𝐓 𝐇 𝐄   𝐒 𝐎 𝐑 𝐂 𝐄 𝐑 𝐄 𝐑 ' 𝐒   𝐒 𝐓 𝐎 𝐍 𝐄

        𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒 followed Harry, it seemed, everywhere he stepped.

People lined up outside classrooms, stood on tiptoe just to get a look at him, or doubled back to pass him in the corridors again, staring. He wished wholeheartedly that they wouldn't — he just wanted to feel normal for once.

And then, once he finally got into his classes, there was a lot more to magic than he had expected. Simply waving your wand and saying a few funny words wasn't enough — they had to scribble down names and dates under the watch of Professor Binns, trudge out to the greenhouses with Professor Sprout, and sit in Professor Quirrel's garlic-smelling room for hours at a time.

The most surprising of all these teachers, though, was Professor McGonagall.

After meeting Melody (and being friends with her, he had to remind himself), her grandmother's strict, rigid demeanor came as quite a shock.

"Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts," she had said when they first stepped foot into her classroom. "Anyone messing around in my class will leave and not come back. You have been warned."

Then she changed her desk into a pig and back again.

Harry was very impressed, and he couldn't wait to get started, but Melody turned to meet his eyes and shook her head.

"We aren't going to be changing the furniture into animals for a long time," she muttered in a voice that sounded both bored and betrayed, if that was possible.

After taking a lot of complicated notes, they were each given a match and started trying to turn it into a needle. By the end of the lesson, only one other student besides Melody had made any difference to her match; Hermione Granger. Professor McGonagall gifted both the girls with ten points to Gryffindor and rare smiles.

Just as Harry rose from his desk and turned to ask Melody where the Potions classroom was, however, she was already scurrying over to Hermione's desk and complimenting her work.

She looked jovial, content that she had found someone who matched her intellect, and Harry would never quite shake the sinking feeling it brought him — as if an ember had ignited in his heart.

One single ember, but just enough to bring an entire wildfire to life.

I'm not jealous, he told the gnawing voice at the back of his head. She's my friend, why would I care if she makes new ones? I can talk to Hermione too — we're all in Gryffindor, after all.

He would've, had it not been for the heavy ashes now settling in his chest.

Barely there, but still, there — still enough to remind him that he had never been enough, especially not to someone like Melody.

So he walked down to the dungeons by himself.

It was colder in the Potions room than up in the main castle, and would have been quite creepy enough without the pickled animals floating in glass jars all around the walls. He was alone, now, with nobody else at his workstation. Not that he minded, of course: being alone felt natural, regular to him.

Anyway, it wasn't like he was lonely in this magical castle full of chaos and laughter — or at least, he hadn't thought he was.

But then, Melody slipped into the seat beside him just as the bell rang, unbothered as ever, and he realized he'd still rather spend every second by her side.

Lilac and vanilla.

He smiled at her, all thought of embers and fires and ashes forgotten.

Snape, dressed in the same black attire Harry had seen at the start-of-term-feast, started the class by taking the roll call, and everything was going fine — until he paused at Harry's name.

"Ah, yes," he said softly, "Harry Potter. Our new — celebrity."

Draco Malfoy and his friends Crabbe and Goyle sniggered behind their hands. Snape finished calling the names and looked up at the class. His eyes were cold and empty: black holes of circling secrets and dark tunnels.

"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making," he began. He spoke in barely more than a whisper, but they caught every word — like Professor McGonagall, Snape had the gift of keeping a class silent without effort. "As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses . . . I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death — if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."

More silence followed. Harry looked at Melody, who seemed to have spaced out — maybe she had heard this speech before. Hermione, on the other hand, was on the edge of her seat and looked desperate to start proving that she wasn't a dunderhead.

"Potter!" said Snape suddenly. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

Powdered root of what to an infusion of what? Harry glanced at Melody again, who raised her eyebrows in surprise.

She mouthed something strange in an attempt to help him — it looked like "death", but he couldn't be sure. Hermione's hand, a few rows in front, had shot into the air instantaneously.

"I don't know, sir," Harry finally said to Snape, as quietly as he could.

Snape's lips curled into a sneer.

"Tut, tut — fame clearly isn't everything." He ignored Hermione's hand. "Let's try again. Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"

Hermione stretched her hand as high into the air as it would go without her leaving her seat. Melody discreetly mouthed something else to him, pointing at her stomach, but Harry still didn't have the faintest idea what a bezoar was. He tried not to look at Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle, who were shaking with laughter.

"I don't know, sir."

"Thought you wouldn't open a book before coming, eh, Potter?"

Harry forced himself to keep looking straight into those cold eyes. He had looked through his books, but did Snape expect him to remember everything in One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi?

Snape was still ignoring Hermione's quivering hand.

"What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

At this, Hermione stood up, her hand stretching toward the dungeon ceiling. Melody desperately mouthed something else to him, but to no avail.

"I don't know," Harry said. "I think Hermione does, though, why don't you try her?"

A few people laughed; but it wasn't quite worth it, because Snape was definitely not pleased.

"Sit down," he snapped at Hermione. "For your information, Potter, asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of Living Death. A bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat and it will save you from most poisons. As for monkshood and wolfsbane, they are the same plant, which also goes by the name of aconite. Well? Why aren't you all copying that down?"

There was a sudden rummaging for quills and parchment.

Over the noise, Snape said, "And a point will be taken from Gryffindor House for your cheek, Potter."

Harry felt color creep up his neck. He was already disappointing his House on the first day of classes—

"A point?" Melody's challenging whisper cut into his sorry thoughts. Her eyes darted up to Snape in a malevolent sort of flash, "Is that really the best he can do?"

Harry's brows knitted together in confusion. "What do you mean?" he hissed back, copying down Snape's words as quickly as possible.

Beside him, Melody's parchment was blank. She set down her quill gently, then leaned back into her seat.

"This is just your inauguration," she answered, so casually that Harry had to remind himself she was speaking to him. "Don't worry, we've got at least seven years of point deductions ahead of us."

With that, she picked up her quill again, and scrawled a name in the corner of her parchment — "Snape's Most-Treasured Student".

Harry read it, and caught her eye: they both choked on sniggers and turned away from each other. Melody felt clothed in dignity; in strength, as through she could laugh at every conflict to come.

Maybe all she would ever do is ignite an ember, start a fire, and leave a pit of ashes in Harry's chest.

But how could she, when innocent starlight was all she ever spoke of?

        𝐌𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐃𝐘 hated thunderstorms.

She couldn't tell you why — as much as she wished she knew, she just didn't. Ever since she was an infant, it seemed, they had bothered her.

It wasn't only a small dislike, a fleeting annoyance, either: it was a deep, constant fear. Every time dark clouds rolled in, her stomach shook around anxiously, and she'd hole up in Gryffindor Tower for hours on end.

She knew — it seemed ill-fitting for her; strange, even. She was invincible in every way, yet some passing bought of bad weather caused her to suffer?

Her answer was yes, 100% yes — without hesitation, without question.

Melody hated thunderstorms, and she doubted anything would ever change that.

That's why, on the fourth night of term, she was sitting in the common room at two in the morning with tears in her eyes and a horrifying headache. The first few days of classes were as boring as she'd imagined, but she'd rather attend History of Magic until she was twenty than deal with the raging tempest outside.

This storm was the worst in a while — the windows were pitch black, no moon in sight. There was a bright flash of lightning every few minutes; followed by a terrible boom of thunder. With each combination of light and sound, her breathing grew more sparraric and strained.

She wanted to scream, just like the sky outside, but she knew better than to wake all of Gryffindor House.

She wanted to scream.

If only someone could read her the way she was; unfold her layers and make the most of them. She always found herself wanting someone to talk to during these endless nights, but they never came.

She had it all on the outside: an exciting environment, countless friends, and a big reputation— but what did it bring her back to?

This.

Herself, sitting alone in the early hours with not a single person to call home.

Nobody ever comes, a cruel voice laughed in the back of her tainted mind. They'll never come. And if they never come, then they can never stay.

She shook her head briskly in an attempt to erase those damning thoughts, but it was no use. Not a single star was alight in the sky outside, so who could she converse with?

Were they really shining beneath those clouds? Could she always place her trust in them, even when they had never sent her a sign?

That voice in her head was right, as much as she didn't want it to be.

They'll never come. And if they never come, then they can never stay.

Melody buried her face in her hands and sucked in a breath. One of these nights, she resolved, she'd have to convince Fred and George to lend her the Marauder's Map so she could steal a sleeping potion from the hospital wing. It was the only way.

But then, as if he was her guardian angel, Harry Potter hopped off the bottom step of the boy's staircase and wandered over to her.

She peeked out at him from between her fingers — his hair was even more messy than usual, and a blue-striped pajama set hung loosely off his skinny frame. Cautiously, it seemed, he sat down beside her on the sofa.

Neither of them said anything for a moment.

They were drowning beneath the downpour, two souls destined to remain close to each other despite the unfamiliar and unknown. It was hazy to Melody, still — she'd never had someone like Harry, and she knew he'd never had someone like her.

"Are you okay?" his small voice cut into the near-silence.

Melody heaved a sigh and tore her hands away from her face. She probably looked like a mess; tangled hair strewn across her back and wet cheeks laden with tears. Something about his tone, though —his quiet empathy and concern, perhaps— dismayed her from caring.

"I don't know," she answered carefully. "I think so."

Harry's brows laced together in the dim light of the barely-glowing fire. "What's wrong?" he asked.

Melody slowly raised her eyes up to his, and said in a voice barely above a whisper: "I've got astraphobia. It's the fear of thunder and lightning."

"Oh," he responded. "That makes sense."

Again, they were quiet. The sky was wailing outside the castle walls, still, and another flash of lightning made Melody inhale sharply and squeeze her eyes shut.

It'll go away by morning, she tried to tell herself. It always does.

Regardless, her mind had already taken control. It was a pointless game, one that she feared she'd never win — her soul wanted to run, escape the hurt, and in the midst of the confusion, fear had conquered.

She felt a warm hand wrap itself around hers, suddenly, and she didn't need to check to know that it was Harry.

"It's okay, Melody," his voice soothed. "I think it's supposed to clear up in an hour or two."

Melody drew a breath, eyes still closed, then nodded. It would be okay, she assured herself. For now, she needed to wait for the storm to pass. Like always.

"Why'd you wake up?" she found herself asking Harry, hand in his. "It's two o'clock, isn't it?"

"Oh — er, yeah," Harry muttered. Even with her eyes shut, Melody knew that color was creeping up his face. "I — I had a bad dream."

"Sorry," she responded. "By the way, did you want my notes from Transfiguration? Yours were slightly lacking, no offense."

"Offense taken," Harry said in a tone of mock-anger. "I slaved over those."

Melody smiled, despite the cartwheels in her stomach, oblivious as to why she invariably noticed every detail about this boy. "You spent two minutes on them, then played tic-tac-toe with Ron for the rest of class," she corrected.

"That's only because you and Hermione were busy obsessing over Switching Spells," sighed Harry.

Finally, Melody opened her eyes. "Don't make me have to tutor you," she groaned. "I've got things to do around here."

"What, stay up until the daylight in an uncontrollable panic?"

As soon as the words left his mouth, Melody saw Harry's eyes widen, something near apology clouding them. His expression beckoned her to laugh, almost — it was comical; he thought he couldn't be understood by anyone.

True enough, he was a complex sort of novel — thousands and thousands of jumbling phrases and sentences, one that confused many and intrigued few.

But she could read between the lines.

So she grinned, ripped her hand out of his, and slapped his arm jokingly. "Yep, that's about it."

His face softened immediately. "I thought so," he said. "That, and bothering Snape."

Melody chuckled, a beautiful statement echoing into the night before she could stop it. From the few classes, meals, and study sessions they had shared, it was obvious: "You know me so well already."

"I guess so," Harry's reply sounded quieter than before. "And Melody—"

Just then, a horrible flash of lightning illuminated the entire common room, followed by a deafening roar of thunder. Melody whimpered without thinking, and snatched Harry's hand back into her own.

They sat like that for a moment, the heavy patter of rain making up for every word they couldn't bring themselves to say yet.

Finally, Harry stroked his small thumb across Melody's trembling hand. "Don't worry, I'll stay with you."

Her heart skipped about six beats.

Stay.

That word felt so foriegn coming from Harry's lips, even though they'd discussed it just nights prior on the Astronomy Tower.

Stay.

Part of it was still poison to Melody's own mind, because it had hurt her so many times.

Her parents should've stayed, but they didn't.

Her grandmother should've stayed, but there never seemed to be enough of her to go around.

Every friend she'd ever made in the castle, gone — whether it be for the holidays, summer break, or graduation.

Nobody ever stays.

And all at once, Melody's heart had taken the reins. It was directing her straight onward, fearless, into the blank future ahead, like nothing would stop it.

"You promise?" her shaky voice whispered into the darkness.

She felt a chill run through Harry's hand, as though he felt her hurt through the softest of touches. When she raised her eyes up to his once more, they were searching and troubled.

"Yeah," Harry finally said, sounding shockingly certain. "As long as you don't get us expelled."

Liar.

They never stay, cried the voice in Melody's head, cold and evocative. He'll leave, just like everyone else.

She was used to the flight by now, and she would have to deal with it. She always had.

Suddenly, though — one more burning question stepped forward, cloaked in pitch black indecision and casting shadows through her usually optimistic mind.

People had always faded in and out of her life, like wisteria shriveling and falling servant to the endless cycle of time, and he would leave someday, too. She was certain.

But would he come back?

She didn't know, and with white-hot panic still clouding her senses, she didn't know if she wanted to know.

So instead of believing in any form of false hope, she cast every deeper thought aside, summoned a laugh from the depths of her despair, and forced a twinkle into her eye.

"Me, get us expelled? Oh, just you wait, Potter," she heard herself say softly. This felt so personal, so directed to him — as though he was the only star in the entire sky, and she still saw his light: "You're bound to attract trouble like the Sun does Mercury."

        𝐎𝐍 the last night of October, Harry started to believe her.

He had been made Gryffindor Seeker in a whirlwind of exciting events, and almost dueled Draco Malfoy. He'd managed to anger Snape in almost every Potions class, and even fallen asleep once during History of Magic.

Worst of all, he, Ron and Hermione had discovered a three-headed dog in the third-floor corridor, and ran screaming back to the common room.

As soon as they'd collapsed, trembling, into armchairs, Melody had bounded down the stairs and started talking.

"Where were you?" was the first thing she'd said, something near concern clouding her eyes. "You can't just run away like that in the middle of the night without me—"

"Believe me, you're lucky you didn't come," Harry had heaved, struggling to catch his breath. He recounted everything they'd endured — Peeves, Filch, the third-floor corridor, the three-headed dog.

Hermione had broken in, bad temper dangerously searing, "You don't use your eyes, do you?" she snapped. "It was standing on a trapdoor. It's obviously guarding something."

"Oh," was all Harry could come up with before Hermione stormed upstairs and slammed her dormitory door.

He had looked to Melody expectantly, hoping she'd say something light-hearted to distract him from the fact that he'd just broken around five school rules.

But . . . she didn't.

Her gaze had planted itself on the fireplace, the warm glow of the dying flame dancing across her canvassed eyes. Hundreds of thoughts were brewing beneath those orbs, and he had foreseen it, even then. Maybe she was still thinking about that night during the thunderstorm, or maybe she was reevaluating their friendship.

She didn't speak for quite some time — or at least, that's what it had felt like.

When she finally raised her eyes and murmured distantly that she needed to go back to bed, Harry had sensed that something was off. It wasn't his fault, was it? He had tried so hard to be liked, to get along with everyone he could —

But now, on the last night of October, it finally hit him.

He was quite a magnet for trouble, wasn't he?

He, Melody, Ron, and Hermione were standing over an unconscious twelve-foot mountain troll, shaking and breathless.

A sudden slamming and loud footsteps made the four of them look up. They hadn't realized what a racket they had been making, but of course, someone downstairs must have heard the crashes and the troll's roars.

A moment later, Professor McGonagall came bursting into the room, closely followed by Snape, with Quirrell bringing up the rear. Quirrell took one look at the troll, let out a faint whimper, and sat quickly down on a toilet, clutching his heart. Snape bent over the troll, but Professor McGonagall was looking at Melody.

Harry had never seen her look so angry. Her lips were as white as the first snow of winter, and any hopes of winning points for Gryffindor faded quickly from his mind.

"What on earth were you thinking of?" said Professor McGonagall, with cold fury in her voice. Her stare didn't budge from Melody, who was looking everywhere but into her grandmother's eyes. "You're lucky you weren't killed. Why aren't you in your dormitory?"

Melody stayed silent, and Harry did the same. Nobody quite know how they had gotten there, only that everything was a violent blur, parallel to a time-vacuole found at the edge of the universe.

Then a small voice came out of the shadows.

"Please, Professor McGonagall — they were looking for me."

"Miss Granger!"

Hermione shuffled forward. "I went looking for the troll because I — I thought I could deal with it on my own — you know, because I've read all about them."

Harry and Melody exchanged an incredulous look. Hermione Granger, telling a downright lie to a teacher?

"If they hadn't found me, I'd be dead now. Harry stuck his wand up its nose, Melody tripped it by Transfiguring those sinks into vines, and Ron knocked it out with its own club. They didn't have time to go and fetch anyone. It was about to finish me off when they arrived."

Harry, Melody, and Ron tried to look as though this story wasn't new to them.

"Well — in that case . . ." said Professor McGonagall, staring at the four of them, "Miss Granger, you foolish girl, how could you think of tackling a mountain troll on your own?"

Hermione hung her head.

It was as if Snape had started handing out sweets — Hermione was the last person to do anything against the rules, and here she was, pretending she had. The world had flopped on its head, and for a second, Harry flashed back to his first night in the castle.

The stars play a vital part in human destiny, Melody had told him.

Were they really behind this?

"Miss Granger, five points will be taken from Gryffindor for this," said Professor McGonagall. "I'm very disappointed in you. If you're not hurt at all, you'd better get off to Gryffindor Tower. Students are finishing the feast in their Houses."

Hermione left.

Then, Professor McGonagall turned to Harry, Melody, and Ron.

"Well, I still say you were lucky, but not many first years could have taken on a full-grown mountain troll. You each win Gryffindor five points, and Professor Dumbledore will be informed of this. You may go — except for you, Melody."

Harry hurried out of the chamber at once, as quickly as possible, with Ron at his heels. He would have ran without thought, sprinted from the scene without recollection — but something possessed him to stop in his tracks.

Maybe he was enough, just for a moment.

Maybe it was enough that he didn't think much of the exchange; he only knew that he felt his heart pound arduously against his chest. Maybe a silent starry symphony had exploded, and he was the conductor. Everything else was dust — glitter he couldn't quite grasp, and wouldn't for quite some time.

All he felt was her pleading eyes, grey and shining with tears, meeting his from the end of the corridor.

Because it was enough, at least for now, that he looked back.

By the time she returned to the common room, though, Melody had composed herself — only the slightest hint of a caught throat revealed that she had been crying.

Harry could still feel it, though — it lingered, an unspoken colorless cloud over their heads, minus the trembles and the broken glass.

She came over to join him, Ron, and Hermione in the corner of the crowded room, arms crossed and eyes aimed downwards.

"We should have gotten more than fifteen points," Ron finally grumbled into the strange silence surrounding the group.

"Ten, you mean, once she's taken off Hermione's," Melody murmured.

She had definitely just gotten a strict lecture from her grandmother, Harry decided. It was undeniably strange, how different they were.

"Good of you to get us out of trouble like that, Hermione," Ron admitted. "Although, we did save you."

"Thanks," Hermione muttered, embarrassed.

For the rest of the evening, they stayed mainly quiet. But from that moment on, Hermione Granger became Harry's friend, and he didn't mind when Melody would run off to confer with her about the occasional Charms assignment. There are some things you can't share without ending up liking each other, and knocking out a twelve-foot mountain troll is one of them.

        𝐃𝐄𝐂𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 came, as bright and cold as ever. 

The troll was a misty memory to Melody as early as November 1st, because she had different things to occupy her — celebrating the holidays was a passion of hers, or at least, it was this year. The reason couldn't have been more obvious, either: Harry was staying at the castle for Christmas, and she was ecstatic.

That is, until she found out that the Weasleys would be as well — then, she was a hyper ball of holiday joy; conjuring confetti from her wand everywhere she went and belting carols at the top of her lungs.

Once, even, she'd turned Snape's classroom into a snow-filled winter wonderland, complete with tiny fairies singing harmonies above the cauldrons and a large tree stationed right behind his desk.

He had given her two weeks of detention and sent her to her grandmother's office.

"Honestly, Melody, you've got to control yourself," her grandma had sighed. "I'm adding this to the list."

"Oh, good," Melody just beamed, "Make sure to be specific — 'the Gryffindors gave her a round of applause when she walked in'. That's important."

Her grandma didn't respond, but merely pulled out a stack of pages three inches high. "Let's see . . . Weasley twins, Weasley twins, white-out, winged horses — ah, yes, winter wonderland."

Melody still couldn't wipe the smile off her face, even when her grandmother sent her an unamused frown and handed her a pink detention slip.

"Behave yourself, won't you?" she said. "This list of your pranks, it's just disappointing—"

"Say what you want, grandma," Melody shook her head dismissively. "But an alphabetized list, no matter what it's for, is always impressive. See you later."

Each day passed quicker than the one before it, and soon, the majority of the school had packed their bags and taken the Hogwarts Express back to King's Cross.

Christmas morning itself was a blur of brightly colored wrapping paper, loud laughter, and most memorably, an escapade between Fred, George, and Melody involving Snape and two bottles of red and green hair dye — overall, it reminded Melody how glad she was to have the Weasleys for cousins.

Finally, when only one parcel was left beneath the large common room Christmas tree, Ron and Melody settled into a pair of armchairs near the fireplace, and watched Harry go retrieve it.

It certainly looked very light, but when he unwrapped it, something fluid and silvery gray went slithering to the floor.

Melody gasped, and dropped the package of Liquorice Wands she had gotten from her grandmother. If that's what she thought it was—

"I've heard of those," Ron said beside her in a hushed voice. "If that's what I think it is — they're really rare, and really valuable."

"What is it?" Harry wondered, picking the shining, silvery cloth up off the floor.

"It's an Invisibility Cloak," Melody murmured, adjusting her new orange knit sweater to stand up and get a closer look. She had read about those once before, and it matched the description exactly. "I'm sure it is — try it on."

Harry threw the Cloak around his shoulders and Ron gave a yell.

"It is! Look down!"

Melody watched Harry's head look down to his feet, but they were gone, invisible. Just his head was suspended in midair, and his body had completely vanished. He pulled the Cloak over his head, and his reflection vanished completely.

"There's a note!" said Ron suddenly. "A note fell out of it!"

Melody glanced to the floor, where a small letter had indeed fallen. She seized it, and grinned before handing it to the half-invisible Harry.

Written in narrow, loopy writing she was very familiar with, the note read:

"𝒴𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒻𝒶𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇 𝓁𝑒𝒻𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝒾𝓃 𝓂𝓎 𝓅𝑜𝓈𝓈𝑒𝓈𝓈𝒾𝑜𝓃 𝒷𝑒𝒻𝑜𝓇𝑒 𝒽𝑒 𝒹𝒾𝑒𝒹. 𝐼𝓉 𝒾𝓈 𝓉𝒾𝓂𝑒 𝒾𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓈 𝓇𝑒𝓉𝓊𝓇𝓃𝑒𝒹 𝓉𝑜 𝓎𝑜𝓊. 𝒰𝓈𝑒 𝒾𝓉 𝓌𝑒𝓁𝓁.

𝒜 𝒱𝑒𝓇𝓎 𝑀𝑒𝓇𝓇𝓎 𝒞𝒽𝓇𝒾𝓈𝓉𝓂𝒶𝓈 𝓉𝑜 𝓎𝑜𝓊"

There was no signature.

Dumbledore, Melody's mind danced jovially. His was the handwriting, and there was no other viable explanation.

"I'd give anything for one of these," Ron sighed. "Anything. What's the matter?"

"Nothing," said Harry.

Melody turned to him: he looked very strange, as though the Cloak might suffocate him at any given second.

Before she could ask him what was really the matter, Fred and George bounded down the dormitory steps and leapt into the common room. Melody saw, from the corner of her eye, Harry stuff the Cloak quickly out of sight.

"Merry Christmas!" Fred yelled for the thirtieth time that day.

"Hey, look — Harry's got a Weasley sweater, too!" George pointed at Harry's new jumper, which was lying on the couch. He and Fred were wearing blue sweaters, one with a large yellow F on it, the other a G.

"Harry's is better than ours, though," said Fred, going over to hold it up. "She obviously makes more of an effort if you're not family."

"Why aren't you wearing yours, Ron?" George demanded. "Come on, get it on, they're lovely and warm."

"I hate maroon," Ron moaned halfheartedly as he pulled it over his head.

"You haven't got a letter on yours," George observed. "I suppose she thinks you don't forget your name. But we're not stupid — we know we're called Gred and Forge."

Melody chuckled, amused, but an important voice trickled down from the stairwell.

"What's all this noise?"

Percy stepped down into the common room, looking disapproving. He had clearly gotten halfway through unwrapping his presents as he, too, carried a lumpy sweater over his arm, which Melody raced over to grab at once.

"P for prefect!" she exclaimed.

Immediately, Fred and George hurried over to help her. "Get it on, Percy, come on, we're all wearing ours, even Harry got one."

"I — don't — want —" said Percy thickly, as the twins and Melody forced the sweater over his head.

"And you're not sitting with the prefects today, either," said George. "Christmas is a time for family."

The twins frog-marched Percy from the room, his arms pinned to his side by his sweater, and Melody grabbed Harry's hand to pull him along to dinner.

Eventually, night fell, bringing a chilly draft into the common room. Ron had already collapsed in his dormitory, while Fred, George, and Percy were likely drifting off to sleep contentedly.

Not Melody, however. Riskily, she was left to her own thoughts in the dim red glow of the fireplace.

A few months prior, Harry had explained seeing the three-headed-dog and the trapdoor — and she, for the first time in her life, had bit her tongue.

Because she knew.

She knew about the Sorcerer's Stone.

Melody had found out all the details accidentally, which almost made it worse.

She had wanted to stargaze one night in late September, so she'd left the dormitory and started up to the Astronomy Tower. All had gone smoothly, like usual, until she stumbled across Dumbledore and her grandmother having a conversation in the fifth-floor corridor.

She'd tucked herself behind a pillar and stuck her ear out to listen, henceforth exposing herself to the biggest secret of the school.

"No student in this building can receive a whisper of knowledge about this," Dumbledore had said. "It's safest for all."

Although Melody should've rejoiced that she had a great deal of insider information, it immediately became a burden. It was one of those rare instances when her god-given eavesdropping ability had come back to harm her; to make her life more difficult than before.

Like she'd predicted, Harry attracted trouble effortlessly — so of course, he found the dog and the door. Ron and Hermione soon joined him in trying to find out what it was guarding, and every time it was brought up, Melody had to keep quiet.

From Dumbledore's frightened tone on that fateful night in late September, she was positive: the Stone was dangerous.

And she, ever-blindsided by her own kindness, cared far too much about her friends than to expose them to it.

So there she sat, in front of the fireplace with her Astronomy textbook strewn across her pajama-clad legs, wishing she didn't know so much about Hogwarts.

There were countless secrets yet to be discovered, she was aware: but something about the knowledge of the Sorcerer's Stone made her feel as though every step she took across the castle floors was subject to investigation.

She continued reading, trying to seem unbothered, and it worked for the most part. Thinking about space; about the sky, always calmed her thoughts.

Just as she flipped to a new section on the movement of Jupiter, however, she heard the portrait hole swing open.

Within seconds, Harry had ripped off his Invisibility Cloak and raced over to her place on the couch.

"Melody, Melody, Melody—"

"How many times are you going to say my name?" she broke in, looking up from her book.

"I've got to show you something, you've got to see this—"

Melody didn't know where he had been, or why he was so panicked. She heaved a sigh, trying to feign disinterest, but anything that got Harry this excited was bound to do the same to her. "All right, make some room under that Cloak."

They walked around the castle hallways for what felt like half an hour, until she was shivering and miserable.

"I'm freezing," she said. "Let's forget it and go back."

"No!" Harry hissed. "I know it's here somewhere."

"If you could tell me what it was, that'd be great," she muttered back.

They passed the ghost of a tall witch gliding in the opposite direction, but saw no one else. Just as Melody started moaning that her feet were dead with cold, Harry finally found what he had been looking for — a door at the end of the corridor.

"It's here — just here — yes!"

They pushed the door open. Harry dropped the Cloak from around their shoulders, and Melody breathed frosty air into her hands.

It looked like an unused classroom. The dark shapes of desks and chairs were piled against the walls, and there was an upturned wastepaper basket — but propped against the wall facing them was something that didn't look as if it belonged there, something that looked as if someone had just put it there to keep it out of the way.

It was a magnificent mirror, as high as the ceiling, with an ornate gold frame, standing on two clawed feet.

Harry seized Melody's chilled hand and dragged her over to the mirror with determination.

"See?" he said, pointing to the glass.

Melody stared at the dirty, old reflection. "I can't see anything," she said in confusion. "What did you want to show me?"

"What?" Harry exclaimed. "No, look! Look at them all . . . there are loads of them . . ."

Melody gave him an incredulous look. Was he serious? "I can only see us," she insisted.

"All right, look in it properly, go on, stand where I am." Harry stepped aside, and pushed her towards the mirror.

Melody frowned at him, but obeyed, peering into the glass to see what his fuss was all about.

A split second later, however, she had to clap her hands to her mouth to keep from screaming.

There, in the mirror, were five others besides her — and she had a feeling that each of them knew exactly who she was.

She spun around, at a loss for words, but Harry was the only other person in the room. With a breath that was somewhat caught in her chest, she slowly turned back to the mirror.

There she was, reflected in it, white and scared-looking, and there, reflected behind her, was a group of others whom she slightly recognized. Melody looked over her shoulder — but still, no one was there.

She looked in the mirror again. A woman was standing right behind her reflection. Melody reached out a hand and felt the air behind her — if the woman was really there, she'd touch her, their reflections were so close together, but she felt only air. The woman existed only in the mirror.

She was very pretty, Melody thought. Deep, chocolate brown hair flowing past her shoulders; mesmerizing eyes in the same shade of brown. She had a tiny nose and an average frame, and Melody knew—

Mum.

It was her mother; everything she'd pictured and more. She was smiling and waving, appearing completely oblivious to the tragic life she had led.

Standing beside her mother, on the left, was a red-headed man with bright blue eyes and a joyous smile. He looked just like Mrs. Weasley, and Melody knew why. It was Fabian.

Dad.

At his side stood her grandmother, hair pulled into its usual tight bun and thin smile present. She looked happy, an emotion Melody hadn't seen in quite some time.

On the other side of Melody's mother, however, stood a man she didn't recognize. He had dark hair, which fell to his eyes with a casual sort of elegance, a sharp jaw, and grey eyes.

Grey eyes, Melody realized, Star-studded and bright. Just like mine.

Whoever the man was, he was smiling charmingly at her. She tore her gaze away from his, and looked to the skinny boy standing at his side.

It was Harry, sporting a grin wider than she'd ever seen. When they locked with hers, his emerald eyes seemed to glow in an unfamiliar way, a different kind of emotion radiating from them —

"You see them, don't you?" real-life Harry broke into the cold silence. "My family. They're all there, look—"

"No," Melody said, voice small and dazed. She suddenly became aware of the dreamy smile that had spread across her face, but she had no desire to get rid of it. "No, I don't see your family — I see some of mine."

Harry fell silent as the grave. His stillness told all: he was confused, worried, and even a little frightened.

How long Melody kept staring at the faces in the mirror, she didn't know, and she didn't really care either. There was a powerful kind of longing in her chest, one she couldn't deny; half delight, half horrible sadness.

Finally, after what felt like several starlit centuries, Harry prodded Melody's shoulder. "Melody," he said quietly. "Can you let me look?"

She blinked a few times, then glanced around. She had felt so lost within the glass, so safe in her mother's gaze —

Oh no.

Oh, no, no, no.

Melody had caught sight of the inscription carved around the top of the mirror, and her heart had dropped into her stomach.

Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi.

I show you not your face, but your heart's desire.

She knew what mirror this was.

Without thinking, without saying a word to Harry, without considering the fact that it was hours past curfew, Melody ran.

Where? her mind asked desperately, seeking something, anything to numb this sudden pain.

Up.

Up, she screamed back, heartbeat pounding against her small, heaving chest.

Up, to be heard.

By the time she reached the Astronomy Tower, hot tears had begun to stain her cheeks in dozens of different waves, but she barely noticed. The moon had split in half, and the stars seemed to crumble, falling like fireworks into the sea of the mountains. Everything echoed into generations, aware that her world was ending.

She just wanted to feel understood, because nothing else was real. The stars above twinkled waveringly, as though they knew lies were being strewn across the cosmos. 

Perhaps my family is watching down over me, Melody thought, sniffling into her sleeve. Perhaps they make up the endless arrangements of space dust and luminescent particles; the countless constellations and rhythms.

She couldn't be sure, but she felt something —something— pulling her towards the brightest orb in the sky. Despite the frosted surfaces surrounding her, Melody found her soul wailing, searching, longing for an answer —

What would it feel like to take a deep breath, slip off the edge, and just let the stars catch her?

        𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐘 didn't know why Melody had run away from the mirror, but he had seen the strange, broken look in her eyes — and that was what worried him.

The next day, however, she was as cheerful as ever, humming as she pulled her hair into a braid over breakfast and her usual crossword puzzle.

Maybe it was a one-time-thing, Harry suggested to himself when they shared a laugh over Snape's half-dyed hair. She seems alright.

Later that night, he showed Ron the mirror, but he hadn't been able to see Harry's family either. It was a strange magical object, no doubt — but Harry couldn't stop himself from going to visit it again on the fourth night after dark.

He found his way much more quickly than before — he was walking so fast he knew he was making more noise than was wise, but he didn't meet anyone.

And there were his mother and father smiling at him again, and one of his grandfathers nodding happily. Harry sank down to sit on the floor in front of the mirror. There was nothing to stop him from staying here all night with his family.

Nothing at all.

Except—

"So — back again, Harry?"

Harry felt as though his insides had turned to ice. He looked behind him, and sitting on one of the desks by the wall was none other than Albus Dumbledore. Harry must have walked straight past him, so desperate to get to the mirror he hadn't noticed him.

"I — I didn't see you, sir."

"Strange how nearsighted being invisible can make you," said Dumbledore, and Harry was relieved to see that he was smiling.

"So," Dumbledore continued, slipping off the desk to sit on the floor with Harry, "you, like hundreds before you, have discovered the delights of the Mirror of Erised."

"I didn't know it was called that, sir," Harry said sheepishly, looking into the twinkling eyes of the Headmaster.

"But I expect you've realized by now what it does?" Dumbledore asked softly.

"It — well — it shows me my family —"

"And it showed Melody and Ron different things, too."

Harry furrowed his brows. "How did you know — ?"

"I don't need a cloak to become invisible," said Dumbledore gently. "Now, can you think what the Mirror of Erised shows us all?"

Harry shook his head.

"Let me explain. The happiest man on earth would be able to use the Mirror of Erised like a normal mirror, that is, he would look into it and see himself exactly as he is. Does that help?"

Harry thought. Then he said slowly, "It shows us what we want . . . whatever we want . . ."

"Yes . . . and no," said Dumbledore quietly. "It shows us nothing more or less than the deepest, most desperate desire of our hearts. However, this mirror will give us neither knowledge or truth. Men have wasted away before it, entranced by what they have seen, or been driven mad, not knowing if what it shows is real or even possible."

His words were so soft, yet so honest, diluted with something close to warning and stitched with something close to humility, as though he wasn't the greatest sorcerer in the world.

As though he was an equal.

A friend.

"You, who have never known your family, see them standing around you," Dumbledore went on, "Ronald Weasley, who has always been overshadowed by his brothers, sees himself standing alone, the best of all of them."

Dumbledore's silvery robes glistened the smallest bit in the moonlight, and Harry looked away — there was something familiar about that glisten. It was so unbearably similar, he realized, to the glisten of the eyes he could recognize in a sea of thousands.

Melody's eyes.

"And Melody Prewett," Dumbledore said, quieter than ever. Looking back, he had probably read Harry's mind — but in the end, he would be grateful. "Melody may search for adventure and excitement, but what she truly longs for is love. Something that will both stay and come back to her; something that will embrace her soul and live on forever."

The elderly Headmaster paused, voice laced with caution, sorrow, and sympathy.

"Something she's never quite had."

        𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄 into the new year, every flake of winter snow faded into dull green pastures. Before long, showers of spring were beseeching the castle in swamping waves.

Between failing to bite her tongue in Snape's class, berating Harry for nearly an hour after he helped Gryffindor lose 150 House points, and assisting Ron give Malfoy a black eye during a Quidditch match, Melody certainly kept busy.

It was better that way, because every time she sat still for too long, her mind wandered back to the Mirror of Erised.

She had almost let her herself forget about it, almost. Every time she thought she was free, the sky would open, a thunderstorm would shake the castle walls, and she'd stay up all night, desperately picturing her parents' smiling faces.

She had never wanted to unsee something so badly — yet by the same token, she didn't ever want to forget it.

In addition, she had the Sorcerer's Stone to worry about. Harry, Ron and Hermione were brilliant, and they were dangerously close to figuring out the truth.

Melody was beyond terrified that she might slip up and jeopardize the fate of the entire wizarding world. When Harry found Nicolas Flamel's name on the back of a Chocolate Frog card, she had leapt out of her seat and sprinted out of the common room just before the secret spilled from her lips.

By June, she had grown increasingly paranoid. After hearing about Harry's detention in the Forbidden Forest, it was clear — the castle, although protected, might not be safe.

And she was proven correct, too, when he, Ron, and Hermione sat her down in a corner of the common room, sporting identical solemn stares.

She looked up at them uncomfortably; wrapping her fingers together and squeezing tight. Something was wrong.

"Melody," Hermione began mildly. Her tone was light, but a bit confrontational, and Melody knew what that meant. "So, uh — we were wondering, you know we've been talking about this for a while, but we, uh, didn't quite—"

Beside her, Ron rolled his eyes and sighed before hissing: "The thing that dog is guarding — It's the Sorcerer's Stone, isn't it?"

Melody's steely gaze went wide with shock. She had a feeling they'd known, but hearing it felt so cold, so threatening, so real.

And apparently, her silence had said enough.

"So we were right," Hermione muttered to Harry and Ron. "It is the Sorcerer's Stone, and Snape's trying to force Quirrell to help him get it. He asked if he knew how to get past Fluffy — and he said something about Quirrell's 'hocus-pocus'— I reckon there are other things guarding the stone apart from Fluffy, loads of enchantments, probably, and Quirrell would have done some anti-Dark Arts spell that Snape needs to break through—"

Snape, Quirrell . . . what?

"What are you talking about, 'Mione?" Melody broke in, frowning before she could help it. "Snape's one of the teachers—"

"No, he's not on Dumbledore's side," said Harry sternly. His clover-green stare bore into hers for a split second, but not quite long enough for her to deduce what type of storm was forming beneath them.

"Harry, I hate Snape too, but listen—"

"It's tonight," he interrupted her again, headstrong as ever. "Snape's going through the trapdoor tonight. He's found out everything he needs, and now he's got Dumbledore out of the way at the Ministry in London."

"What, Harry?" Melody shook her head. She wasn't usually lost, but at that moment, she doubted if she'd ever been more confused. "Slow down, you've got to—"

Harry looked at her, and without blinking, said: "I'm going to try and get to the Stone first."

"You're mad!" exclaimed Ron.

"You can't!" cried Hermione. "Harry, you'll be expelled!"

"SO WHAT?" Harry shouted, cutting through their weak protests with ease. "Don't you understand? If Snape gets hold of the Stone, Voldemort's coming back! Haven't you heard what it was like when he was trying to take over? There won't be any Hogwarts to get expelled from! He'll flatten it, or turn it into a school for the Dark Arts! I'm going through that trapdoor tonight and nothing you say is going to stop me! Voldemort killed my parents, remember?"

He glared at them— an ice cold suffocation of pure emerald, void of any whimsical shine or lighthearted chuckle.

Then, slowly, slowly, that stare met Melody's.

He's going to leave, she told herself firmly. Nothing lasts forever, and he's going to get himself killed by either that three-headed-dog or that real-life chess game or Snape's potion riddle—

"You're right, Harry," her heart decided to spit out suddenly, like a woodland's choice to promptly bear its branches in the midst of a snow-white winter.

And though cold and pale, this winter was filled with exquisite beauty, enough to bring back the incomparable warmth that had been missing.

Melody would carry the glacial grace with her, and she knew Harry would, too — until, frigid, in the last hours, they could brush fingertips with the newly born Spring.

You're right.

After dinner, the four of them sat nervously apart in the common room. Hermione was skimming through all her notes, hoping to come across one of the enchantments they were about to try to break. Harry and Ron didn't talk much, and Melody was staring out the window at the star-dotted sky. Eventually, the room emptied as people drifted off to bed.

Once the space was void of students, Harry rose. "We'd better put the Cloak on here, and make sure it covers all four of us — if Filch spots one of our feet wandering along on its own, we're dead."

Melody felt her heartbeat surrender for a brief moment.

There were only two things which had ever controlled her: love, beautiful, complex, ever-painful love, and fear, that odious illusion which barely traced her spirit.

Now, though, it did, for just long enough to change her mind.

This wasn't her journey, as much as she wished it was. Perhaps someday, there would be a time for her. A time for her to cast all worries aside and swoop in to save the day.

Someday, someday, someday.

An obscure image, hardly tangible, but she had to trust it.

"Harry," she started quietly.

"Yeah?"

"I — I'm not coming with," her voice echoed into the dark air, oddly shaken.

At once, Harry's eyebrows shot high into his forehead. "What? No, Melody, you've got to come—"

"She's making the right choice," rang a voice from the corner of the room. Neville Longbottom, donning tight blue pajamas, appeared from behind an armchair.

"Oh, hello, Neville," said Harry, hurriedly putting the Cloak behind his back.

Neville stared at their guilty faces.

"You're going out again," he realized.

"No," said Melody quickly, probably much too quickly, "No, they're not. Why don't you go to bed?"

"You can't go out," insisted Neville, "you'll be caught again. Gryffindor will be in even more trouble."

"You don't understand," said Harry, "this is important."

But Neville was clearly steeling himself to do something desperate. "I won't let you do it," he said, hurrying to stand in front of the portrait hole. "I'll — I'll fight you!"

"Neville," Ron exploded, "get away from that hole and don't be an idiot —"

"Don't you call me an idiot!" exclaimed Neville. "I don't think you should be breaking any more rules! And you were the one who told me to stand up to people!"

"Yes, but not to us," said Ron in exasperation. "Neville, you don't know what you're doing."

"Go on then, try and hit me!" said Neville, raising his fists. "I'm ready!"

Melody felt Harry turn to her, eyes desperate. "Do something."

She cast him a concerned look, hoping to impress on him the seriousness of this situation, but his gaze had already shifted back to Neville, who was ready to throw a punch.

Melody sighed, withdrew her wand from her pocket, and stepped forward.

"Neville," she perfaced, "I'm sorry."

She murmured an incantation, and Neville's legs gave out from beneath him. He toppled to the floor, flat on his face, and gave a loud snore.

Hermione ran to turn him over, but his eyes were shut peacefully. "What've you done to him?" she asked in fear.

"Just a sleeping charm," Melody answered. "It'll wear off in a few hours."

Harry, too, looked at Neville nervously, but his face soon hardened. "We had to, Neville, no time to explain," he said to the unconscious boy.

"You'll understand later," added Ron.

Melody watched the three of them begin to step over Neville, trying to fit the Invisibility Cloak over their heads. Harry stood in the center of the group, with a cold, determined gaze.

That night in the thunderstorm flashed before her eyes — when he'd come to comfort her in the storm, when he'd made his first promise.

Because he had stayed. He had stayed for so long, so much longer than anyone before.

But now he was leaving, just like she had foreseen.

And before she knew it, that second all-encompassing question was tumbling from her pretty lips:

"Come back to me, Harry?"

As soon as she had said it, her heart ached with regret.

He was going to tell her only what she wanted to hear, nothing more and nothing less— it would bring her false hope for a few seconds, but it wouldn't be sufficient to mend her trust, not yet.

The truth scared her.

Permanence scared her.

But now, perhaps, it was time to face her fears.

Harry was turning back to her, his brow raised, voice confident and prepared, as though this was an initiation; a ceremony. Eyes alight and comforting, he did it.

He did it, and Melody had never felt more vulnerable.

"Until the end," he said firmly, before pulling the Cloak over his head and vanishing into the night.

Another promise made.

        𝐅𝐎𝐑 three moonlights, Harry soon learned, Melody had faithfully remained at his bedside in the hospital wing.

When he awoke, the first thing he made out was her eyes.

Silvery, glistening, dreamlike grey eyes.

"Mel," a small voice breathed, sounding drowsy and pensive. It took him a couple seconds to realize it had been his own, but by then, Melody was already bursting.

"'Mel'?" she repeated with a dazzling laugh. "Well, I call Hermione ''Mione' on occasion, so that's fine — I'll need a nickname for you, though . . . 'Har' is ugly, so 'Ree' it is! Welcome back into consciousness, Ree!"

"Hi," was all Harry could bring himself to say. His sight was blurry without his glasses, visions of what had gone on beneath the trapdoor were still flashing through his mind, and he wanted answers—

"Don't worry, Dumbledore will talk to you in a bit," Melody assured him, managing to read his mind like usual. "He figured you'd want to see me first thing. It's Poppy who'll try to force me out, but I have no intention of going anywhere. Tell me everything."

Harry reached over to his bedside table to seize his glasses and push them onto his face. There: now, he could see the daylit hospital wing, an abundance of sweets and toys beside his bed, and flowers — dozens and dozens of fresh, brightly colored bouquets and vases, all hand-picked.

Then he turned, and there was Melody, beaming wider than he'd ever seen.

She has a pretty smile . . . his tired mind whispered distantly. I'm glad she's here—

"Well?" her voice broke into his stupor. "Sorry for the excessive floral arrangements, I got a bit carried away — anyway, what happened once you got past Fluffy? The whole school's talking about it, but I only trust you."

"I only trust you" . . . How innocent when coming from her, how real—

"Oh — oh, right," Harry managed to break himself away from his silent musing, and sat up on his elbows. His side gave a great throb of pain; he must have broken a rib. "I'll tell you."

It was one of those rare occasions when the true story is even more strange and exciting than the wild rumors. Harry told her everything: Quirrell; the mirror; the Stone; and Voldemort. Melody was the perfect audience — she gasped at all the right times, and almost leapt out of her seat when he told her was under Quirrell's turban.

"So — you really saw him?" Melody said when he had finished, almost breathless. "You-Know-Who?"

"Yeah, at the back of our Professor's head," Harry answered. "Lovely, isn't it?"

"The loveliest," she agreed, casting her gaze out the window for a moment, then to the floor. "It's just—"

Her voice broke off, caught in her throat, but Harry could tell this was something important. "What is it?"

Melody glanced up at his hopeful, conquering expression, and let out a breath. "It's just — If I had told you, Ron, and Hermione about the Stone earlier, maybe you wouldn't have almost died — Maybe you would've been able to get it safely—"

Harry shook his head. Was she serious? "Melody," he broke in firmly. "You did everything perfectly. It worked out, didn't it?"

"I guess so," she shrugged.

"Then don't be disappointed," he said, a newfound sort of confidence ringing in his ears. "I couldn't have done any of this without you. Remember, we're partners in crime, in everything, destined to be friends, like you said on the first night of term. Wherever I am, you are too."

Melody's gaze turned softer, as though she had found the missing colors to her grayscale. Her stare was a nighttime lullaby, almost moonlight, but not quite, no— it was starlight, Harry decided, like she always talked about.

Her response finally came, scratchy with emotion. "Thank you, Harry."

Then, just as her eyes glazed over in the most beautiful way, the most enchanting— Madam Pomfrey came bustling through the hospital wing, grumbling about how difficult she had been for the past seventy-two hours.

". . . and she had to be dragged away for meals, too, I can't believe I agreed to care for Lily and Cocoa's children, this is most definitely getting added to Minerva's list—" her gaze suddenly darted over to Harry's bed.

At once, she broke off, and scurried over to attend to him.

Madam Pomfrey began to fuss over his head and side, which were both still quite sore. Harry wasn't really paying attention, though — his focus was on Melody, who was turning away and sniffling into her sleeve.

"Madam Pomfrey, do you think I could talk to Melody for a bit longer?" he was suddenly spewing out.

Again, Harry was surprised at his own daring — he wasn't one to push his luck with the nurse, because she was quite strict. But he felt something in his gut begging, imploring, for more time to speak with Melody, just the two of them.

Madam Pomfrey gave him a dodgy look.

"Just five more minutes," Harry pleaded.

"Absolutely not. You need rest," she shook her head, still pressing a cloth to his forehead.

"I am resting, look, lying down and everything," Harry insisted. "Go on, Madam Pomfrey . . ."

"Oh, very well," she snapped. "But five minutes only."

Harry grinned, and the nurse was gone in a shuffle of scoffs and bandages, leaving him and Melody alone once more.

"I know you said it was okay, but I'm still sorry I didn't tell you about the Stone sooner," she said at once, so quickly that Harry barely caught it.

"I'm sorry I decided to jump into a trapdoor and fight Voldemort without a clue of what I was doing," he countered, biting back a smile.

"Well, we're even," Melody said.

"Yeah, what now?"

They were quiet for a moment. This was how it should be — the pair of them, together and safe.

"Dumbledore did say he wanted to talk to you, remember," Melody finally murmured into the bright air.

"Good, I could use some answers."

"Careful. They never come too directly with him."

"They never come too directly with you, either," Harry found himself saying. "But I don't mind."

Melody smiled at him again, this time diluted with gratefulness, even relief. "I should go let him know that you've woken up," she suggested.

"Yeah."

Melody's smile now transformed into something more hopeful, as though she was crossing her fingers behind her back: "Do you think you'll be feeling better for the feast?"

"I think so," answered Harry. He had, in fact, been looking forward to it before everything happened. Then, however, the horrible realization sunk into his stomach like a stone: "But Slytherin won the House Cup, didn't they?"

"As of right now," Melody responded, the usual twinkle back in her eye. "But I have a feeling we'll see some last-minute changes."

"Last-minute changes?" Harry repeated, lost.

"This is Albus Dumbledore we're talking about," she clarified vaguely, rising from her chair. "Speaking of which, I'd better go find him. Poppy'll be here in a second, anyway." Melody stood, turned around, and started away from his hospital bed.

It should've ended there.

It should've, but unbeknownst to Harry, he couldn't just let her go. Something about her, for reasons unknown, left him mystified.

Oh, how much his heart longed to preach with a featherlight tongue as she could; to merely touch the wisdom and experience which she so often caressed. Perhaps, someday, he would bloom like a flower in the sun beneath her starry gaze.

If anything, the thought of Melody left his mind cheerful. But his heart, an everlastingly stubborn organ, decided that he still needed one last answer.

From her, always her, only her.

"Come back to me?"

Melody spun back around, and that's when it happened.

As though a thousand white swans had taken flight in his lungs, as though an entire black hole had devoured his stomach —

Harry looked at her, and he felt something new.

At that precise moment, a star must have been born in a distant galaxy. The sky outside could have gone pitch black, and he doubted if he would've noticed. Had the sun gone into a total eclipse, he doubted if he would've cared.

Melody stared into his eyes, and gave him a small, shy, sparkling smile.

Because right then, right there, she knew exactly what to say.

"Until the end."

It sounded beautiful, she sounded beautiful, like a poem passed through generations that had landed in Harry's hands, only to chant Melody, Melody, Melody forever and always.

There was only one problem—

She didn't quite believe in her own rhythms.

Melody didn't know if she trusted Harry, but she certainly didn't trust herself. It hurt too much, it cut too deep— if everything came crashing down, as she was so positive it would, she'd have nothing.

Until the end.

To her, those words were nothing but a ticking time bomb, ready to explode, and for the first time, she wanted to prevent them from doing so.

But not yet.

She'd face those demons one day.

She'd face all of her demons one day.

Just not yet.