Chapter Text
The train lurched forward, wheels clattering against the tracks as the engine pulled from King's Cross station toward Hogwarts. The area outside of Harrie’s compartment was alive with noise as students laughed, but inside she sat alone, knees pulled to her chest, watching the countryside blur past in streaks of green.
Two born as the seventh month dies to parents who thrice defied the Dark Lord. One is marked while the other hides, together they hold the power to vanquish evil.
Harrie had replayed the prophecy in her head over and over, dissecting every word until her temples throbbed and her vision blurred. Her scar tingled faintly, a small, insistent reminder of who she was, of what she carried. But it wasn’t the scar that disturbed her... it was the part of the prophecy that pointed to someone else, someone she couldn’t escape.
Neville Longbottom.
There were similarities between their lives that Harrie had always known about. They had been born just a day apart, every year their friends had celebrated their birthdays together, and Neville would joke about being older than her for those 24 hours before she caught up to him. Their parents had also been devoted members of the Order of the Phoenix together, which sadly resulted in them both being raised by other family members.
These were seemingly innocent parallels between them, but little did Harrie know that these small details were threads in a much larger, more dangerous tapestry. Fate had woven their lives together long before either of them had realized it, and the prophecy had tied them in ways she couldn’t yet fully understand.
Dumbledore had laid it all bare after the battle at the Ministry, explaining to Harrie and Neville the true meaning of the prophecy and the stakes raised against them. Voldemort had intended to kill them both as babies, to snuff out any chance that the prophecy might ever come to pass. He had been meticulous, ruthless, and nearly succeeded but somehow, both she and Neville had survived.
Harrie had always known why her parents had been found—Sirius had told her the story countless times, each retelling heavier than the last. How he had begged James and Lily to let him take her, to hide her somewhere safe, but they had refused. They wanted to remain together as a family, to fight and protect one another. It was their love, their unity, that had been their strength… and their undoing. Peter Pettigrew’s betrayal had sealed their fate.
Neville’s parents, however, had chosen differently. They had hidden him with a trusted guardian, shielding him from Voldemort’s gaze. They had gambled everything on secrecy, clinging to the desperate hope that their son might live. And when Bellatrix Lestrange finally cornered them, the Longbottoms had endured unspeakable torture beneath the Cruciatus Curse rather than betray their child’s location. Their sacrifice had saved him, but at a terrible cost leaving Neville with parents who lived but could no longer recognize him.
Two children. Two paths. Harrie was marked, scarred with the Dark Lord’s obsession, while Neville was hidden, spared the direct weight of Voldemort’s gaze. Yet the prophecy had bound them together regardless. Different scars, different losses... one visible, the other invisible.
And Voldemort wanted them both dead.
The unfairness of it twisted in her chest. All those years, she had carried the burden alone; the weight of knowing that Voldemort was hunting her, testing her, marking her as his enemy.
Dumbledore believed Voldemort had fixed on her from the very beginning because she had been the reason he failed that night—the night his curse had rebounded, leaving him shattered and weak. Revenge had driven him ever since. Every attack, every scheme, every body left in his wake had been a message meant for her.
Neville had been left untouched. Not because he was insignificant, but because Voldemort had set him aside like a task yet to be finished. Harrie was the obsession, the one who had wounded him, the enemy he needed to crush before all others. Neville was an afterthought.
So, every scar was hers. Every nightmare. Every funeral. Every sleepless night spent waiting for the next blow to fall.
She had borne it alone.
And Harrie hated Neville for that.
Not because of anything he had done... Neville was too earnest, too blundering, too hopelessly kind to deserve it. She hated him for existing. For standing there alive and whole, carrying a name Voldemort had ignored, while she had been hunted and broken again and again.
It wasn’t fair. Fate had dealt them the same hand, yet only she had been forced to play it.
The door to the compartment slid open quickly at that moment, jerking her from her thoughts. Harrie couldn’t help but scoff when she saw Neville standing in the doorway, his shoulders broader than they used to be, his hair a mess of brown that refused to stay tamed. She hadn't seen him since Dumbledore told them about the Prophecy and sent them back to their respective homes for the summer. The sight of him now looking so ordinary ignited something sharp in her chest.
“Hello, Harrie." His voice was quiet, almost hesitant.
She felt a muscle in her jaw tick as she forced her gaze back to the window. “Go away.”
There was a pause, then the soft scrape of shoes on the floor as he stepped inside anyway. “Everywhere else is full.”
“That's convenient." She muttered under her breath.
The silence stretched between them, taut and uncomfortable. Harrie pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the window, willing herself to ignore him. The countryside blurred past, but all she could feel was the weight of his presence across from her.
Of all the people, it had to be him.
She stole a glance despite herself. He looked… older somehow. Less the bumbling boy she remembered, more grounded, his hands steady as he rummaged through his bag. It irritated her. How could he look so calm, so at ease, when her insides were coiled with fury?
“Did you...” Neville began, then stopped, chewing at his lip before trying again. “Did you have a good summer?”
Harrie let out a sharp laugh, not bothering to mask the bitterness in it. “Oh, brilliant. Spent most of it wondering if Voldemort was going to show up in my mind. You?”
Neville faltered, the tips of his ears reddening. “I… spent it with Gran. Same as always.”
Of course he had. Safe and sheltered.
Harrie’s fingers curled into fists in her lap. “Must be nice.”
Neville shifted uncomfortably, eyes flicking to her scar before quickly darting away. She caught the look and felt her chest tighten.
"Are you angry with me?" He asked after another tense minute of silence.
“Why would I be angry with you, Neville?” Her voice was deceptively calm, clipped at the edges, but her eyes blazed with a fury she couldn’t disguise. “It's not like you’ve had a perfectly normal school life while I’ve been Voldemort’s favorite chew toy for half a decade."
"You say that like I made that happen...I never asked to be ignored by him."
"Well, forgive me, Neville, for not being thrilled that you get to wear the target I’ve been dragging around since I was eleven without having suffered one bit for it."
Neville let out a slow breath, absorbing all of her vitriol with a calm mask. "I know you resent me for not going through all of the torment you have, but you don’t have to face this alone anymore. I’m here now to help."
"Oh, please." Harrie scoffed, a sharp, humorless sound. “I’ve survived this long without you, haven’t I?”
“I’m not saying you can’t." He clarified. "I’m just saying that we don’t have the luxury of being enemies. And I don't hate you, Harrie. We were friends before this prophecy was revealed, we should work together!"
Harrie swallowed hard, throat tight.
The memories flashed sharp and cruel... late nights in the common room where he’d sat beside her, fumbling with homework while she tried not to laugh. Afternoons in Herbology where he’d eagerly explained some plant she couldn’t care less about but listened to anyway because it mattered to him. The shared birthday parties, the Quidditch parties, the Hogsmeade outings... he was always right there with her, Ron and Hermione.
But now? His face became a reminder of everything she’d carried alone.
She yanked her bag from the corner as she stood up. “Well, if you aren’t going to leave, I will.”
“You’re being childish.” He said, voice low, though this time there was an edge to it. Less patient, less calm. A subtle crack in his composure.
“Fuck you.” The words came out sharp, louder than she meant, ricocheting off the walls.
She yanked the door open and slammed it behind her, the corridor vibrating with the force.
* * *
The Great Hall shimmered with candlelight. Chatter rose and fell around Harrie as the new first years lined up, their wide eyes flicking nervously toward the Sorting Hat waiting on its stool. The ceremony should have felt comforting, proof that Hogwarts still stood and that life went on. But Harrie couldn’t summon an ounce of warmth for it. Her chest still buzzed with leftover resentment from the train.
She slid onto the Gryffindor bench, pressing closer to Hermione on her left, determined to keep her eyes fixed forward. If she ignored him, maybe the pressure in her chest would ease.
It didn’t. Because when Neville came into view, tall and steady, he chose the exact seat across from her. Directly across, as though he had sought her out on purpose.
Harrie’s jaw tightened.
Neville offered her a small, tentative smile, the kind that might’ve once been enough to soften her temper. Not anymore. Now it only stoked the irritation that had been coiling inside her stomach.
When the last of the first years scampered off to their new table, Dumbledore rose, arms outstretched.
“Welcome, one and all, to another year at Hogwarts." He said, voice carrying through the hall with practiced ease. “Another year of learning, of growth, and of bonds—bonds that will see us through trials yet to come. Dark times grow darker still...” Dumbledore continued. “But there is light among us... two lights, to be precise that shine all the brighter for their companionship.”
Whispers rippled through the hall. Harrie felt the weight of a hundred eyes land on her, then flick toward Neville.
The flush on her face grew hotter as she tried to avoid direct eye contact with anyone. Below the table, Hermione brushed her hand against hers, a silent comfort.
Harrie forced herself to keep her chin high, though her insides squirmed. She didn’t dare glance Neville’s way, not when the whole school seemed to be doing it for her.
“Now...” Dumbledore said lightly, as though he hadn’t just broadcasted her personal life in front of the entire school. “...before we feast, a few announcements.”
Harrie was no longer listening, her ears rang instead with the susurrus of whispers from neighboring tables.
"Neville and Harrie?"
"The Chosen Two..."
"They're going to save us all?"
She couldn’t tell if the whispers were cruel or curious, but it didn’t matter. They were too loud, too sharp, and pissing her the fuck off all over again.
The food appeared with its usual magic, platters steaming and goblets filled, and normally Harrie’s stomach would have growled. But tonight, she just stared at the roasted chicken and mashed potatoes, appetite curdled by resentment. Across the table, Neville accepted a dish of carrots passed down the line, murmuring thanks. His face betrayed nothing... not pride, not smugness, not even nerves. Just that steady, infuriating calm.
Seamus spoke up from further down the table. "Oi, Longbottom! Great job at the Ministry. You too, Harrie."
"Yeah!" Lavender added, twirling a strand of blonde hair around her finger. "I read all about it in the Daily Prophet. You were so brave, Neville!"
A faint crease appeared between Neville’s brows. He exhaled softly, almost a sigh, and murmured. “Thanks.”
Harrie dug her fork into her plate with exaggerated precision, stabbing at a potato as if it were Neville himself.
"Harrie...are you alright?" Hermione asked softly.
"Peachy." She deadpanned, eyes still fixed forward.
"Glaring at him isn't going to make him disappear."
“It’s worth a try.” Harrie muttered, voice low and venomous.
Neville sighed softly as his eyes finally flicked up to meet hers. "I can feel you staring at me, knock it off already."
“Oh, don't mind me, Longbottom…I'm just enjoying the view of you pretending to be all brave and heroic. It’s cute.”
“Cute… that’s not exactly what I was going for, but okay.” Neville rolled his eyes.
A snicker came from across the table and Harrie shot Lavender a glare, wishing she could hex her on the spot. Seamus leaned toward Dean, whispering behind his hand, but the smirk on his face said enough.
Harrie’s skin burned with anger.
Ron tried to fill the silence, talking about Quidditch schedules, but his voice wavered, uncertain. Hermione picked at her food, eyes flicking between Harrie and Neville like she was tracking a dangerous spell about to explode.
The feast dragged on. Harrie barely touched her meal, pushing food around her plate. Every laugh from the Hufflepuff table, every whisper from Ravenclaw, seemed to orbit back to her. Across the hall, Malfoy caught her eye and smirked knowingly, as if this new prophecy business was just another weapon for him to throw in her face.
When Dumbledore dismissed them, Harrie bolted up so quickly her bench scraped loudly against the stone floor. She shoved her way toward the doors, ignoring Hermione’s hand reaching for her arm.
She just needed to be alone.
* * *
Harrie barely had time to settle into her room when McGonagall appeared, brisk as ever, and told her and Neville to go meet Dumbledore in his office.
The walk up had been suffocating. Harrie kept her arms folded tight across her chest, nails digging crescents into her skin, every step echoing louder than it should in the castle’s corridors. She refused to look at Neville, though she could feel his eyes flick toward her now and again, quiet and steady in that way that only made her want to snap.
By the time the spiral staircase carried them to the top, her jaw ached from clenching it.
Dumbledore rose from behind his desk as they entered. “Harrie. Neville. Thank you for coming on such short notice.”
His warmth only made her bristle more.
“We didn’t exactly have a choice.” Harrie muttered, glaring hard at the carpet, as if the pattern there was suddenly fascinating. Her voice came out sharper than she meant, the words cutting the air between them.
Dumbledore’s eyes flickered toward her, but he didn’t scold. "Yes, I am sure you are eager to unpack and settle in, so I will make this brief." He gestured for them to sit in the two chairs before his desk.
Neville obeyed immediately, posture straight, hands folded. Harrie dropped into her chair, shoulders tense, eyes fixed anywhere but at Neville.
“I will not mince words...” Dumbledore began with a sigh. “Since the prophecy has bound the two of you together and Lord Voldemort will not rest until you are both destroyed, you must learn to stand together. To fight as one."
Harrie scoffed the sound low and humorless. “That’s rich."
"I beg your pardon?" He raised a brow.
“With all due respect, Headmaster, I don’t need to work with anyone. Least of all Neville.”
"Interesting...and why is that, Miss Potter?"
The frustration that had been simmering finally spilled over. “Where was Neville when I was nearly killed in first year? Or when I fought a basilisk? Or when I had to sit through Occlumency lessons with Snape? Or when Cedric-” The name broke in her mouth like glass. She faltered, voice cracking, the image of Cedric’s body flashing before her eyes. The room felt suddenly too small, air pressing against her lungs. She shook her head hard, forcing the words out, jagged and raw. “My point is... I haven’t needed him up until now. I’ve done everything on my own. Every single time.”
The silence that followed was suffocating. Even Fawkes gave a soft, unsettled sound.
Dumbledore watched her over the top of his glasses, his gaze piercing. “Your bitterness, Harrie, is understandable. But it is also dangerous.”
Harrie pressed her lips into a thin line, jaw tight. Her fists clenched under the table, knuckles white. “Am I not allowed to be angry?”
“You are allowed to feel what you feel...” Dumbledore said kindly “...but do not let it master you. Anger will not shield you from Voldemort. It will feed him.”
His words stung precisely because they were true because she knew she was walking a thin edge, balancing fury and grief like twin blades. And she hated that he could still see through her so easily.
For a long moment, the room held nothing but the hum of silence. Then Neville spoke.
“Harrie, I know I can’t understand everything you’ve been through. But I’m here now. And I’ll fight with you.”
The calmness in his tone grated across her nerves like sandpaper. She wanted him to flare up, to match her fury, to throw her anger back in her face so she wouldn’t feel so exposed sitting there raw and unraveling. She wanted proof that he cared as much as she did, that he could burn with her.
Instead, he sat steady, shoulders squared, eyes unshaken.
“You think you can just show up and suddenly be my partner?" She glared at him. "You haven’t earned it.”
“Then I’ll earn it." He said simply.
Dumbledore’s voice cut through before Harrie could explode again. “Voldemort grows more powerful by the day. He is rallying followers, weaving plots. To stand against him, you must both become stronger. Together. This is not optional.”
Harrie’s chest heaved with the effort of swallowing her fury. She wanted to storm out, to slam the door so hard the walls rattled. But Dumbledore’s gaze pinned her in place.
“You will begin training together, preparing yourselves for the trials ahead.” Dumbledore continued. “Defensive magic, advanced dueling, strategy. And you will practice Occlumency once a month... both of you. Voldemort will not hesitate to exploit your minds if he can.”
The mention of Occlumency sent a shiver down Harrie's spine.
She saw Snape’s sneer again, felt again the humiliation of him tearing through her thoughts like knives through silk as he laughed at her weakness.
Neville, of course, didn’t even flinch. He simply nodded, expression unreadable. “Alright.”
Harrie whipped toward him, incredulous. “That’s it? Just alright? Do you have any idea what that means? What it’s like?”
He met her glare steadily. “No. But I’ll learn.”
The simplicity of it knocked the wind out of her, and she hated him for it. Hated that he could sit there, calm and resolute, while she was boiling alive inside her own skin.
Dumbledore leaned forward, his eyes grave. “This is not punishment, Harrie. This is preparation. You and Neville are stronger together than apart. And the sooner you accept that truth, the better chance we all have. I will arrange your first session within the week. Until then, I ask you both to consider what it means to trust—not blindly, but deliberately. Good evening.”
Harrie shot to her feet, storming for the door before Neville could even move.
Before she realized where her legs were carrying her, she was halfway down the corridor, toward one of the unused classrooms that had sat gathering dust for decades. She shoved it open, the wooden frame rattling violently against the stone wall, and slammed it shut behind her. The echo rang in her ears, loud enough to drown out the pounding of her heart.
Then footsteps approached. Neville emerged through the doorway, closing it softly behind him as if to counter her violence with calm.
“Harrie...”
“Stop following me!” She snapped before he could say another word. Her voice cracked, raw and jagged with exhaustion. Her throat tightened, her vision blurring until the outlines of the desk and chalkboard bled into one another. Hot tears stung the corners of her eyes, spilling despite her desperate blink to shove them back. She pressed the heel of her hand to her face, furious. Furious at herself for breaking now, of all times. The last thing she wanted was for him to see her unravel.
“I know that you’re struggling right now.” Neville said gently, his voice like a thread trying to stitch her back together. “If you need someone to talk to-”
She whirled on him, eyes blazing, her words low and venomous. “Don’t pretend you know anything about what I’ve been through, Neville. You’ve had it easy!"
Something in his face shifted.
“Are you...are you fucking kidding me?”
She froze in place, chest tightening. In all her years of knowing Neville, she'd never heard him curse before or even raise his voice.
“You think my life is easy?” He stepped closer, looming over her as she instinctively backed against the wall. “Watching my parents scream themselves hoarse in St. Mungo’s every Christmas looking at me with empty eyes because they don’t even know I exist? That’s easy?”
Harrie’s breath caught. Her anger faltered beneath the weight of his words. The rawness in his tone, the fire in his eyes was enough to make her tremble. She wanted to yell, to shove every ounce of rage back at him, to carve the walls with her fury, but she couldn’t. There was something in his gaze that rooted her in place, made her feel suddenly small and exposed.
He was standing close, way too close.
Every breath he took brushed her cheek, carried with it the faint scent of peppermint and rosemary. The proximity made her chest tighten further, a mix of irritation and something she couldn’t name, something that twisted like a knife in her stomach.
“You’re right, Harrie. I wasn’t marked. I didn’t get the scar. But that doesn’t mean I haven’t been through hell too!” His jaw was tight, voice low and cutting, each word snapping like a whip. “I am really fucking trying to be nice here, trying to let you take out all your pent up anger on me but I will not sit here while you act like I’ve had some easy, happy life! Do you think any of this was fair? Do you think I asked for it? Do you think I chose to grow up in a house where my parents didn’t even see me? Where every day felt like surviving some nightmare?”
His eyes burned, fierce and unrelenting, a storm Harrie hadn’t expected. “I’ve lost just as much as you, Harrie. I’ve fought just as hard, maybe not the same battles, but don’t you dare act like my struggles don’t matter!”
She swallowed, lips dry. The words she’d rehearsed for months, all the biting retorts and sarcastic jabs, faltered. For once, she had nothing ready. She’d imagined countless confrontations with Neville, imagined cutting him down, imagined triumphing over his calm. But now, seeing the pain etched in his face, hearing the uncontrolled fury in his voice, all she could do was… nothing.
“I…” She whispered, voice barely audible, a fragile thread of sound. The word hung between them, unfinished, unformed, like a confession she didn’t know how to make.
He softened slightly, though his eyes didn’t leave hers. The tension in his posture eased, and his voice dropped, gentle, almost hesitant. "I'm sorry… I didn’t mean to yell. I just...fuck." Neville said softly, the words awkward and careful, as if he had surprised himself with the sharpness in his own tone.
Harrie blinked, her chest constricting. Her mouth opened, closed, opened again, but no coherent words would come.
Why were her knees trembling?
Why did her face feel like it was on fire?
Why did every instinct scream at her to push him away and lean closer at the same time?
And damn it, why couldn’t she speak?!
Neville’s brow tensed slightly as he studied her face, his eyes narrowing... not in anger, but in curiosity, concern. Harrie felt it like a weight pressing against her chest, a magnetic pull she didn’t want to acknowledge. Her heartbeat hammered erratically, and for a moment, all she could do was stare back.
“I-I have to go!” Her words stumbled out, rushed and clipped, almost a reflex to cover the mess of emotions bubbling inside her.
Harrie bolted from the room before Neville could protest, her legs carrying her as if they had a mind of their own. She didn’t look back, didn’t spare him a glance, even as her chest heaved and her mind spun. The corridor stretched ahead, empty and dimly lit, a sanctuary in its silence. She leaned against the cold stone wall, pressing her palms to her face, and let out a shuddering breath.
She pressed a hand to her temple, trying to pin down the feelings that tangled themselves in her stomach.
Irritation, yes. Confusion. Resentment. But beneath all that… something else. Something that made her pulse quicken, her knees weak, her thoughts scattered. She couldn’t understand why his anger, the very thing that should have made her flare up, push back, defend herself... had instead left her breathless, unsettled, and strangely raw.
Harrie let out another slow breath, leaning back fully against the wall, staring at the ceiling as if answers might be written in the stone above her.
Unfortunately, it gave her nothing.