Chapter 86: Resolved and Departing
Since the kiss in the corridor, Hermione had been carefully, deliberately, avoiding Elian. Not out of anger, but a flustered, warm confusion. On the Hogwarts Express back to London, she shepherded Harry and Ron into a different compartment, using the excuse of a prefect's round that didn't exist.
Her feelings were a tangled mess. She liked him—that was an undeniable, thrilling fact that made her stomach flutter. But the shift from friends—from the brilliant, mysterious ally in the D.A.—to this was so sudden it left her breathless. She wasn't ready to define it, to face the questions in his eyes, or the knowing looks from others.
And then there was Luna's invitation, hanging between them like a delicate, awkward ornament. She didn't want to be the jealous girlfriend—she wasn't even sure she was a girlfriend—making demands. So she retreated, using the familiar shield of busyness and books.
The compartment she chose was full of D.A. members: Lavender Brown, Ron, Harry, Neville, and Seamus, all buzzing with holiday plans. Hermione sat by the window, watching the snowy Scottish Highlands give way to frost-rimed fields, her mind a thousand miles away. Harry, sitting opposite, watched her with a quiet understanding.
"Hermione," he said softly, cutting through the chatter about Christmas crackers and Weasley sweaters. "You should just talk to him."
She started, pulling her gaze from the window. "What?"
Harry gave her a small, knowing smile. "Elian. You've been avoiding him all morning. His compartment is just three doors down."
Hermione's eyes darted around, checking if anyone was listening, before she leaned in, her cheeks pink. "Harry, don't be ridiculous."
"It's not ridiculous," Harry said, his voice low. "You're the one who's always telling people to be brave. Why hesitate now?"
"I'm not hesitating!" she whispered fiercely, straightening her jumper. "I'm just… focused. We have O.W.L.s to think about, you know."
Harry's smile didn't fade. He'd seen this side of Hermione before—the stubborn denial that preceded a leap of courage. "Right. O.W.L.s. That's why you nearly jumped out of your skin when you saw him on the platform."
Hermione huffed, but the corner of her mouth twitched. The facade crumbled, replaced by a familiar, determined glint. "Alright, fine. You've made your point. But it's… complicated."
"It doesn't have to be," Harry said simply. "Not if you don't want it to be."
She met his eyes, the green ones that had seen so much darkness yet still held faith in his friends. He was right. She was overcomplicating it. A slow, genuine smile replaced her flustered expression. "You know, for someone who needs a map to find the Great Hall, you can be surprisingly perceptive."
Harry grinned. "I have my moments."
"Well, don't worry," Hermione said, her voice firming with resolve. "I don't back down from a challenge. Even a… personal one."
It was late evening by the time the Hogwarts Express hissed to a stop at King's Cross, the familiar platform nine and three-quarters materialising around them. Elian stepped onto the platform, stretching his back with a grimace. A full day on the hard, upholstered seats of the train was a particular kind of torture. They really need to invest in some sleeper cars, he thought, rubbing the small of his back. Even the Wizarding World could use a bit of lumbar support.
The platform was a chaos of joyful reunions—parents hugging children, owls hooting, trunks clattering. Elian scanned the crowd, a familiar pang of solitude touching him before he shrugged it off. He hefted his trunk, turning to make for the barrier.
A rapid tap-tap-tap of hurried footsteps sounded behind him. He turned.
A blur of bushy brown hair and a flash of a winter coat collided with him. "Oof!"
Hermione Granger, slightly breathless, had walked straight into his chest. She looked up, her eyes wide with surprise and that now-familiar blush creeping up her neck.
"In a hurry?" Elian asked, a smirk tugging at his lips as he steadied her. "Miss me that much after a day?"
Hermione recovered, swatting his arm lightly. "Don't be ridiculous." But she didn't step back immediately.
"Ow! Murder! She's maiming a fellow student!" Elian cried out in mock agony, clutching his arm and staggering, drawing amused glances from passing families.
"Elian! Hush!" Hermione hissed, looking around in mortification, though a laugh was bubbling in her throat. "Stop that!"
He stopped his performance, a genuine grin spreading across his face. Seeing her laugh, the last of the awkward tension between them seemed to evaporate in the steam-filled air.
"You're impossible," she said, shaking her head, but she was smiling properly now. "Come on, we should get going." She dug into her coat pocket and pulled out a small, neatly folded piece of parchment. "Here. Take this."
Elian unfolded it. Written in her precise handwriting was an address: 444 Lily Street, Stone District, Manchester.
"Manchester?" he said, surprised. "I always thought you were from London."
Hermione gave him a look that plainly said you're being daft. "Why on earth would you think that?"
He paused. She was right. He'd just assumed. The thought made him chuckle. "No reason. Just my own silliness." He understood the significance of the note. It was her answer. Not a demand, not a confrontation about Luna's invitation, but an open door. A statement of trust.
Hermione didn't elaborate. She just nodded towards the note. "My parents are waiting. I have to go." She hesitated for a second, her eyes meeting his. "Have a… a good start to your holiday, Elian."
"You too, Hermione," he said softly. "Give your parents my best."
With a final, quick smile, she turned and melted into the crowd, heading for a pleasant-looking couple in sensible coats—the Grangers.
Elian watched her go for a moment, then tucked the address safely into an inner pocket of his own robes, right next to where the Time-Turner lay. He offered final waves and "Happy Christmas!" to other departing D.A. members—Neville, Seamus, the Patil twins—before finally turning towards the brick wall.
He passed through into the mundane bustle of King's Cross Station, the magical world fading behind him. The holiday had begun. Not with the warmth of a family welcome, but with the cool night air of London, the weight of a mysterious artifact around his neck, a deadly mission in his mind, and the warm, promising weight of an address in his pocket.
He had a home to go to, but he knew, with absolute certainty, he would not be spending a quiet Christmas alone at 35 Carnaby Street.
(End of Chapter)
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