Students on the platform surged toward the train. With Christmas break over, there were quite a lot of returnees.
"Harry! Hurry up and get on!"
A familiar figure appeared ahead—it was Hermione Granger. The young witch was hugging a thick spellbook to her chest. She looked a little more mature than Harry remembered: her features clearer and more defined, her figure having grown out like a sapling shooting upward.
When Hermione saw him just standing there blankly, she grabbed his wrist. He let himself be led along like a kite on a string, pulled into the deep-red train.
Harry and Hermione sat in the same compartment, just the two of them.
She took out her phone, snapped a photo of the scenery outside the window, and posted it with the caption: [Christmas break's over, back to studying (smiley emoji)]
Harry kept his eyes on the view outside. On the platform he spotted someone strange—a young man holding an umbrella in weather this bright. He didn't get on to depart, and he didn't rush for another train either. Like a milestone by the roadside, he simply watched as the river of history flowed on, cold and indifferent.
"What are you looking at?" Hermione followed his gaze. "There's nothing there."
His attention and thoughts felt smashed to pieces. All he could do was reconstruct himself little by little from the world around him.
Harry noticed the fine, short fuzz on Hermione's soft cheek, like the skin of a fuzzy peach. In the light spilling through the window, her amber eyes reflected on the glass, reminding him of thick, pure honey.
"Hm? Why are you so weird today? You're kind of… spaced out." Hermione waved a hand in front of him. Harry stared at it—long-fingered, with clear knuckles. Each nail was flat and neat, like thin quartz. Her skin was smooth and pale, without a single ugly stain or scrape.
Hermione leaned closer until their faces were very near. Harry could smell that particular scent of Muggle laundry soap on her—like sunshine and daisies. Her bushy hair, like draping brown seaweed, lightly brushed the corner of his eye, and he blinked without thinking.
Then he started to cry—completely uncontrollably.
"What is it, what is it?" Hermione panicked, rummaging through her shoulder bag. She pulled out her wand, then a soft, checked handkerchief, and pushed it into Harry's hand. "Quick, wipe your face, Harry—don't do this. What happened? What's wrong?"
As if she'd guessed, she flared up and said, "Was it the Dursleys again? They're unbelievable. Honestly, they should be taught a proper lesson. At the very least they can't keep treating you like a house-elf and bullying you."
No.
Harry shook his head in misery. No—the Dursleys were already finished. They'd all died in that wretched Christmas holiday.
Hermione grabbed Harry's right hand—the one clenched around the handkerchief—and tried to bring it to his face to dab away the tears. But it didn't work. Harry's arm was like a machine with rusted joints, and she couldn't pry the handkerchief from his death grip. So she could only use her own hand to wipe his tears.
"Don't touch me." Harry flinched and leaned back. His reaction made Hermione's expression turn instantly awkward and helpless. "I don't need you. Please… don't touch me."
Don't wipe tears for a ruthless killer—he didn't deserve even a speck of sympathy. Don't let clean hands be stained by guilty blood. She was still pure and clear, untouched by the world.
The rest of the journey was torture—worse than sitting through ten Potions lessons in a row. And speaking of Potions made Harry think of Snape. That overbearing professor would never get to point a finger at him again.
Because he was dead.
And in the end, he'd still tried to stand in front of Lily Evans.
His lips, being swallowed by flames, opening and closing again and again.
He'd been saying: I'm sorry.
Harry blinked gently. The tears he'd held back spilled down all at once, and his blurred vision sharpened a little. His lenses were still fogged with heat-haze. He took off his glasses and wiped them with the corner of his robe, not using Hermione's handkerchief. When he put them back on, he felt better. He folded the handkerchief neatly and set it on the window ledge, nudging it slightly toward the seat opposite.
Hermione, sitting across from him, had her head down over her book. She was always like this—serious, stubborn, sharp as ice and frighteningly clever.
But right now, she was clearly distracted, her thoughts elsewhere.
When Harry pushed the handkerchief over, she looked up and shot him a vicious glare. Then she just stared at him coldly.
In those two pairs of different-colored eyes, emotions rose and fell like the tide.
In the end, Hermione's heart softened. She snapped her book shut, stood up, and came to sit beside him.
Harry edged closer to the window. He was shaking without meaning to. Hermione let out a snort of laughter. "Why are you as timid as a Bowtruckle guarding its tree?" Then she sobered, worry returning. "Harry, are you okay? What are you so sad about? Dumbledore's fine—he just needs rest. The nurses at St Mungo's said his condition has stabilized."
"Dumbledore's in the hospital?" Harry's voice was hoarse. "What happened to him?" He already knew he was a complete villain—but he was terrified Dumbledore might have died because of him too.
"You don't even remember that? Over Christmas, Dumbledore got food poisoning and fell into a coma."
Harry let out a genuine breath of relief. "Then who's the Headmistress now—Professor McGonagall?"
"That's right."
"Tell me more. What changed at school?"
Every time Hermione started, Harry asked her to go back further, to explain more. He knew absolutely nothing about what had happened through second year and beyond.
"After first year ended, Professor Quirrell resigned on his own. Second year we got a professor named Lockhart—he was a useless puffed-up fraud… This summer, a lot of prisoners escaped from Azkaban, and everyone's saying You-Know-Who is back. The Ministry even sent Dementors to patrol the school… This year's Defence Against the Dark Arts professor is Lupin. He's very good to you, but he and Professor Snape really can't stand each other. Seems like they were classmates once…"
The young witch's lips moved as she spoke, like two soft pink slugs.
Harry thought, how strange. Before, he and Ron could never stand Hermione's endless talking—but now he wished she would never go quiet. Just keep talking. Let that crisp voice be like a flock of birds, forever circling through a boy's sky.
"…Oh, right. You still have that thing, don't you?" Hermione cut herself off there, like every beautiful dream eventually had to end.
"What thing?"
Hermione reached into the inner pocket of her robes and took out a tiny hourglass. "Your Time-Turner. We applied for them together. In third year we both chose twelve subjects. Half the lessons overlap—without this thing to steal time, there's no way we can keep up."
Harry felt the weight in his own pocket. He took out an identical timepiece, gold, hanging from a thin chain.
"Good—you didn't lose it. You've been acting weird today. You must've gone through something awful. I was scared you'd even lose your Time-Turner." Hermione tucked her hourglass away again. "You haven't forgotten how to use it, have you? Fine, I'll say it again. Turn the hourglass one full rotation, and you go back one hour. Easy, right?"
Those words were like molten silver poured into Harry's cold, grieving heart. He felt his blood boil.
"What did you say? This thing can turn time back?"
"Yep. And I know exactly what you're thinking—it's only to give you more time to study and rest. You can't change what's already happened."
No. You're wrong. The past can be changed.
Harry believed it without the slightest doubt. The certainty came out of nowhere, strange and unreasonable—but he believed it all the same.
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