stone, and beside it, an arched entry opened to a walk-in closet where garments hung in precise order.

The whole chamber felt alive with quiet magic—too soft, too safe, too kind—as though he’d stepped into a memory that didn’t belong to him.

Beyond the sitting area, a narrow stairway curved upward behind a partial wall, leading to a small loft kitchen lined with blue-stone counters and neat shelves of polished jars. Hidden farther back, behind a paneled door on the back wall of the pantry, was a concealed passage that threaded deep through the bones of Grimmauld Place—a secret artery for escape or stealth.

“Do you like it?” she asked. “I remodeled after my father died. Elf magic.”

“Elf magic?” Harry repeated, his voice soft with wonder as his gaze swept over the glowing space.

Hannah gave a small shrug, her smile a touch wistful. “My mother’s people were gifted with it. Wandless and wordless magic. Old northern lineage—half forgotten now. She used to say their spells could make stone remember light. Our people also have a way of recognizing each other, even those who aren’t aware of their lineage. There’s a sense of connection, an inexplicable familiarity of sorts.”

Harry squinted at her phrasing, unsure of what she meant, but nodded anyway. “Well, it’s incredible.” It also explained how she could cast wandless, wordless spells—magic he’d only ever seen from Dumbledore, Voldemort, and Snape, none of whom, to his knowledge, had elf blood running through their veins. House-elves performed similar magic, too, but Hannah’s abilities felt different—older, deeper, and entirely her own.

She smiled proudly. “And the reason I was able to craft the safest room in Grimmauld Place. Not even Voldemort can breach it. So it looks like we’ll be roommates. At least for the foreseeable future.”

Harry smiled awkwardly. “Right. Okay.”

Hannah went on to explain the Order’s enchantment that would keep their enemies out—the Circle of Faith, a binding charm they’d cast that only permitted those they’d named to enter or leave the space. She also told Harry a little more about the secret corridor attached to the kitchen pantry: it would take him to several hidden places she’d devised, should he need to escape in a pinch. Both the secret room and the corridor were covered under the Circle of Faith enchantment. The additional layers of protection she’d cast were staggering. For the first time that night, Harry felt truly safe.

When Hannah finished speaking, she crossed to Hedwig’s cage and unlatched the door. The snowy owl gave a low, impatient hoot, feathers puffing as if she were eager for the chance to stretch her wings.

“Now to send a message to Remus to let him know all that has happened and that you’re safe.” She conjured a small roll of parchment and a quill by the windowsill. She wrote quickly, the scratch of the quill filling the strange silence that had fallen over the room. Then she rolled the note tight, tied it to Hedwig’s leg, and stroked her feathers before cranking the window open. “Find Remus, girl. Take this straight to him.”

Hedwig nipped her finger affectionately before swooping through the open window and vanishing into the fog.

As Harry watched Hedwig go, his unease lifted slightly. Whatever else Hannah was hiding, at least she’d shown she could keep her promises.

Hannah disappeared into the bathroom and emerged moments later in a silk slip the color of moonlight, the delicate straps glinting against her skin, the fabric skimming her thighs as she crossed to the bed.

“Sorry,” she said as his face went crimson. “It’s all I had clean. I wasn’t planning a rescue mission tonight.”

“N-no, it’s fine. Really.”

She raised an eyebrow, amused. “You’re a terrible liar, you know.”

He laughed under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”

“Well,” she said, “we’ve both had enough for one night. Come on over here and get comfortable.” She climbed into the bed and patted the mattress for him to join her.

“I’m fine with the couch,” Harry said automatically. He kicked off his shoes and curled up on the couch, grabbing a nearby throw blanket for cover. He and Hannah lay in their individual places in silence, separated by only a few feet, with the fire crackling softly in the hearth.

“Goodnight, Harry,” Hannah said.

“Yeah…erm…goodnight,” he murmured, squinting at the timepiece on the mantle. Midnight. He was officially seventeen. Like every other birthday spent under the Dursleys’ roof, there wasn’t a sound to mark it—only the crackle of the fire.

Still, this birthday was different, and not just because he was an adult now. He’d escaped Privet Drive and Voldemort’s reach by a heartbeat, and now he was sharing a room with the most extraordinary woman he’d ever met. His mind spun like a compass with no true north to find. His thoughts flickered to the Dursleys. He wondered if the Death Eaters had reached them yet. Despite everything they’d done to make his life miserable, a twinge of guilt twisted in his chest. For all their cruelty, he didn’t wish them dead. That was the curse of being Harry Potter—his heart never hardened, no matter how much the world tried to break it.

He thought of Hannah—brave, mysterious, impossible. He couldn’t stop thinking about how close she’d come to facing Voldemort and the Death Eaters, alone, for his sake. Gratitude welled inside him, tangled with something warmer, something he didn’t yet have a name for. How was he supposed to thank someone who’d risked her life to save him?

Just as his eyes slipped closed, her whisper brushed the dark. “Happy birthday, Harry Potter. And…you’re welcome.”

He smiled faintly, warmth unfurling in his chest. For the first time in a long while, he didn’t have to say what he was thinking. She already knew. And in that moment, he was glad she did.

CHAPTER 4

Old Habits

The hour before dawn lingered over Grimmauld Place, dim and unmoving. The last embers in the hearth pulsed faintly, casting soft flashes of amber across the room where Hannah slept soundly in the four-poster bed and Harry on the couch.

A faint creak of the floorboards broke the hush. Hannah’s eyes snapped open. A tall figure stood over her, pale-faced and watching. She jolted upright, heart pounding, but the figure was gone.

Was it a dream? An echo of worry?

Hannah’s protective spells were beyond powerful. She’d assured Harry that not even Voldemort could breach them. But Dumbledore’s protections had been strong, too. Magic, no matter how formidable, could be breached, and fear had a way of reminding her of that.

She gripped her wand and flicked it. A small sphere of light bloomed at the tip as she swept her gaze across the room—under the bed, behind the dresser, through the bathroom, the wardrobe—nothing stirred.

Her attention shifted to the narrow staircase leading up to the kitchen loft. Keeping her wand alight, she crept up the stairs, each step creaking beneath her bare feet.

At the top landing, she paused, waving her wand over the kitchen. Nothing. Relief softened her shoulders. She flicked her wand at the light fixture above the small table. The bulb flared to life, spilling warm gold across the small kitchen. She set her wand aside and opened the icebox, poured herself a goblet of water, and turned—

—straight into him.

Tall. Black-robed. Eyes gleaming like polished onyx.

Her breath caught, and for an instant, she couldn’t move. The goblet slipped from her grasp.

“Arresto,” he murmured. The goblet froze in mid-fall, then feathered softly to the table. His voice coiled through the quiet like silk drawn across glass. “Come with me.” He grabbed her wrist and pulled her through the cupboard door and into the hidden corridor beyond it. The stone walls breathed damp and secrecy. Every door along the corridor was closed—except the one he’d used to reach her. It stood ajar at the far end, candlelight spilling into the darkness.

“Severus,” Hannah hissed, tearing free of his grasp. “You nearly frightened me to death! What are you doing here? I thought you said we should keep our distance.”

“I did,” he replied. He stepped closer until the scent of potion-smoke and parchment reached her. “But I wanted to see how our little mission has progressed.”

His breath stirred the curls near her temple. A shiver chased the warmth, memories pressing close enough to taste. Old habits threatened to drag her under, the part of her that still longed for his touch when she was supposed to pretend that she didn’t care.

She straightened instead, forcing steel into her voice. “You can’t just appear here on a whim. Harry’s asleep in the next room.”

“About that.” Snape’s expression darkened. “Interesting arrangement—sharing a room with the boy you’re meant to deliver for slaughter. “I thought we’d agreed you would use your magic to create him his own space within the secret room?”

She scoffed. “You told me to stick close to him, to gain his trust. And that’s exactly what I’m doing.”

“I told you to earn his trust, not to test his self-control,” Snape said with a cutting drawl. “Have you forgotten how easily trust turns to temptation? Potter can barely manage himself, let alone an extraordinary woman”—his eyes flicked over her in disapproval—“dressed as though she just stepped out of a wizarding boudoir catalogue.”

Her eyes flashed. “If you can’t trust me to be within his reach, you can always dismiss me from the job.”

His expression flickered—something almost human—then vanished. He looked away. “We haven’t time for silly quarrels. The Dark Lord grows impatient. He wants Potter, but not with the Order’s interference this time. I was fortunate to survive his fury for failing to deliver the boy to him last spring.”

“Then perhaps you should stop making vows you can’t keep,” Hannah said bitterly. “When Dumbledore was alive, you had his protection. Now that you’ve killed him, you’re alone—and I’m forced to save you from your recklessness. You’re lucky I was able to use my elf magic to distract them while I slipped your name into the Circle of Faith so you can still access this space. One stray spark from a misfired charm and suddenly everyone was looking the other way. They would’ve thrown me in Azkaban if they’d caught me. And then where would you be?” 

“That’ll do,” he cut in sharply. “Tell me what the boy knows.”

Hannah hesitated. “He knows as much as we do about the Horcruxes, he knows who R.A.B. is, and…he knows my true identity. I told him.”

Snape’s eyes flashed. “You did what?” He lunged forward, gripping her arm. “I told you to wait for my signal before you disclosed such information!”

“You told me to do whatever it took to win his trust!” she cried, wrenching free of his grip. “He won’t betray me, Severus. I’ve read his mind—he’s honest. And for what it’s worth”—she rested a hand on her hip and let her weight fall to one side, the motion slow and deliberate—“he likes me.”

Snape released her with a disgusted grunt. “Merlin, help us. You’re playing a dangerous game.”

“And you’re not?” she scoffed. “I’ve done everything exactly as you taught me. My alias is intact. The Ministry has certified my records. The Order trusts me. Even Remus and Arthur have stopped asking questions.”

Snape’s lip twitched—approval, maybe. “You always were a quick study.” Then, more softly, he said, “Take care not to reveal any more to Potter than is absolutely necessary.”

She felt the air shift between them, a hint of his yearning for her came through, and something else. Jealousy? For an instant, his gaze lingered—too long, too knowing—before he masked it with indifference.

“For both our sakes,” he said, “try to dress less…provocatively. Potter is fragile enough as it is. We wouldn’t want him to fall apart before he’s meant to face the Dark Lord.”

His robes flared as he turned and slipped back through the door he’d entered, and he, along with the spill of candlelight, was swallowed at once by the corridor’s shadows.

Hannah pressed a hand to the cold wall, her pulse unsteady. Anger, guilt, and something far more dangerous tangled inside her chest. After a long moment, she slipped back through the cupboard, down the stairs, and into the darkened main living area.

Harry lay still on the couch, his breathing steady, a faint line between his brows even in sleep. She watched him for a moment, the fading firelight pulsing gently across his face. Then she retreated to the bed, sank into the mattress, and closed her eyes.

For now, the secrets between them would sleep, too.

MORE CHAPTERS COMING SOON!!!

© 2006 Lowvee Cole. All rights reserved. 

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