The After Life

Out of Exile

Harry didn't know how he'd ended up here. Of all places. On his list of places to go, this wasn't so much as somewhere near the bottom - it wouldn't have made the list at all.

Smeltings Grammar School. On Graduation Day.

There was something about the striped knickerbockers, the boaters, the knobbly sticks, that caught Harry's curiosity like kindling. He was morbidly fascinated. Had Dudley actually managed to graduate? Had he been able to fashion some sort of education, or just punched his way to an A-Level or two? Was he here at all? Harry was less sure of this than his own presence. But he just couldn't resist a look.

He hadn't come to London for this. Truth was, his cash supply was dwindling. He would have to sneak into Gringott's somehow and make a withdrawal. He had his trusty Invisibility Cloak so he wasn't overly worried about that. The goblins of Gringotts were very discreet. His anonymity was assured where they were concerned. He hadn't banked on the Muggle world being so expensive. The Dursley's fifty pence Christmas presents had seemed reasonable at the time. That would barely buy him a carrier bag these days.

But he would worry about that later. He'd arrived in London intent on heading straight into the Leaky Cauldron, until he'd seen that familiar school uniform. He followed the parade of students through Whitehall, down The Mall and off through a maze of side streets until they reached Smeltings School itself.

Having been to Oxford, Harry found himself distinctly unimpressed. Smeltings was alright, but it lacked the awe-inspiring façade of even the humblest of Oxford's colleges. It was rather bland. But it produced men like Vernon Dursley so Harry shouldn't really have been too surprised. This wasn't a place Hermione would have thrived. She'd more likely have walked out.

It was the first time he'd thought of Hermione that day. It was a record. He'd normally thought of her at least half a dozen times by now. He must just be that distracted today. The last five days had been distinctly Hermione Granger-shaped, or at least driven. He'd thought of little else. It had hitched a permanent grin onto his face. He'd gotten to the point where he felt he'd be happy even if she rejected him. He was so pleased just to have fallen for her that he thought he might even be okay with it being unreturned and unrequited. She was just that worthy of feeling that way about. He might be okay with just that to fill him up, even if she turned him down.

Not that he was going to accept that in reality, of course.

He was Harry fucking Potter. That had to be worth something.

At least he had managed to contain his thoughts of murdering Ron to just one or two times a day. On a good day. It just seemed the easiest solution. He could comfort Hermione over Ron's death - which he would so make look like an accident - and catch her on the rebound. He found he could tolerably deal with any moral issues which came along with this. If Hermione didn't ask questions, he'd never have to lie to her.

Then he'd punch himself for thinking such utter nonsense.

But the problem of Ron wasn't going to go away so easily. That ginger prick was a formidable obstacle. For the first fucking time ever! That's even if Hermione was prepared to leave him and get together with Harry. Neither of these things were certain. Harry had flimsy grounds on which to believe that either thing could happen, let alone both together.

That's what had kept him from simply running to Hermione and throwing himself at her feet. She had never shown anything like that kind of interest in him. And why should she, reasonably? To be fair, Harry was a bit of a twat. And he'd been more than a bit of a twat to her. He knew this. He'd never meant to be, and he resented himself for every time he was. But his repentance didn't change history.