Star Quality

Chapter 8

Harry knew even before he'd opened his eyes that the spell hadn't worked. He couldn't have explained how he knew; he just did, deep down in the pit of his stomach. So it wasn't a surprise when he reached over to his bedside table, fumbled for his glasses, and his Muggle house swum back into focus: his half-open wardrobe with its hideous work uniform; his Muggle alarm clock; the detritus of a life without magic. The whole room had the faint of air of neglect that proved it, at any rate; there was no way Kreacher would have stood for the half-drunk mug of tea that was undoubtedly leaving an ingrained ring in the ancient wood of his chest of drawers on the other side of the room.

Was he meant to be working today? It was Friday, and he hadn't worked last Friday, had he? Harry couldn't remember, too depressed by the realisation that he'd been stuck in this new reality for over a week now, and he still hadn't made any progress on getting back home. OK, so now he had a wand that worked, more or less, but what was the benefit of that when he didn't know the right counter spell? What was the point of magic, he found himself thinking as he sat up, scrubbing his hands through his hair and feeling depression eat at his insides. OK, so he could cast Lumos instead of using the light switch, and he could Summon the TV remote control, and he could – probably – Apparate, if he wanted to risk a mild, horrifying Splinch. But why would he bother? The Muggle alternatives were almost as good. If he had a working broom and could fly . . . That was probably the magic he missed most. His outlet, his stress release, when things were weighing on his mind. He couldn't fly, though. All he could do was get out of bed, stomp grumpily to the bathroom to have a piss and wash his face, and continue his stomp down the stairs to the kitchen.

Harry made himself an extremely strong pot of coffee and after a large mug's worth he felt marginally more himself. It was stupid to brood; what good did it do? He made himself some toast and grabbed a pen and paper, tugging the top off the biro and taking a large bite out of the slice as he tried to think logically. OK, so he didn't have a magical library to help him solve this problem, and he didn't have Robards or his fellow Aurors. But he wasn't completely helpless. He wrote the heading I have got . . . at the top of the paper and underlined it three times, before running out of inspiration. He ate some more toast, trying not to panic, and eventually came up with:

–Wand

–Hermione

–Ron ??

–Parvati

–Draco

He considered each of the items on the list in turn, washing down the toast crumbs with more coffee and fiddling with his pen. OK, so the wand wasn't great, but it worked, more or less, didn't it? It felt stupid to focus on the fact it wasn't perfect, when it was so much better than nothing. It hadn't worked last night, but then how did Harry know he'd cast the right spell?

Harry moved to the next item on his list: Hermione. He felt a flush of guilt as he realised that although Hermione had left him several messages, he hadn't called her back. She hadn't called in several days, had she? She'd either written him off as a con-artist or decided he was rude and ungrateful and not worth her time; he wasn't sure which was worse. It was Hermione who'd suggested the wand in the first place, he realised, thinking about it now. He'd always relied on her intelligence, her courage, her infuriating stubbornness. There was no reason he should discount her just because she was temporarily tooth-fixated, was there? She still seemed like his Hermione, underneath.

Harry, feeling bolstered by this thought, looked at Ron's name thoughtfully. He wasn't sure he was ready for a footballing, playboy version of his best mate. But at the same time, it felt wrong to discount Ron either. If he needed Hermione, he needed Ron just as much. Their friendship just worked – all three of them, facing evil and defeating it because they had each other's backs. Where would he be without Ron and Hermione? Probably dead, he thought bleakly, and shivered, feeling an Acromantula walk over his grave. He crossed out the question marks he'd written after Ron's name, feeling like a bad friend.