Epiphanies by romulus lupin

Rating: G
Genres: Angst, Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 4
Published: 11/01/2003
Last Updated: 19/04/2003
Status: Completed

This takes place in the summer before the start of the fifth year. Harry and Hermione are
staying at The Burrow. One early morning, they are spending a few quiet moments together, unaware
that someone is watching them with interest.




1. Epiphanies - Prologue
------------------------

Epiphanies

(Prologue) Dawn at The Burrow

The first rays of the rising sun broke out over the horizon surrounding the still-sleeping town
of Ottery St. Catchpole. The breaking sun cast its light on the small hills surrounding the village
— and on the chimneys on the roof of a large, rather ramshackle house on the outskirts of the
village. At first glance, the house looked as if it had once been a large stone pigpen, but rooms
had been added here and there until it was several stories high … and so crooked that anyone seeing
it for the first time would think that it was being held up by magic.

As the sun rose further, a stray beam of sunlight illuminated a small rise standing to one side
of the house – a small, grassy lump of soil and rock that stood close to the edge of the gardens
surrounding the house. An ancient stone bench (actually, two slabs of stone set upright with a
longer slab on top of these) had been placed on the rise, allowing anyone sitting there to enjoy a
view of the rising sun as it welcomed a new dawn.

On this particular day, the rising sun showed two figures on the bench. They were so still that
a casual observer would have mistaken them for the concrete gnomes populating many a garden around
the country. A closer look, however, would have revealed that these were definitely not gnomes.

One figure was a rather petite and slim girl, with bushy brown hair streaming over her back,
wrapped in a red-and-gold Quidditch robe. Chocolate-brown eyes looked out on the rising sun, slim
hands clutched tightly at the robe around her shoulders. The other was a medium-height teenaged boy
with black, unruly hair, wearing glasses which reflected back the light of the rising sun. If one
could look behind those glasses, one would have seen brilliant, emerald-green eyes that stared out
at the lightening ground, seemingly seeing nothing but, in fact, acutely aware of their
surroundings.

They’d been sitting in companionable silence in the garden for some time, waiting quietly for
the dawn to break. The boy had woken up earlier and couldn’t sleep; rather than laze around for a
lie-in, he had decided to step outside and enjoy the silence and calmness of the remaining
night.

Silently he had crept out of his bed in the cramped bedroom, putting on a maroon sweater with a
lion knitted on the front, and pausing only to grab a scarlet Quidditch robe from his trunk before
stealing out of the house, and into the cool air of the night. He had been sitting on the bench for
only a few minutes when he felt the presence of someone moving around in the garden.

Startled, he had looked up into a pair of sleepy brown eyes framed by bushy brown hair. The girl
looked as if she were sleep-walking – except her eyes were wide open. She silently stopped beside
him, and sat down on the bench, careful to keep some space between them.

No words were exchanged – nor were words needed to be said. They were friends … the best of
friends, who sometimes seemed to communicate at a level where words were irrelevant.

After a while, he felt the girl shivering; her nightdress, while comfortable for sleeping in a
warm and cozy bed, was decidedly not suited for a cold stone bench with a soft but cooling breeze
blowing. Silently, he removed his robe and wrapped it around her, at the same time, rubbing her
arms through the fabric to help her warm up – she looked up at him and smiled, stopping him from
his actions.

She wrapped the robe more closely around her, and leaned gently against him. He shifted a bit,
unconsciously shielding his companion from the wind, and placed an arm around her back to provide
some support as she tried to slump comfortably on the backless bench.

Nothing needed to be said as they both waited for the dawn.

* * * * *

Neither one knew that someone was watching them with great interest.

She was a rather plump woman with a very pleasant demeanor at most times (only her family and
their closest friends knew how swiftly that could change into a rampaging tiger when aroused) who
was watching the scene from a large bedroom in an upper story. She had a wide smile on her face as
she watched the two sitting on the bench. ‘How romantic,’ she sighed, and laughed softly to
herself. Generations of Weasleys had sat on that same bench over the centuries, either watching the
rising or the setting of the sun, or contemplating the stars and the moon on many a warm (or even
cold) night ... and sometimes, sometimes, letting the magic of the spot pull them into a kiss – or
a promise.

In fact, her husband Arthur had proposed to her on that very same bench, one cool and breezy
summer night over thirty years ago. (‘Admit it,’ she admonished herself , ‘you were just as ready
to propose to him if he hadn’t made the first move. That bench really has something going for it
…’)

She smiled at the memory and half-turned to call Arthur to join her. She stopped when she saw
the empty bed; her husband and Percy had been called to the Ministry of Magic for some emergency or
other at 3:30 in the morning. Arthur had shaken her awake to tell her that he was leaving, and had
given her a kiss before Apparating out of the house.

She had been unable to sleep since then, and had been sitting at the window of the darkened
room, looking out at the stars when she saw the boy walk out to the bench. She wondered if she
should go down and talk to him (‘Goodness knows, he needs someone to talk with after what happened
during the year,’ she thought) but decided to wait for a little bit. It was a good thing, too; less
than five minutes later, she saw the brown-haired girl stepping out of the house and walking
towards the bench.

The only problem, she sighed, was that neither one of the two sitting on the bench was a
Weasley. The boy was Harry Potter, better known in wizarding circles as ‘The Boy Who Lived,’ Seeker
for the Gryffindor House Quidditch team, Hogwarts Champion and winner of the recent Tri-Wizard
tournament -- and the only person in the entire wizarding world who had come up against the Dark
Lord *four* times – and lived to tell the tale.

And incidentally, her youngest son’s best friend.

The girl was Hermione Granger, a Muggle-born witch who was at the head of their class
academically, a very bright but extremely nice young girl who was also Harry and Ron’s other best
friend. She smiled as she remembered her other children calling them either “The Trio,” or the
“Dream Team.”

She shivered slightly as she recalled the adventures and near-death experiences the three,
especially Harry, had gone through in the past four years. To think that so much has happened to
children barely in their teens! They should be enjoying themselves now, doing the things that
wizarding children their age should be doing … not walking around with the weight of the world on
their shoulders.

Or, perhaps, on *Harry’s* shoulders.

She muttered darkly to herself. She wondered what sort of Divinity there was to have placed such
a burden on the young boy … parents killed when he was barely a year old by the Dark Wizard, Lord
Voldemort, for reasons still unclear … Voldemort turning his wand on the baby Harry to kill him,
too … the curse rebounding on the Dark Lord, and rendering You-Know-Who (even she could not say
*his* name out loud) a mere shadow of his evil, corrupt self.

Many in the wizarding world looked up to Harry Potter as a hero, because of that first abortive
encounter with the Dark Lord, which had led to over a decade of serenity and quiet after that
incident … long years of peace that more than compensated for the years of terror when Voldemort
was at his prime.

Very few wizards or witches, however, knew of the emerging threat of a revived Dark Lord, which
had started the year that Harry Potter re-joined the wizarding world when he went to Hogwarts – an
attempt by the still-weakened Voldemort to steal the Sorcerer’s Stone in Harry’s first year … the
opening of Salazar Slytherin’s Chamber of Secrets in his second year … making use of the revived
Tri-Wizards Tournament to trap Harry and use him in ensuring You-Know-Who’s resurrection to
flesh-and-blood life.

Molly knew of these developments, in part because of her son Ron’s involvement in these
adventures with Harry Potter and Hermione Granger … and also because the emerging evil had struck
directly at her family in the Trio’s second year at Hogwarts. It was *Harry* who rescued her
youngest child and only daughter, Ginny, from the Chamber of Secrets. Working with clues provided
by the brainy Hermione (who had provided Harry with a vital piece of the puzzle even when Petrified
and in the hospital), and the able (although reluctant) support of Ron and his Spell-o-taped wand,
Harry had gone into the Chamber after Ginny – emerging triumphant, and bearing with him the sword
of Godric Gryffindor.

Molly Weasley shuddered again at the memories. There were times when she wondered whether Ron’s
friendship with The Boy Who Lived was a blessing -- or a curse. Ron, a normal (for wizards) 16-year
old boy should have been enjoying the summer with his family and what friends he would have had at
that age, rather than being involved in more adventures and than most older wizards did in their
whole lifetimes! He’d already been confined to the Hogwarts’ hospital wing once in his third year,
when most students never even *saw* what the hospital looked like.

Hermione herself had been confined in the hospital in her second year; however, being Petrified,
she had no knowledge or awareness of what happened until she was revived with Mandrake potion –
after which Madam Pomfrey, the Hogwarts’ nurse, allowed her to go off immediately to the Great Hall
for the celebratory feast.

*Harry*, on the other hand, had been in the hospital wing at least *once* for every
*year* he had been in Hogwarts. The Weasley twins, Fred and George, often teased him about
naming the Hogwarts’ hospital “The Harry Potter Hospital Wing” in his honor.

There was no doubt that Harry had been very lucky. Molly wondered, however, whether Harry’s luck
will one day run out – and drag one or both of his friends down with him. Deep down, she hoped that
it would not be Ron … losing a child was something she could barely comprehend – or even
contemplate.

‘What am I thinking about?’ she said to herself savagely. ‘First, it *isn’t* Harry’s fault
at all. More importantly, I … no, *we* owe him a life. The *family* owes him
*Ginny’s* life! If it were not for Harry …’

She turned away from the window, tears prickling at her eyes, to look at a picture on her
bedside drawer. It had been taken soon after she had given birth to Ginny; she saw a younger self
with a baby Ginny in her arms, waving at the camera.

Arthur and Molly had both resigned themselves to a household full of boys, a round half-dozen of
them. While she was happy with it, Molly had been secretly hoping for a girl … someone to whom she
could pass on her precious hope chest (it had been passed down from eldest daughter to eldest
daughter in her household for centuries, slowly accumulating a wealth of tapestries, photographs
and memories that she had been loath to let go, even when money was tight), a daughter to whom she
would teach all the secrets of her own fabulous cooking and the running of a household …

But there were moments like this, sitting in the dark with Arthur out on another midnight
emergency for the Ministry of Magic, when she wondered whether her deep-seated desire to have a
daughter was an indulgence it would have been better to forego.

There were already six little Weasleys when Ginny came along – money was already very tight,
with Arthur not getting the promotions he deserved because of his over-fondness for Muggles. And
yet, Molly had *so* wanted a daughter that she had thrown caution to the winds, and made one
more try with Arthur …

She smiled with nostalgia as she remembered waking up in St. Mungo’s, and the medi-witch
excitedly telling her, “It’s a girl!” … the goofy, happy grin on Arthur’s face as he kissed her
(‘Thank God,’ she thought, ‘that Arthur had wanted a girl as much as I did!’) … the day she brought
Ginny home from the hospital … the wondering look in the eyes of her eldest son Bill as he
contemplated this new addition to the family. The other boys were really too young then to
understand … but Bill … Molly remembered the way Bill had held the Ginny in his arms, as if he was
cradling a basket full of spun glass …

Molly sniffed a little at the memory. She missed Bill, who had been working for some time as a
curse-breaker at Gringott’s in Egypt. Her eldest had an unusually well-developed sense of
responsibility even as a boy; it was Bill that she had turned to in order to keep her rowdy brood
in line, Bill who had watched over his younger brothers as she went about her daily chores … and
Bill who had taken over much of the caring for the baby girl that she loved.

As the boys grew older, however, it seemed that it was only Bill who maintained his unrestrained
and open affection for the youngest Weasley. Not that the others had no use for little Ginny ... it
was just that whatever love and affection they had for her was overshadowed by their own
personalities.

Charlie, for example, had been as unrestrained and affectionate towards Ginny as Bill had ever
been; he was just too obsessed with Dragons and Quidditch to give Ginny the care and concern that
Bill gave without reservation. Percy … Percy’s sense of responsibility was firmly focused on his
“career” (a game plan which will culminate in becoming the youngest ever Minister of Magic). Percy,
therefore, tended to treat Ginny as if she were a subordinate, rather than his youngest sister.

The Twins … were as they had always been: inveterate jokers, quick with a pun or a joke
(sometimes to the point of utter disrespect), and, too often, a reckless tactlessness that often
got them into trouble … and, too often, inadvertently embarrassing Ginny.

And Ron … Ron had been the most insecure of the brothers – probably because it was so difficult
to find his own place in the sun, given that he had *five* brothers who had the opportunity to
do everything before he did it. That same insecurity led to a confused relationship with his
youngest sibling: alternately affectionate and caring, teasing and embarrassing, tactless and bossy
– which wasn’t helped by having a hair-trigger temper too easy to rouse.

Molly Weasley heaved another deep sigh (she was having one of those days again, she knew. But
there was nothing to do now but to let it all out …)

Still … no matter the jokes played on her by her older brothers, no matter the endless teasing
they had given her during her formative years … there was no denying the love and affection the
brothers had for their youngest sibling. ‘Even if,’ she thought to herself, ‘one had to dig deep
for it.’

As had happened the day they learned that Ginny had disappeared, kidnapped by the unknown horror
that lived within Salazar Slytherin’s Chamber of Secrets.

She could recall with vivid and horrible detail that day … Arthur, shaken and very, very pale,
Apparating at The Burrow, and leading her to the couch to tell her what had happened … her fainting
when told of what was contained in the owl that Percy had sent to his father … the slow flight to
Hogwarts on their ancient broomsticks as both she and Arthur were too distraught to try Apparating
to Hogsmeade … the slow walk to McGonagall’s office, avoiding the sympathetic looks from students
and teachers … again, breaking down inside McGonagall’s office when she saw Albus Dumbledore
looking shell-shocked himself, but trying to hold out some hope that she knew in her heart was
false …

And that incredible moment when the door to the office opened and Fawkes the phoenix flew in,
leading Harry, Ron and a shaken and crying Ginny into the room.

Ginny was extremely pale and thin, having been held in the Chamber for almost a day without food
or water. The front of her robes were wet from the river of tears she had been shedding since Harry
woke her up from her enchanted sleep, after burying the basilik’s fang in Tom Riddle’s enchanted
diary, thus breaking the spell that had held her for so long.

Ron, caked in mud and dust from trying to move rocks and stones around the ruined tunnel to make
an opening into the Chamber of Secrets, also pale and shaken from the ordeal … but not as much as
Harry.

And Harry Potter, barely thirteen years old, covered in slime and the blood of the basilisk,
clutching in one hand the ruined diary of the young Voldemort (or Tom Riddle as he was then known),
a jewel-encrusted sword and the school’s Sorting Hat tucked in his belt, exhausted but still
half-dragging, half-carrying a still-sobbing Ginny Weasley.

Molly could remember every detail of the incredible story that Harry told them all that night.
Later that evening, she and Arthur had related the story to the rest of the family: Bill and
Charlie, who had Apparated in from Egypt and Romania, fully expecting never to see their beloved
sister again; Percy, Fred and George who had opted out of the celebratory feast in the Great Hall
to be with their sister as she slept in the hospital wing. Only Ron wasn’t there – he had been with
Harry and Hermione during the feast, a celebration that he so richly deserved, having shared the
dangers of the Chamber with Harry.

As Molly ended the narrative, she could see the looks being exchanged by the brothers, and the
glances they were giving their sleeping sister. Without a word being spoken, they had all reached a
silent agreement: there was now a new member of their family, and they would be extending the same
love and protection they had always given their sister, to Harry Potter.

And, to Hermione Granger.

Molly remembered with fondness the family’s trip to Egypt that same summer, helped by the
incredible luck of Arthur’s winning the annual Daily Prophet’s Grand Prize Galleon Draw. It had
given all of them a chance to recuperate, to mend the pains and memories of the previous year,
especially the guilt felt by Percy, the twins, and Ron for their constant teasing of Ginny during
the school year, and not paying enough attention to her to prevent her from being enchanted by the
diary of the twice-be-damned Tom Riddle.

It was during one dinner in Cairo that Ginny, who had studiously avoided discussing the Chamber
of Secrets all the time, suddenly asked Ron how he and Harry were able to find her in the nick of
time. Although she had been in McGonagall’s office when the tale was first told, little had
penetrated her numbed brain. Later, of course, she had been under a Dreamless Potion when the story
was told to the rest of the family.

Molly could still hear Ron’s voice in her mind: “I don’t mind telling you, Ginny, that if Harry
hadn’t found that page in Hermione’s hand when we visited her in the hospital, we wouldn’t have
known where to start.

“That was the key, Ginny,” Ron continued. “When Harry and I read it, everything fell into place.
What Aragog had told us about a girl being killed by the basilisk in the girl’s bathroom on the
first floor, the fact that Moaning Myrtle had died in that same bathroom, and so on. We *knew*
that the entrance could only be through Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom … something which we confirmed
when we asked Myrtle how she had died.”

As the tale ended, Molly caught the glances and looks being exchanged by the older brothers with
their father, and then herself. Again without words, a silent agreement was reached: Hermione was
now a member of their family, and would be given the same affection, protection and respect that
they were giving to Harry and Ginny.

Molly knew that it was for this reason that the older brothers and Arthur had scrimped every
stray Knut they could get their hands on, as well as Arthur practically twisting and threatening to
break arms and legs in the Ministry, in order to get the prized seats for the Quidditch World
Cup.

It was worth it, they all thought. It was an opportunity for the whole family to gather – and
for Bill and Charley to get to know the newest members of the family … the members to whom they
owed their sister’s life.

Molly glanced out the window and saw that the day was well and truly started, with the sun
finally breaking out on the horizon, lighting even the corners of her darkened room. She should go
down to start breakfast for her family, but hesitated for a moment. She knew that the moment Harry
and Hermione heard her clattering around the kitchen, the two of them would be in there trying to
help out … even though there was not that much help needed in her magic-run kitchen.

She was loath to see them doing chores around the house; they were *family*, after all, but
she knew that there was little she could do to stop them. Hermione had been too well brought up by
her Muggle parents to impose herself on a household where she was, after all, a guest. Harry, on
the other hand, would also feel uncomfortable doing nothing to help in a household where he truly
felt he *belonged*.

Molly decided to give the two a few more minutes of leisure, and walked to the window to see
what they were doing. Glancing outside, she smiled at what she saw …

Harry still had his arm around Hermione’s back, supporting her, while Hermione’s head with its
bushy brown hair was also resting on Harry’s shoulder, leaning back against Harry. She also had one
arm around Harry’s waist, as if *she* was supporting him. Harry, however, appeared to be
resting his cheek on top of her head – seemingly relaxed and contented just sitting there with his
best friend.

Molly studied them closely, and was surprised as a wave of mingled disappointment and hope
passed through her mind.

It *should* have been a most romantic pose for the two young people. And yet, Molly could
not feel any sense, or *aura*, of *romance* emanating from the two. It just seemed to be
a very … *comfortable*, *contented* … even *warm* pose for the two. Nothing more,
nothing less.

Nothing romantic … nothing sensual about it.

They were two people sharing a moment of comfort together.

Best friends, definitely. *More* than best friends … and Molly realized that only time will
tell.

Molly felt a slight ray of hope beating in her heart. The more she got to know those two, the
more she hoped – and yes, she admitted to herself, *prayed* and prayed *hard* – that they
would become really, *truly*, members of her family.

Hermione’s coolness and logic were the perfect balance to Ron’s impulsive nature and fiery
temper. Her intelligence also was not to be sneezed at; at the same time, Molly dismissed Ron’s
oft-said complaints about Hermione’s bossy nature and tendency to run to the library whenever
confronted with a problem. He *needed* someone like that to keep him focused on the important
things … he still hadn’t realized that being born a wizard to an ancient and honorable wizarding
family was *never* enough.

Nothing would ever replace knowledge and understanding of how the wizarding world and magic
operated. Being born to a wizarding family meant only a longer exposure to magic, and perhaps, the
*confidence* to do magic instinctively and without fear of the consequences. But all that
*that* would make you is just an average wizard.

But combining one’s innate talents and confidence with knowledge and understanding would make
one a truly *outstanding* wizard. Hermione had that and more; Molly knew that it was only
through her sheer persistence and bossiness that Harry and Ron were getting better than average
grades in school.

She sighed, again. At least, Harry seemed to be “getting it” (in the quaint language that her
children used.) He seemed to understand the need for knowledge of magic to supplement his own
innate skills, sharpening the latter into a powerful combination of inner magic and knowledge.

Ron, though … ‘it would be better if someone keeps *his* long nose to the grindstone,’
Molly thought. ‘Otherwise … he may fall flat on his face and break that nose – or something else
more important!’

Harry, on the other hand, had been gaining both the confidence and knowledge he needed to become
an extraordinary wizard. Again, he may have the blood of wizards running through his veins, but his
constant companionship with Hermione had helped sharpen his skills … to the point that he was able
to defeat Voldemort in a wizard’s duel.

Molly had also learned of Harry’s mastery of the Patronious Charm when Remus Lupin had passed by
The Burrow on a mission for Dumbledore. She herself, in spite of the centuries of wizard blood in
her veins, had never been able to conjure up a Patronious as easily as she had heard Harry did –
and at only fourteen, at that!

Arthur could – but it often took too much out of him. Again, it was totally different from what
she heard Harry could do – apparently, he could conjure up a powerful Patronious whenever needed,
without the drain on his inner strength that made it so difficult for many wizards or witches to
make effective use of the charm.

But it was Harry’s innate gentleness and caring nature that had always touched her heart, from
the moment she first met him on Platform 9 and ¾ over four years before. It was just the gentleness
and caring that Ginny needed to build up her confidence and self-esteem; although her brothers
loved her and protected her, their constant teasing and jokes (especially from the twins) had not
done much to build her confidence up.

She knew that it was this lack of confidence that had pushed Ginny into confiding all her
thoughts and secrets to that infernal diary in the first place! When she had asked Ginny much later
why she hadn’t asked for a diary in the first place, Ginny had stammered for a while before
admitting that she had felt that they didn’t have enough money to buy her one – on top of all the
course books required by that stupid git Lockhart, and everything else …

Molly squirmed again in embarrassment at that talk with her youngest child. For lack of a few
silver Sickles, a life was almost lost.

But with Harry … with Harry’s kindness and gentle nature, Ginny would have been protected from
all that. Ginny would have been covered with a loving protection from someone who, having
experienced so little of it from others during his formative years, would understand how it felt –
and would have an abundance of it to give in return.

Molly thought of her two daughters – the real one, and the “adopted” one – and considered how
they had dealt with their relative insecurities. Hermione had covered it up with her bossy nature
and know-it-all, smarty pants attitude … Ginny, on the other hand, had nothing like that to fall
back on, and allowed her insecurities to lead her to the diary from hell.

And yet, when she realized what was happening, she had instinctively tried to turn to Harry for
help. Ginny had confessed to her mother, months afterward, that she had tried to tell Harry about
what was happening, and her fears that she was losing her sanity. It was the constant teasing of
her brothers, however, that prevented her from doing so … that, and the fear that Harry would only
have laughed at her, in much the same way that her brothers often laughed at her.

Ginny admitted to her mother that, deep down, she knew that Harry wouldn’t laugh at her … but
she just couldn’t be *sure* of it. Which had led to the unfortunate set of circumstances …
even to the point of stealing the diary from Harry’s dorm, rather than take the risk that he would
get a chance to read what she had written. In the end, Tom Riddle had gotten more and more control
over her … leading her, finally, to the Chamber of Secrets, and the certain death that awaited her
there.

Until Harry and Ron came to the rescue.

Molly Weasley shook her head, and sighed. She looked out the window again, and watched Harry and
Hermione as they sat together in comfortable silence watching the sun rise.

‘It could still go either way,’ she thought. ‘What makes them so perfect for Ron and Ginny also
makes them so perfect for each other. I only hope that they both recognize what they have … what
they found in each other … and grow stronger together.

‘If they go with each other, I can only hope that they can bring Ron and Ginny with them. If
Harry goes with Ginny, and Ron goes with Hermione …’ she sighed. ‘I hope that they will still have
that same closeness and comfort they have with each other. They both need it … all four of them
need it.’

With that thought, Molly Weasley stood up and started to prepare herself for the day ahead. She
took one final look around the room, and her eyes rested on the photograph of herself and the baby
that was Ginny in her arms.

‘Whichever way they go … whoever they go with … we still owe Harry and Hermione a life. We still
owe Ginny’s life to the two of them.’

She took one final look at Harry and Hermione, still sitting on the ancient stone bench,
watching the sunrise in comfortable silence.

‘Either way, I’m happy that both of them are here with us.’

Looking out at the sky now turning blue with the ever rising sun, she murmured a small,
heartfelt prayer. “Thank you, Lord for the two of them. Thank you.”

She stepped out of the room to prepare breakfast for her family – the family that included two
people who were still not aware that someone had been watching them the whole time.



2. Densities and Insensitivities
--------------------------------

Epiphanies (01)

Chapter 1. Densities and Insensitivities

The brilliant orb of the rising sun finally broke over the horizon. Harry’s eyes, seemingly
staring blankly at the spot, blinked – and he took a deep breath. He felt Hermione, leaning on him,
take a deep breath, almost as if they had both breathed in simultaneously.

‘Another day,’ he thought. ‘If I were still with the Dursleys, I would be marking another day
off the calendar … another day until I can go home to Hogwarts.’

His breathing suddenly hitched. ‘Going home?’ he thought. ‘Going home to *what*? The scene
of the crime?’ He grimaced – the events of last year running through his mind like an
out-of-control movie … Cedric Diggory … Professor Moody an impostor, a Death Eater who had
conspired to lead him into a trap … dueling with Voldemort in the graveyard … his parents coming
out of his enemy’s wand … the portkey back to Hogwarts, holding on for dear life to Cedric’s body,
fulfilling a promise made to his ghost (‘*was* it his ghost?’ he thought. Until now, Harry
couldn’t be sure) … the Leaving Feast, and Dumbledore’s announcement … the train compartment, and
the hexes thrown at Draco Malfoy and his cronies … the parting of the friends at Platform 9 and ¾ …
and … and …

He started to shake his head, and stopped. He had been resting his cheek on Hermione’s head for
the past ten minutes or so, unconsciously breathing in the sweet smell of her shampoo … he was
loath to break this moment of comfort and peace by letting his thoughts intrude …

He couldn’t stop himself from stiffening slightly, however, as his body went into instinctive
“fight or flight” mode with the surge of adrenaline triggered by his memories – and the fear of
what the coming school year will bring. How will his fellow students react, now that they’ve had a
few months to assimilate Dumbledore’s announcement that Voldemort was back? Will they look at him
in fear as they had in his second year when the Chamber of Secrets was opened – and the rumors
spread that *he* was the Heir of Slytherin? Would they be sympathetic, as had happened in
third year, when the whole school learned that Sirius Black, escaped convict, murderer of over a
dozen Muggles, right hand man of Voldemort, was after him? Or will they jeer behind his back as had
happened only last year, when the Goblet of Fire named *him* as a champion – most of the
school (including *Ron*, he thought) wondering whether his ambition had driven him to break
the rules again – and the Hufflepuffs looking at him with hatred for the sheer audacity of trying
to steal the glory of having *their* candidate as the Hogwart’s champion.

The situation hadn’t been helped at all by the reporting (more like scandal-mongering) of Rita
Skeeter, a Daily Prophet reporter who thought nothing of substituting fiction for truth, of
transfiguring grains of truth into a pile of lies with all their odious smell, of using her
revolting quill to strike back at the people who crossed her. He tried to hold himself still as his
mind raged over the way she had struck at two people closest to him: Hagrid, revealed as a
half-giant (and almost whipping up all the old prejudices), and Hermione, who Rita Skeeter had
first said was his girlfriend, and then insinuated was two-timing him with Viktor Krum.

He forced the rage from his mind, recalling how Mrs. Weasley had reacted to Hermione when she
and Bill had visited him to watch the Third and final Task. At least, that was easy to deal with,
he thought. But the sheer nerve of that … that …

He felt two slim arms encircling his waist and holding him in a warm hug. Startled, he started
to move away but only felt Hermione hugging him tighter still. He couldn’t breathe – not because
the arms around him were squeezing him – but because he simply did not know how to react!

As he moved his cheek away from Hermione’s bushy hair, he heard a calm, no-nonsense voice speak
from behind the curtain of hair, “Don’t worry about her, Harry. I owled the Ministry and the Daily
Prophet about her being an illegal Animagus … and asked Mr. Weasley to make sure that she
*gets* what she has coming to her.”

Harry sat upright, looking at her in shock. Not about what she had done – if there was one thing
he could count on about his friend, it was the perfection she put into her planning – but more to
the point, the fact that she seemed to be reading his mind.

She looked back at him with a warm, but mischievous smile on her face, an eyebrow raised as she
looked at him quizzically. “How …” he croaked, as he tried to work his suddenly parched throat.
“How did you do that? *How can you be reading my mind?*”

She smiled at him fondly. “Elementary, my dear Harry. You *always* flex your hands as if
you wanted to strangle someone whenever you think about Rita Skeeter, although I would admit that
*that* is the same feeling I get whenever *I* think about her.”

“I do?” he asked, shocked. He looked down at his hands, one in his lap and the other still
around her waist, clenching tightly into fists.

“Of course you do!” Hermione replied, shaking her head and sending her hair flying in all
directions, strands almost hitting his face if he hadn’t ducked. “Come on, Harry! It isn’t as if
we’re strangers … we’ve been *friends* for years … classes, meals, study sessions and all …
not to mention the odd adventure or two.”

“Not to mention the hours spent in the library,” he teased, “reading till my eyes were blurred,
breathing in all that dust from books untouched for *years*, feeling my arms and legs stiffen
up because of all the sitting … getting bored, bored, *bored* because I had to sit there
rather than fly … or run around the grounds …”

She gave him a quick smile of condescension. “Well, you gotta admit, Harry, it *has* been
useful … else, you and Ron’ll *still* be in fourth year now. How would it feel, going to the
same classes with Ginny Weasley *and* Colin Creevey?”

She smirked at his reaction, and continued in a sweet voice. “Or maybe that’s what you
*really* wanted, Harry? You know … walking around the campus with your fans’ club hounding
your every step … waiting to hear pearls of wisdom from your lips, because this is the
*second* time you’ve heard those lessons …”

He glared at her fiercely, but then smiled. He couldn’t keep himself angry at her for anything …
not since third year and the Firebolt incident. Even then, she *had* been right … Sirius had
sent him the broom, not to kill him but as a gift to make up for fourteen years of birthday
presents from his godfather. But they didn’t know *that* at the time …

“You’re a witch, Mione,” he said, exasperatedly. He tensed, preparing to duck the punch she
usually threw at him whenever he used that hated nickname.

To his surprise, her reaction was calm: “I should hope so, Harry. After all, what’s an education
at Hogwarts School of *Witchcraft* and Wizardry supposed to make of me?”

Harry gaped at her for a second and then, with a wicked grin, suddenly started tickling her
through the Quidditch robes. Surprised at the sudden attack, Hermione fell to the ground, laughing,
beating off his hands and trying to roll out of his assault.

“Harry! Get off me! Whatareyoutryingtodo, you, you …” she half-shouted, half-whispered, in
between giggles and laughs.

“What did you do to Hermione, you evil witch? Where are you keeping her? *Tell me* … she
*doesn’t* like that name … she *never* likes anyone calling her Mione …”

Finally, Hermione was able to roll away to a safer distance (the Quidditch robes now muddied and
covered with grass stains), and sat up, laughing. Harry made a move to follow her, but suddenly
kneeled down, a few steps from her, gasping from the effort.

Giving her a mock-glare, he gasped out, “Tell me, evil witch! What did you do to my friend?
Where have you hidden her? *Tell me!*”

They looked at each other and suddenly rolled around, laughing at Harry’s melodramatic voice.
With a sudden lunge, Hermione grappled Harry and they started tickling each other …
* * * * *

Two pairs of eyes were observing the melee in the grass.

“How cute,” one red-haired older boy said. “They really look good together … “

“Yeah,” his twin brother said, looking bemusedly at the two rolling around on the grass. “Good
thing ickle Ronniekins is still asleep …”

“Or there will be three gits rolling around out there?”

The other swiped at his brother’s head, eliciting a painful, “Ow, watch it!” before continuing,
“NO, you stupid ninny! Ickle Ronniekins will be *jealous* …

A light dawned on the other’s face. “He’ll be *mad* …”

“Resentful …”

“Mental …”

“Weird …”

“Jealous.”

“I *said* that, you git! Find your own words!”

“Hold it,” the other said. “We’re getting off topic here.”

“Huh?”

“We were talking about ickle Ronnie …”

“That’s *what* we were doing,” the other protested. His brother ignored him.

“Given what those two out there are doing,” he mused, “I think Ron’s gonna have a problem.”

His brother looked out the window, and saw Harry and Hermione standing up, foreheads touching,
mirth in their body language as they continued laughing. “Oh, oh … George, they’re gonna start
snogging in a second …”

Fred almost fell on the bed in their crowded room, as George pushed him from the window. “Watch
it, George! You almost threw me into the cauldron!”

George, however, was not listening. He watched from the windows, and suddenly turned to his twin
in surprise and annoyance. “What *snogging* are you talking about, you stupid git?”

Fred shoved him out of the way, “You *blind*, Geor –“

Fred stood there, mouth agape as he took in the scene below them. Rather than the passionate
snogging scene he anticipated, he watched as Harry swung Hermione around, laughing all the time
while Hermione hung on to his neck, also laughing, her bushy hair flying in the air.

Fred looked at George in shocked disbelief. “Are they …”

“Lovers?”

“Friends?”

“Acquaintances?”

“Associates?”

The two looked down again at the tableau below them. Harry and Hermione were now sitting on the
grass, watching the sunrise, leaning against each other, Harry’s arm lightly draped on Hermione’s
shoulder, her arm lightly wrapped around his waist.

As one, they looked at each other, and shook their heads.

“They’re either sooo thick …

“Or dense …”

“Blind … ”

“Dumb ...”

“Slow …”

“Dim …”

They looked again at the two figures on the grass.

“They’re either the best of friends …”

“Or they’re just hiding it …”

“Or they simply …”

“Don’t know it yet!” they cried out simultaneously. Slowly, the twins slid down to the floor,
looking at each other in incredulous silence. After a few seconds, George (or was it Fred?)
suddenly giggled … to be followed by his brother’s slightly choking sniggers … which George or Fred
soon upgraded to chuckles … and then both were on the floor, roaring in helpless hilarity,
accompanied by loud bangs and pops as the various experiments around the room appeared to join in
their mirth.

“I don’t believe it!” Fred said through his choking laughter.

“Yeah,” George said, pounding the floor softly with his fist. “Harry … was just … *one …
bloody … inch … from … kissing her* … and he just spins her around! He’s dumb … dumb …
*dumb* !”

“Hey, stop that!” Fred said. “That’s our *investor* you’re talking about!”

“Maybe that’s why he gave us the money?” mused George. He ducked as Fred aimed a punch at him.
“So, what do we do, brother mine?”

“Join them?”

Fred ducked the pillow thrown at him. “No, you bloody dodo!,” George said. “I mean what do we do
about *them*?” (His thumb was pointing out the window.)

“Just what I said! Let’s join them for a mud fight!”

George raised his eyes to the ceiling, muttering something about bludgers, bats, and his
brother’s head. “No! I mean what do we do about our *investor* … do we help him out?”

“You’re forgetting something, brother mine.” Fred snapped his head around to his twin. “Or
rather … some one.”

“Oh.” he replied. After a moment’s thought, he added, “Or some ones.”

George looked at him. “Ginny?”

“I didn’t mean Percy, you know.”

The two fell silent, sitting on the floor of their bedroom. Finally, Fred spoke up, “So what do
we do?”

“Well,” George replied. “It’s obvious that those two out there (jerking his thumb to the window)
really *like* each other …”

“But are they lovers or are they friends?”

George ignored that, and continued, “And our little brother has it bad for little Miss Granger
…”

“Yeah … he’s been talking about nothing since the summer started. I was starting to wonder
whether he will be asking Harry to stay away or come on down with us …”

“But our *investor* and ickle Miss Granger seem to have some *thing* going for them
…”

“So who do we help? Our ickle brother or our investor?”

“It’s not that simple, Fred. Harry’s practically our adopted *brother*, too …” George’s
voice trailed off. Fred raised an eyebrow questioningly. George, seeing this, elaborated, “He did
save little Ginny, didn’t he?”

“Oh, right. We owe him for that … as well as for the money.” Fred looked at George. “So? Well …
we can always match him up with Ginny-kins …”

“Except that Ginny doesn’t seem to feel anything for him anymore.” Fred raised an eyebrow. “Come
on, brother! Three years ago, you couldn’t hear anything from her except that Harry was coming to
visit … heard one peep out of her *this* year? Or the past two years?”

Fred shook his head.

“I think little Ginny’s growing up, Fred,” George continued. “… she may still feel
*something* for Harry, but I think she *knows* that nothing can come out of it … not
unless *Harry* gets a bludger to the head …”

Fred frowned at that, and then his eyes suddenly cleared. “Oh … you mean if something can knock
Hermione out of his head?” George nodded at that, and Fred continued, “We can’t count on Ginny for
that, do we?”

George shook his head, “No.” He thought about this for a moment. “No, we *can’t* be sure …
maybe there’s still something there … but we don’t *know*, do we?”

Fred didn’t answer. He was again looking out the window of their room, watching Harry and
Hermione who were now lying down on the grass, watching the clouds roll across the sky as the sun’s
orb was a quarter up the horizon. George stood beside him, silently watching them also.

“You’re right. Those two have got some *thing* between them …”

George sighed. “The question, dear brother, is *what*? Are they just friends … or are they
in the ‘friends but soon to be lovers’ stage?”

“In other words, do Ron and Ginny still have a chance at those two? Or do they need a little
help from you and me? Hmmm?”

George was silent, deep in thought. Fred also looked outside, and then turned to George. “You
know … you don’t look like Cupid, George.” His brother looked at him sharply. “You haven’t got the
wings for it … you’ve got a face that can stop a clock … and I can’t imagine you flying around with
little arrows tipped with love potion …”

“So what you’re saying is …”

“I vote we keep out of this.”

George stared at his brother. Fred continued, “I mean … it’s *their* life, after all. If
Ron really likes Hermione … he better get going. I mean … the way things are going for those two
down there, if he doesn’t do *something*, there will be no stopping them …”

George broke in, “You mean to say, our little brother better grow up. He’s not going to get
anywhere if he keeps teasing and fighting with Hermione … “

Fred nodded. “All that crock about love-hate relationships turning into love is simply just that
… crock … as you and Katie proved. You had to drop the act to get *anywhere* with her …”

“Hey, why pick on me? It *worked*, didn’t it?” George replied. “And besides …”

“Right, we’re going off-topic again,” Fred replied hastily, talking all over George’s rebuttal.
“As for Ginny … if she wants to have something with Harry, *she* better get a move on …
There’s nothing *we* can do … except pick up the pieces.”

“Maybe.” He amended himself.

George stared at him. After a moment, Fred started twitching uncomfortably at the silence
emanating from his usually ebullient twin. “What?” he demanded from George. “I got dirt on my nose
or something?”

George shook himself, as if from a dream. “No … it’s just that … what you said makes
*sense*.” He thought about it. “In fact, it makes a *lot* of sense …”

“I know I’m right,” said Fred. “So what’s bothering you?”

George looked Fred straight in the eye. “You just said it, brother. We’ll leave them to deal
with it … no *interference* from us? (Fred nodded.) No *teasing* from us? (Again, Fred
nodded.) *Not … a … thing … from … us?*” (Fred nodded again, puzzled.)

“Don’t you *see* it, Fred?” Fred looked frightened as George grabbed his shoulders and
shook him. “We’re being *responsible*, *mature* people, Fred! Does this mean that
*we* are *growing up*?”

Fred’s eyes widened in shock. Looking at George, he whispered, “Oh, *God*! I hope not!”
* * * * *

Harry and Hermione lay quietly on the ground watching white, fluffy clouds roll across the blue
sky. They felt at peace, contented within their tiny bubble of space and time, sharing a sense of
friendship and companionship that they had never felt during the years they were growing up.

Their ears pricked up, however, when they heard the clatter of pots and pans from the kitchen of
the Weasley house – and they knew that Molly would be up, preparing breakfast for her expanded
brood. Reluctantly, they sat up and looked around them, as if trying to preserve the memory of this
moment forever.

Harry stood up then, brushing the mud and grass from his pants and held out a hand to his
friend. For a moment, she looked at him – brown eyes holding onto greens – before she smiled and
grasped his hand. Silently, he pulled her up and started beating grass and mud from her robes.

She looked down at her borrowed robes in surprise, and apologized, “Oh, Harry! I’m sorry … I
didn’t mean to get your robes all dirty …”

He smiled at her again. “It’s OK, Mione. Besides, it’s not as if *you* were the one who
dirtied it up.”

“OK, but I’ll clean it up when we get to my room … it’ll be as good as new …”

Harry held up a hand, stopping her. “Why don’t you keep it, Mione? I’ve grown too tall for it.
Fact is, I keep wondering why I’ve held on to it … well, yeah, there was no Quidditch last year, so
no need for new robes. I’ll just order a new set from Madam Malkins when we go to Diagon
Alley.”

He had started walking back to the house, and paused when he felt Hermione wasn’t walking beside
him. He looked at her, standing still in his robes (they were just right for her, he noted. She
looked like she could be a Gryffindor Seeker!), a bemused expression on her face.

“Mione?”

“But … but, Harry! They’re your *first* ever Quidditch robes! Surely they should have some
*sentimental* value for you?”

Harry looked down at his shoes, slowly digging a hole in the grass. He couldn’t explain why he
felt the need to give *her* something of personal, and yes, *sentimental*, value to him.
It just … felt … *right* … to give it to her … knowing that she would treasure it as much as
he did. But he didn’t know why it felt so important to him *now* … all that he knew was that
it was something he wanted to do, but couldn’t explain the reasons for.

He looked at her worried brown eyes, and had a sudden inspiration. “Hell, Hermione … you have
just as much right to those robes as I do … call it thanks for all those times you’ve saved me on
the Quidditch field.”

“Huh?” Hermione looked at him, puzzled – and then her face cleared as the memories suddenly
kicked in … setting fire to Professor Snape’s robes when she thought he was jinxing Harry’s broom
in their first year – and Harry’s first game … performing the Impervius charm on Harry’s glasses to
repel water during a rainy game in their second year … helping Professor Flitwick gather up the
broken pieces of Harry’s faithful Nimbus 2000 from the Whomping Willow in third … cheering like mad
at every game, and wondering how she could shout when her heart was in her throat every single time
… and an incident in second year that even now caused her to blush …

Harry’s worried voice penetrated her fevered brain, “Mione? What’s wrong?”

She looked into his green eyes and blushed even redder. “Ohhh … I was just remembering third
year … and the Firebolt … can you forgive me for that?”

“Oh.” Harry looked at her, his eyes clearing momentarily from the worry that was there. “C’mon,
Mione – that was two years ago! I’ve forgiven you.”

“Just wanted to make sure,” she said. She *couldn’t* tell him that what had caused her to
blush was the memory of Ron and Neville fighting with Malfoy and his cronies under the benches of
the Quidditch stands, while she was jumping up and down on top of the benches, cheering Harry on.
She could never forget the look on Ron’s face when he emerged from the stands with a heavy
nosebleed, happy and triumphant at having a piece of Malfoy – and his chagrin when he realized that
she had been cheering Harry, not him! She hadn’t even noticed his nose bleeding until they were
leaving the stands …

Looking back, she wondered (as she had a hundred or more times over the years) what was it about
her friend that made her so ready to break the rules, just to keep him safe? For someone who held
teachers in great respect, she had willingly set fire to Professor Snape’s robes – and that was in
her *first* year. She had been just as prepared to use the Leg-Locker curse on Snape when he
was refereeing the Gryffindor-Hufflepuff game in that same year … to say nothing of actually
hitting Snape (again!) with a Disarming Spell in their third year …

She looked at Harry and nodded, saying, “Thanks, Harry … I’ll treasure this, always.”

He grinned at her and, holding her by the elbow, started leading her towards the house, replying
with a, “No … *you’re* welcome, Mione.”

He felt her stiffen, and turning to her, saw her eyes grow cold and furious. ‘Uh-oh!’ he
thought, ‘I’ve gone too far …’

“Harry Potter! You *know* I *hate* that name!”

“Ah, well … since you didn’t seem to mind … I … uh …” All the while, he was slowly backing off
from her.

“Mind? Oh, no … I don’t *mind* …” she said, advancing on him. “I don’t *mind* when you
do it once or twice because I know you’re just doing it to tease me … but do you know *how many
times this* morning *you’ve been calling me that*?”

“Three? Four?”

“*Seven*, Harry Potter. *Seven times in the last five minutes* …”

“Well, then, Mione … there’s just one thing for you to do.”

“And that is?” She asked with a deadly gleam in her eyes.

“Catch me if you can, Mione!” And with that, Harry scrambled for the door as fast as his legs
could take him, Hermione in hot pursuit. He almost made it to the door, but was stumped to find it
locked – without his wand, he couldn’t open it with the Alohomora charm … and that was where
Hermione tackled him, pushing him against the door, hitting him mercilessly (if ineffectually)
...

And they both fell into the house as the door was wrenched open, and looked up into the bemused
eyes of Ronald Weasley. Hermione scrambled up, her reddened face matched only by Harry’s blush …
they opened their mouths to speak, to apologize, to say *something* …

“Mum’s been up for some time,” Ron said in a cold, flat voice to Hermione. His eyes focused on
the Quidditch robes she wore before shifting to meet her eyes. For the briefest moment, she caught
a glimpse of icy blue eyes that sent an involuntary shiver down her spine, before Ron turned away
with the accusatory comment, “You’d better hurry if you’re helping her fix breakfast.”

Hermione’s brown eyes flashed at his tone; dimly, she noticed Harry’s mouth drop and another
surge of red flush over his face at Ron’s tone. Before either of them could make a comment, Ron
turned away and walked out the open front door, tossing a “Tell Mum I’m going for a walk. See you
later” over his shoulder.

Harry stared at his best friend’s back, confusion replacing the angry flush on his face at the
tone he had taken with Hermione. If there was one thing guaranteed to rile his friend, it was to
hint at irresponsibility or capriciousness, whether in word, tone or manner.

“What’s eating him?” he asked, only to see Hermione running up the stairs, a brief glimpse of
slim legs seen as she removed the robe on her way up. “Hermione?”

She ignored his question, leaving him bewildered in the still-open doorway. He heard a soft,
shuffling sound from the direction of the dining room and glanced there only to see Mrs. Weasley’s
back as she retreated to the kitchen.

“What in hell is going on here?” Harry asked of the suddenly empty house.



3. Brothers and Other Siblings
------------------------------

Epiphanies - 02

Chapter 2. Brothers and Other Siblings

Ron strode briskly down the driveway of The Burrow, heading for the paddock where the brothers
and Harry had played Quidditch many a time during the summers. He wanted to break out into a run so
that the wind could cool his fevered face, but held himself in … no need to further embarrass
himself, after that display.

His face burned, so much so that anyone looking at him would be quite unable to say where his
hairline ended or began. ‘Of all the *stupid* …*brainless* … *daft …* **things**
to say … if there’s *one* thing guaranteed to make Hermione barking mad … making her sound
like … like she’s a *maid* or something …’

He shook his head, angry at himself and his hair-trigger temper …he had lost count of how many
times his temperament had gotten him in hot water … not just in Hogwarts (especially when Malfoy
was around) … but all during his growing up years … at times, it seemed that his life was nothing
but a series of fights and near-fights, of insults given and insults taken … of his brothers and
Ginny holding him back from trying to rub someone’s nose in the dirt … and, lately, of Harry and
Hermione holding him back from making an ill-timed or ill-conceived move.

He smiled grimly – at least, he’d had a chance to bloody Malfoy’s nose in first year … although
he hadn’t had that satisfaction again until the incident on the Hogwarts Express as they came home
from fourth year. The last wasn’t as satisfying, however; he was only one of the five who had hexed
Malfoy and his cronies (Fred and George had been with them), and he wasn’t sure if he had hit
Malfoy … too much smoke from the combination of hexes they had simultaneously thrown.

He faltered in his walk … ‘yeah, that was fun,’ he thought savagely. ‘About time the stupid gits
got something back for all those insults that Harry and Hermione stopped me from. Good thing I had
a working wand …’

He shivered suddenly as his mind brought back the time he had tried hexing Malfoy with his
Spell-o-taped wand, and he had ended up in Hagrid’s hut spewing up slugs. The mere thought of it
made him want to throw up right there … he forced his mind to other things.

Like Hermione.

The brown hair that fell way past her shoulders and always seemed to fall like a curtain around
her face … the brown eyes that sparked with laughter or anger (he had to admit, though, that it
more often sparked anger at him) … the strong chin … the perfect teeth …

Teeth. Now why should he be thinking of *that*, of all things? He’d been there, but not
*with* them, when Draco Malfoy and Harry had cast the hexes that ricocheted against each other
– Harry’s Funnunculus Curse hitting Goyle, Malfoy’s Densaugeo hex hitting Hermione, causing her
front teeth to grow at an alarming rate …

It wasn’t one of his fondest memories of the four years spent, so far, at Hogwarts. He and Harry
had been so furious at Snape that they lost fifty points for Gryffindor (thank God there was no
House Championship then because of the tournament!), and a detention pickling rat’s brains in
Snape’s dungeon.

To top it all, that was the time when he wasn’t talking to Harry … teed off as he was with the
Goblet of Fire’s designation of Harry as the second Hogwarts champion. Even now, he wished he could
sink into the ground at the thought … better yet, he sometimes wished he could perform a Memory
Charm on himself and Harry so that the recollection of those weeks would not come back to haunt him
and taunt him, especially at times like this.

He forced his thoughts away from *that*, but they only shifted back to Hermione … Hermione
going back and forth between the two of them, trying to convince them to start talking to each
other again … his stubborn refusal to do so unless and until Harry admitted that he had lied to him
about putting his name in the Goblet …

‘*God, what an absolute prat I was!’*, Ron thought. He knew, deep inside, that he was
acting the complete fool, but he was just too stubborn to admit it. What made it worse was Rita
Skeeter’s article on Harry, the Hogwarts’ Champion – she had quite forgotten that Cedric Diggory
was also a Hogwarts’ Champion – and Harry’s supposedly “finding love” in the person of
Hermione.

*That* had pissed him off, royally. It was as if *he* were a non-existent, unimportant
smudge of *dirt* in the whole scheme of things … that his friendship with the great Harry
Potter was of no *consequence* … the only reason *Hermione* even got a mention then was
because she was a *girl* … on the other hand, maybe that was better. If Skeeter had focused on
*him* … what would she have come up with?

He stopped, and burst out laughing. ‘*Weird*,’ he thought, “I was so mad at being left out
of that dammed article that I didn’t even think of what it would have looked like if she did … what
was that French word that Fred and George were sniggering about? *Menage–a-trois*? Now
*that* would have sent Mum and Dad to the moon on their own power … On the other hand, if
Skeeter had focused on *me* … *bleargh!*”

He looked back at his house … his *home* … the place he had shared with his best friends
for the past three years. Was *that* the problem? he thought. He’d shared so much of what he
could share with them … his home, his family, his knowledge of the wizarding world … his
*time* … that he had felt left out … he couldn’t *believe* that Harry didn’t even tell
*him* about putting his name into the Goblet …

He sighed, again, and sat on the dewy grass, holding his head in his hands. Yes, he thought,
Hermione was a better friend than I was at that time … he couldn’t get past his anger at Harry,
even with Hermione’s logical explanation at breakfast the day after Halloween. He could still
remember her brown eyes flashing in anger at him as she said in a coldly furious voice, “*Fine!
Be a prat for all I care … why should Harry tell you anything when it’s obvious that he* didn’t
*do* anything*?”*

He’d watched her gather a stack of toast into a napkin, on her way, no doubt, to console Harry.
He couldn’t stop himself hissing at her, “*You care for him more than you do for me, Hermione!
Why? Because he’s* famous *Harry Potter and I’m just an ordinary Weasley?*”

For a single, wild moment, Ron fully understood what Draco Malfoy must have felt when Hermione,
in a fit of righteous anger, slapped him in their third year. The fury in her eyes was something to
behold … he’d consciously braced himself for the slap that he had so richly deserved … and sighed
with relief when she stormed off with her stack of toast.

The whole table had fallen silent at that exchange. When he looked around at his companions, no
one was looking at him. Even Fred, George and Ginny had avoided him when he looked at them … only
Neville had the courage (or the sheer *tactlessness*) to make the statement that capped that
morning for him, “That was stupid, Ron.”

He knew everyone at the table agreed.

He sighed. He’d made up for that stupid remark later, and was always extremely grateful that
Hermione seemed to have forgotten about it by that afternoon. But, like a still unhealed wound, the
memory kept pricking at him at unwanted times … reminding him, once again, of the flaws in his
character … the flaws that made him, *Ron Weasley*, what he was now …

He shook the thought off, and stood up. He didn’t need *that* kind of thinking to muddle up
his day, so early in the morning. He continued his brisk walk to the paddock, but the turmoil in
his mind refused to leave.

What was *he* now, he wondered to himself. Ronald Weasley. Sixth child in a brood of seven.
Family of pure-bloods, as far as he knew. Father, Arthur Weasley, head of an obscure and
*boring* department in the Ministry of Magic. Mother, Molly Weasley, house-witch. Tall, red
headed, with big feet and hands. Two brothers, former Head Boys of Hogwarts – one now working with
Gringotts, the other with the Ministry of Magic. Another brother, star Quidditch player and Seeker,
who could have played for England if he wanted to, but happier and thriving as he chased dragons in
Rumania.

Two other brothers, Quidditch Beaters but better known for the pranks and misdeeds that matched
or even outshone the pranks of the legendary Marauders. If ever Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes got off
the ground, they’d be even more popular in the wizarding world, rather than in the limited circle
of the Hogwarts’ student body and alumni.

One sister, who opened the Chamber of Secrets in her first year. He reflected that *that*
was a reputation he could very well do without but wondered, briefly, how Ginny put up with it.

And he? What was *his* claim to fame?

He was the best friend of The Boy Who Lived.

Yeah, right … but even *that* was being threatened by Hermione Granger. After Skeeter’s
articles in the Daily Prophet during the Tri-Wizard Tournament, the fact of his friendship with
Harry Potter was thrown into the shadows, eclipsed by the titillating matter of The Boy Who Lived’s
love life. More so when her name was linked with that of Victor Krum, the star of the Bulgarian
National Quidditch Team.

So, what was *he*? He did have that Award for Special Services to the school, after they
had rescued Ginny from the Chamber of Secrets … but who *cared*? Who would even remember about
it, fifty years from now? He remembered his detention in the trophy room during that same year,
polishing up all those plaques and awards … he had surprised Harry and Hermione when he told them
who Tom Riddle was, but that was only because he had spent so much time polishing the dammed award
– only to spew out slugs all over the shiny thing …

Was *that* how he was going to be remembered in the future? By some unfortunate student in
detention, forced to shine plaques and awards without resort to magic, and thereby *coerced*
into remembering his name because of the odious task? *And* if that unfortunate ever tried to
find out what it was that earned him *that* award … he’d have learned that it had something to
do with *Harry Potter* … and his moment of glory will fade away …

He mused again about the Mirror of Erised, and what it had reflected back to him when he stood
before it the first time. He’d had an easier time of it than Harry … Harry had kept coming back
again and again, evading detection from Filch and the professors so that he could sit in front of
the mirror and contemplate his parents.

It had taken Dumbledore and the actual removal of the Mirror to break Harry’s enchantment with
it. *He*, on the other hand, needed only that one look to convince him that the Mirror was
lying, and was a bad influence. Why? Because he *knew* that what he saw in the Mirror,
enchanting as it was, a reflection of his deepest desires that it was, was ultimately *false*.
He would *never* be Head Boy … he would *never* be captain of Quidditch … he would
*never* be receiving the Quidditch Cup *or* the House Cup from Dumbledore … he would
never be anything than what he was now … a virtual non-entity in the wizarding world, except for
his friendship with Harry.

From the depths of his mind’s graveyards where a thousand or a million unwanted thoughts were
buried, came Draco Malfoy’s cutting words as they waited to be Sorted: “No need to ask who you are.
Red hair, hand me down robes. You can only be a Weasley.”

*That* was his claim to fame then … and he remembered with immense gratification and
surprise Harry’s reaction when Draco extended his hand to him: “I think I can decide who I want as
my friends.”

Malfoy had never been able to live that snub down; he had taken every opportunity to taunt Ron
and Hermione ever since. *He* had never taken those insults lightly: too many times had Harry
and Hermione stopped him from trying to curse Malfoy. Hermione, on the other hand, allowed the
insults to roll off her … except when she had slapped Malfoy for laughing at Hagrid, and on the
Hogwarts Express when they were going home.

He had to admit, though, that he admired Hermione for her coolness in dealing with insults –
even during their fourth year with all the insults and jeers, to say nothing of the hate mail when
Skeeter claimed she was playing with the affections of Harry and Krum. She had *never* let it
affect her … it had always been Ron who stood up for her …

No, he admitted to himself. *Harry* did, too … again, the “teething” incident came to mind.
Harry hadn’t reacted when Draco and the Slytherins were flashing their “Support Cedric Diggory”
buttons around – he’d pulled his wand when Draco insulted *Hermione* … which led to the
unfortunate circumstances … or maybe not. At least she’d gotten her teeth fixed magically … the
now-perfect teeth that …

Again, he pushed the thought away. He was beginning to feel like that Greek guy who was forever
pushing a rock up a mountain, only to see it slide down and away every time he neared the top.
Walks alone like this bothered him … too much time to think and reflect. He preferred walking with
someone beside him, chattering … at least, he didn’t have to *think* about his life …

Which, to a large extent, was the reason why he often seemed to be bickering with Hermione.
Harry, good friend that he was, too often fell prey to introspection and deep thinking, used as he
was to silence when he was growing up. Ron, on the other hand, *liked* the noise … it kept him
from thinking too much. Which was why he often picked on Hermione … even when they’d called a truce
after the Yule Ball …

He’d reached the paddock and stopped. Taking a deep breath of the fresh, cool air, he looked
around at the place where he had grown up. The paddock was high enough to afford a good view of the
surrounding countryside … but he had never liked that view. It made him feel insignificant … as if
he didn’t feel *insignificant* every day of his life.

‘This is a bad idea,’ he thought. ‘Best get back to the house …’ but he cringed at the thought.
How was he going to take back that hurtful tone of voice he used to Hermione … and how did he
explain things like that to his best friend? They were both *guests* of the family … as well
as *his* two best friends in the world …

“Hey, Ron.”

Startled, he spun around to see a slight figure sitting on the ground, wearing a scarlet
Quidditch robe … and saw brown eyes staring at him. His mouth dropped, his chest beating rapidly
for a split second before his brain registered the ray of sunlight that brilliantly highlighted a
head of hair as red as his own, as well as the fact that the Quidditch robes were old, worn and
faded.

“Wh … what are you doing here, Ginny?” he croaked.

“Thinking,” his sister replied. Peering at his stricken expression, she asked, “Why? Were you
expecting someone else? Like … ummm … Herm-*own*-ninny?”

“Shut up, Ginny,” he said as he leaned against a tree. He was looking away from her, and heard
her giggling softly. His face flushed, but he resolutely forced the retort away from his lips. “So,
what are you doing here, Gin?”

“As I said, thinking. I’ve been up for *hours* … sitting here … watching the world go by
and the sun come up.”

His head whipped to her and he heard his voice speaking before he could clamp down on his lips,
“Did you …”

“Uh-huh. It was so *sweet* …” Ginny said in a wistful voice. She was looking off into the
distance, pictures, images and words passing through her mind’s eye. Ron turned away from her … he
didn’t want to hear *anything* about *that* right now. Although he hadn’t really
*seen* anything, the image of Harry and Hermione when they fell through the door, with
Hermione in Harry’s mud- and grass-stained robes was something he would gladly do without. His head
whipped back, however, as he heard Ginny say in a near-whisper, “It reminded me so much of Bill
…”

“Bill?”

Ginny looked at him with an exasperated air. “Is there any other Bill that you know? Hellooo …
of course, *Bill* … you know, your oldest *brother*?”

Ron gaped at her. She continued in a wistful voice, “He and I used to sit out there when I was
seven or eight years old, just watching the sun rise. We never really talked … he just sat there
with me … it was somehow … *comforting* to me … sometimes, he’ll just hug me and I would feel
safe … as if everything that was happening was going to be all right.”

Ginny’s voice and breathing hitched, “He found me sitting on that terrace outside the hotel in
Egypt … he just sat down beside me … gave me a hug, and we watched the sunrise together … I felt
comfortable … at peace, finally after … after …”

He caught the sheen of tears in her eyes, and stood there, frozen. He didn’t know what to do or
how to react … wildly, his mind went back to third year when a crying Hermione suddenly hugged him
when he promised to help her with Hagrid’s appeal for Buckbeak … and he knew what he must do
now.

He walked over and sat down beside his sister, and gave her as tight a hug as he could, and felt
her tears leaking through his shirt. “Shhh,” he whispered as he tried to comfort her, “Shhh, come
on, it’s all right … it’s all right …”

He heard Ginny’s muffled voice coming from the region of his chest, “It was so sweet, Ron … I
thought I heard Harry going out of the house, and I wanted to go with him … but then I heard
Hermione getting up and going out … I couldn’t help myself … I went and got Charlie’s old robes …
remember, he gave them to me when he graduated from Hogwarts … and went out here to watch … it was
so beautiful …”

“They weren’t snogging the whole time, were they?” Ron said, trying for a light moment – and was
surprised when Ginny suddenly shoved him away. He fell back on the wet grass, narrowly missing the
thick roots of a tree. “Ow! What did you do that for?”

Ginny was standing over him, hands on hips, brown eyes blazing with fury. For a brief,
frightening moment, he thought it was Hermione standing over him – except that *this* Hermione
had blazing red hair … “You can be a daft, insensitive, *dense, prat*, Ron! And you’ve got a
dirty mind, to boot!”

“Well, what the hell am I supposed to think?” he blazed back. “They spend *hours* out here,
and come back to the house all muddied up, as if they’ve been mud-wrestling … looking happy and
contented … leaving *me*, their “*best*” friend behind … they’re not even
*sharing*what they’re talking about with me …”

“Wow!” Ginny said, in a highly sarcastic tone, “Jealous, are we?”

“Shut up, Ginny,” he said from his position on the ground. “You don’t know what you’re talking
about.”

“Don’t I? Harry and Hermione had a quiet moment together … in much the same way that Bill and I
had *our* quiet moments … and then, *you* come up here with your dirty mind and mess it
up …”

“Well, he’s *not* her brother, is he?”

Ginny stared at him, momentarily stunned into silence. In a hoarse whisper, she said, “You dumb,
stupid, *pathetic* git. Harry might as well be, *they* might as well be … *he’s* an
only child … *she’s* an only child … where *else* do you think they’ll find *that*
kind of comfort and affection? From *you*? That’s a laugh!”

Ron, who had stood up, was rocked back by that statement. Brother-sister affection?
*Harry*, thinking of Hermione as nothing more than a sister that he’d never had?
*Hermione*, seeing in Harry a brother that *she* never had? Some part of his fevered
brain locked on to that thought and saw the logic behind it … but the stubbornly tactless part of
his being responded, “*Stop* that oh, so *holy* act, Ginny! You’re just *jealous* of
Hermione … *you* wanted to be in her place … you *want* to be the one *hugging* and
*kissing* Harry … *you* wanted to be the one to get his Quidditch robes …”

Some primal instinct made him duck and step back, barely missing the open-handed slap that Ginny
threw at him. As he stepped back, however, he stumbled once again on an exposed tree root, and laid
there, looking up at a blazingly furious Ginny Weasley.

“So *what* if I wanted to? At least, he’ll be *there* for *me* … he’d be hugging
*me* … he’d be comforting *me …* he’d have *protected me*! He’d be better as a
*brother* than you, you stupid *git* … so tied up in yourself … so tied up with the
*Trio* that you don’t have any *time* for your *sister* … at least Harry
*cares* … *you never did!*” With that, Ginny turned and ran away from him, her robes
flapping.

Ron froze, shocked. “Bloody *hell*,” he thought, “I’ve *really* done it this
time!”

He jumped to his feet and looked around. Ginny was running away from the paddock, her
tear-clouded eyes blurring the fact that she was not headed for The Burrow but was running blindly
away. Ron started running after her, his long legs swiftly closing the distance, as he shouted,
“Ginny! Wait! *I’m sorry, Ginny … please!*”

Ginny didn’t hear him, or wouldn’t listen to him. He doubled his speed, finally catching up with
her and, using a tactic from their younger days, grabbed her in a crushing bear hug. Ginny,
however, tried to fight back, hitting him with her fists, crying all the time, telling him, “Let go
of me! Let go, I said …”

He only hugged her tighter, whispering, “I’m sorry, Gin … I’m so sorry … It’s just that … I
don’t know … call it jealousy … call it what you will … I’m so sorry … You’re right … I should have
been more of a brother … I’m just a stupid, insensitive git … you don’t deserve me …”

Finally, Ginny gave up hitting him, but she did not return his hug. She stood still, while he
hugged her and, to her utter surprise, she felt tears falling on her hair. She heard him speaking
in a hoarse whisper, “I’m sorry, Ginny … I should have been there for you … I didn’t know what to
do … when I learned you’d been taken into the Chamber … I just … just collapsed … I couldn’t think
straight … couldn’t *do* anything …”

Finally, Ginny hugged her brother. “But you were *there*, Ron … I was so surprised …
getting out of the Chamber … seeing you there, trying to dig a way out of the tunnel …”

Ron interrupted her, “I wouldn’t have been there if *Harry* hadn’t gone after you … I would
have been sitting around the common room with Fred, George and Percy … sitting around, waiting for
word whether they’d found you … it’s a good thing that Harry decided to go to Lockhart …”

He trailed off. *That* was another memory he would prefer to have forgotten, or obliviated
out of his mind. He didn’t want to go over it again with Ginny … *she* had been the cause of
it, whether she liked it or not, even if she had been corrupted and enchanted by that infernal
diary … he didn’t want to dredge up old, painful memories again.

He felt her shifting uncomfortably, and he let go. Ginny turned away from him, and said in a
small voice, “I miss Bill.”

“So do I.” Ron took a deep breath. “He’d always known what to do … what exactly to say … I
should have learned more from him.” He looked away from Ginny, and said in a low voice, “He’s
almost like Harry in some ways … he’ll just *do* the right thing … say the right words … he
won’t even need to *think* about it … he’ll just do it, and things turn out all right, one way
or another.”

“He’s a *great* friend, Ron.”

“Who? Bill?”

“Harry.”

“Yeah.”

They’d sat down, facing each other, lost in their respective thoughts. The silence stretched …
and then Ron said, “You’re right. He’d make a great brother … especially to an immature, insecure
git like me.”

“Yeah.”

“But … I think he’d make a better brother-in-law, don’t you?”

Ginny’s head snapped up, eyes narrowed – prepared for an angry retort. She was surprised to see
Ron smiling at her, an eyebrow raised in that mocking look she knew too well … and realized that he
was *serious*. He wasn’t joking, wasn’t being sarcastic … he was simply stating a fact to
her.

“Yeah, he would.” A smile flickered across her face. “For you or for me?”

“Oi,” he shouted, throwing some grass at her, which she ducked. “What do you think of me? A
*fairy*?”

“Well …” she said with a smirk. This time, Ron grabbed her in a headlock and started tickling
her, saying “Take that back, you … you … *witch.*”

“OK, OK,” she said, laughing. “I take it back … I take it back …”

Ron let go of her, and they looked at each other. Ginny giggled … Ron snickered … soon enough,
the siblings were rolling on the ground, laughing. The paddock rang with their laughter … manic,
hysterical, but somehow cleansing, for both of them … they hadn’t laughed together like this for
ages … he’d always been laughing at her, or she would be laughing at him … they’d forgotten the joy
that shared merriment gave, especially to siblings that seemed to have grown apart …

Soon enough, the laughter stopped as they felt a stitch in their sides. They looked at each
other, and smiled.

“Thanks, Ginny. I needed that,” Ron said.

“No, thank *you*, brother o’ mine.” Ron smiled, Ginny hadn’t called him *that*, except
in a sarcastic manner, since he had gone to Hogwarts four years ago. Somehow, it seemed
*right* that she called him that now, a reaffirmation of the affection that they’d had for
each other somewhere in what had seemed to be a lost childhood for both.

“So, what now, Gin-*ninny*?” Ginny glanced at him with a smile – that was *his*
nickname for her when she was much, much younger. She’d always found it endearing … until the day
she learned what a “ninny” meant … it had taken Ron a *week* before the bruises she gave him
faded.

“Want a fat lip, brother o’ mine?” Ron held up both hands in a defensive gesture, and shook his
head. Ginny looked up at the sky, as if hoping that an answer could be found there. She suddenly
stood up, excitedly pointing something out to Ron, “Look, Ron! School owls!”

He shaded his eyes and looked where she was pointing. Sure enough, several owls were flying
towards The Burrow. He also stood up, and brushed off the seat of his pants. “Let’s head back,
Ginny … Mum’ll be worried.”

“OK.”

They started walking back to the house; for once, Ron felt comfortable with the silence from his
sister. After a minute, however, he spoke up, “Ginny?”

She stopped and looked at him, eyebrow raised in a question. “Ummm …” he said, uncomfortably.
“Promise me … next time I start acting like a prat … don’t wait for Hermione to hit me … do it
yourself.”

She looked at him, surprised – and saw that he was serious. Slowly, she nodded, “OK. I
promise.”

Ron nodded at her, and started walking again. She stood still for a moment, a smile slowly
forming on her face. In a lilting voice, she called out, “Ronnnie!”

Ron stopped and looked at her. Suddenly, she slapped him – a move which he just barely ducked.
“What was that for?”

She smiled. “You asked for it … that was for what you did earlier.”

“Hey, I said staring *now* … I haven’t done anything yet!”

“You will,” she smirked at him. “You will …”

“Why, you …” he made a move to grab her, but she eluded him. Sticking her tongue out at him in a
gesture again reminiscent of their childhood, she suddenly bolted for the house, laughing.

Ron shook his head, smiled, and started running after her, calling out threats the whole
time.



4. School Owls and Announcements
--------------------------------

Epiphanies - 03

Chapter 3. School Owls and Announcements

Molly Weasley looked out of her kitchen window and saw Ron and Ginny tearing down the paddock,
laughing. “That’s nice,” she thought. “I haven’t seen those two having fun like that in years.”

She didn’t realize that she had spoken aloud until Harry, who was in the kitchen getting out
plates and cutlery, said in a wistful voice, “It must be nice having a sister.”

She looked at him standing beside her, looking out the window. “Yes it is …” She thought she saw
a slightly bitter smile cross his face, and realized that he must be thinking of his mother and her
sister, the infamous Aunt Petunia. Before she could speak further, however, he turned to her with a
genuine smile.

“Depends on the sister, I suppose,” he said, still smiling. Before she could react to that, he
continued, “Ginny’s nice … a bit like Hermione, but without the bossiness.”

Mrs. Weasley smiled back at him, and said, “I heard. Ron’s always complaining about it … but I
think Hermione’s been good for both of you.”

“Oh, yes!” Harry replied. “I honestly don’t know how Ron and I would have gotten through the
school work – especially *Potions* – without her.”

Mrs. Weasley kept quiet, as he continued, “She’s been wonderful last year … I honestly don’t
think I could have gotten through the tournament without her. She helped me with the Summoning
Charm … found all those hexes and the Shield Charm ...” He fell silent, his brilliant green eyes
dulling and turning blank, his mind turning again unbidden to the Tri-Wizard tournament. Before
Molly could speak, he shook himself and smiled at her.

“I’m all right, Mrs. Weasley. No need to be worried about me.”

Molly bit her lip, knowing that Harry would feel uncomfortable if she voiced her concerns.
Casting about desperately for something to say, she started to ask, “Is that why …”

Whatever she was about to ask was interrupted as they heard the front door slam shut – almost
immediately followed by a loud BANG which seemed to shake the whole house. “Heavens!” Mrs. Weasley
exclaimed. “What was that?”

They rushed out of the kitchen to the front door where they saw a gasping Ginny kneeling on the
floor, clutching a stitch at her side – and Hermione also kneeling by the door, doubled up with
suppressed laughter … and Ron’s voice outside the door, yelling, “Open up in there! I’ll get you …
whoever you are … that *hurt*, you know.”

Hermione had apparently opened the door in time for Ginny to fly in – and closed it on the
hot-in-pursuit Ron. She finally pulled open the door, to reveal an angry Ron who was clutching his
shoulder, apparently in pain. Hermione’s laughter disappeared and her face paled, “Oh, Ron! Did I
hurt … I’m sorry … I thought you would be able to stop in time … I’m sorry …”

Ron walked into the house, an angry look on his face. As he passed an apologizing-by-the-mile
Hermione, he suddenly grabbed her in a headlock and started tickling her ribs. “*Gotcha!*” he
cried, “this’ll *teach* you to slam the door in *my* face!”

Hermione, laughing, tried to grab his hands as he tickled her. Ginny, finally getting her breath
back, leapt in to help her, and the three were soon rolling around on the floor. Mrs. Weasley and
Harry looked at each other, smiling, and then Harry spoke up in a surprisingly deep voice,
“Children, children, *behave*! What will your Mum think?”

The three on the floor broke apart and stood up, embarrassed. Mrs. Weasley smiled, looking from
one to the other, trying to gauge which one had the reddest face. It looked like Hermione was the
clear winner, although Ron and Ginny were not far behind. Ron, typically, was the first to recover.
With a broad grin, he said, “Oh, sod off, Harry!”

“Sod off, *Harry*?” Harry responded in a hurt voice. “I thought we *agreed* that that
term was to be used only for Malfoy?”

Ron looked at him for a moment. “OK. Shut up, Harry.”

This time, the four of them burst out laughing while Mrs. Weasley looked from one to the other
with a bemused expression. With a clatter, the Twins burst into the room, asking, “What? What
happened? Did we miss anything?” at which Ron, Hermione, Harry and Ginny started laughing
harder.

Fred and George looked at each other, and at their mother, with bewildered expressions on their
faces. Molly, smiling, turned back towards the kitchen, saying, “Since you’re all up, anyway, we
can have breakfast …”

Turning to Ginny and Ron, she asked, “Why were you running so hard coming back?”

Before either one could respond, the answer came as six owls flew into the house. Circling
around, they spotted their targets and dropped letters (in Hermione’s case, the owl also had a
small package which it dropped into her hands) before flying out the still-open door.

“Ah! School owls!” George said, unnecessarily. They started opening their envelopes with the
Hogwarts’ seals, but they all stopped when they saw Hermione, frowning, shaking the small box
which, surprisingly, also had the Hogwarts crest on its wrapping.

Ginny squealed in delight as she said, “I know what that is! I know what that is!”

Fred, George, and Ron groaned simultaneously – they knew what the box contained, having suffered
a similar experience a few years before. Harry, however, looked lost, and urged Hermione to open
it.

Excitedly, she opened the box to reveal a silver Hogwarts badge with the letter “P” on it. This
time, she was squealing with delight, and jumping up and down … and to the surprise of everyone in
the room, suddenly hugged Harry. “I made it! I made it!” she squealed. Although everyone expected
that she would be made a prefect, she had only confided to Harry her fears that her adventures with
him would have queered her chances.

Harry hugged her also (ignoring the looks from the others). “Congratulations, Mione! I knew
you’d make it … Oww!” he said, as Hermione let go of him, and gave him a punch on the shoulder.
“OK, OK … I guess I can’t call you that anymore … or you’ll start taking points off
Gryffindor!”

“You’re darn right I will!” She suddenly seemed to be aware of the others in the room, and
turned to Ron, a stricken look on her face. “Oh, Ron! I’m sorry … I hope you don’t mind … my being
a Prefect and all …”

“Mind?” Ron said, with a broad smile, “Why should I *mind*? Just so long as you take points
off *Malfoy* every time he looks crosswise at me!”

Hermione slapped him lightly on the arm, “I couldn’t do that! Everyone knows we *hate* him
… Snape will try to take this away from me for doing that.”

“Ah, well, it was worth a thought,” Ron said, smiling. He held out his hand to her,
“Congratulations, Hermione. It couldn’t have happened to a better person.”

She took his hand, and impulsively hugged him. “Thanks, Ron … you’re such a dear.” She didn’t
notice the huge smiles on the faces of the others (including Harry’s). Then, Fred, George, Ginny
and Mrs. Weasley were crowding around her, offering their congratulations. Fred, in a loud voice,
said, “Hey, let’s treat the new prefect to some ice cream at Florean Fortescue’s later! We’re going
to Diagon Alley, right, Mom?”

Mrs. Weasley nodded, warily.

“Great! Our treat!” Fred cried.

“And where will you be getting the money for that?” Molly Weasley asked in a low, dangerous
voice.

“*Mum!*” George protested. “Ludo Bagman sent us the money he owed us for last year’s
Quidditch World Cup. A little late … but better late than, you know.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Weasley responded. “Well … we better get to breakfast, then. We should be leaving for
Diagon Alley before lunch.”

As the family moved towards the dining room, Fred quietly blocked Harry’s path, making sure that
they were left behind. Harry looked at Fred, puzzled. In a low voice, Fred said, “I know it’s not
for the joke shop, Harry, but I felt you wouldn’t mind if we treated everybody to ice cream for
Hermione’s ummm … *promotion*.”

Harry smiled. He’d suspected as much and told Fred, “No problem … although I would have made the
offer if *you* hadn’t stepped in. Tell you what, I’ll pay you back for the treat later, just
so your … *investment* remains intact.”

“Don’t worry about that, Harry,” George said, after making sure that the rest of the family was
safely in the dining room. “We’re bringing a bunch of merchandise to Zonko’s later. If they buy the
lot, we’ll have it covered … including new robes for ickle Ronniekins.”

“OK,” Harry said, dubiously. “But if you need any help …”

“Let’s go in before they miss us,” Fred said, overriding his objections. Harry looked at the two
and nodded.
* * * * *

“That’s strange,” they heard Hermione say as they took their seats at the table (Harry sitting
to one side of Hermione, while Ron was sitting on the other). She looked up at Harry and then at
Ron, “I’m the only one named as the Gryffindor Prefect. My counterpart is listed as “To Be
Announced.”

George frowned at that. “That *is* strange. They usually name the prefects for the
different houses at the same time …”

“Well, no use worrying about it,” Molly Weasley said, briskly. “I’m sure the school has its
reasons … now eat up, children, or we’ll be late.”

Harry, who was reading his letter from Hogwarts, suddenly looked at Ginny with a twinkle in his
eye. “Hey, Ginny, I didn’t know you were getting top marks in Arithmancy … it seems you’re even
better at it than Hermione.”

Ginny dropped her fork on her plate, blushing furiously at the same time, as the others
(especially Hermione) looked at her in surprise. “Well … yeah, I am. How did you know that?”

“Long story, Ginny,” Harry said, turning away from her.

Ginny suddenly slammed her small fist on the table, and in an exasperated voice, said,
“*Harry!*”

Harry simply grinned at her.

Ginny could feel herself blushing as Harry’s green eyes met hers. Normally, she would have
turned away from his brilliant greens, but she had long resolved to change the way she acted around
him … *this* time, she tried giving him a glare that she had seen Hermione do several times
over the years (“Hermione’s death-glare,” Ron had called it) … and her mouth dropped in shock as
she watched Harry lose his grin, and swallowed uncomfortably …

“OK, OK … no need to look at me like *that*,” Harry said. Ginny’s mouth dropped (‘It
actually *works*?’ she thought wildly) and closed her mouth as Harry continued, “Well, I owled
Professor McGonagall early this summer, asking if I could drop Divination and take Ancient Runes
and Arithmancy in its place …”

“*What*?” Ron asked in surprise as he too, dropped his fork. “You’re *dropping*
Divination?” Hermione, however, looked pleased and said, “Good for you, Harry!”

“Well … McGonagall said I can’t drop Divination … so I have a choice of either Ancient Runes or
Arithmancy. But since I’m staring fifth year, I’ll have to catch up … here, read her letter,” he
said, handing the parchment over to Ron. Hermione crowded him as she looked over his shoulder,
which he started reading aloud:

“Dear Mr. Potter:

Professor Dumbledore and myself are pleased with your request to take on Arithmancy and Ancient
Runes in place of Divination for the coming year. We, and other teachers, believe that this is a
sign of your growing maturity and sense of responsibility.

Unfortunately, while we applaud your intentions, we cannot allow you to drop Divination after
having taken it for two years, and getting top marks in said subject. (Hermione choked at this
point, and Harry had to rub her back to get her over the choking fit.) It would only set a
dangerous precedent which would only damage the school and its curricula.

(“Ha!” Hermione interjected. “She means damaging Trelawney’s reputation!” “Shhh, Hermione, I
want to hear this,” Ginny said.)

Accordingly, we are allowing you to take either Ancient Runes or Arithmancy in addition to
Divination. We feel confident that you will be able to take on the additional load without any
trouble, or adverse effect, to your other responsibilities.

(“What other responsibilities?” Ron demanded. Harry shrugged. “Probably the Quidditch team. I’m
still the Seeker, remember?” “Oh, right,” said Ron).

However, since you will be starting either subject as a first year, you will have a lot of
catching up to do in order to finish on time. Your teacher, whichever subject you finally choose,
will therefore, be giving you extra assignments in order for you to catch up with your
year-level.

I would also suggest that you seek assistance from students who can mentor you in your chosen
subject. May I suggest you speak with either Miss Hermione Granger in your year, or Miss Virginia
Weasley, a fourth year, regarding the matter. Miss Granger, as you know, has been getting top marks
in Ancient Runes, while Miss Weasley has been garnering top marks in Arithmancy – even better than
Miss Granger when she was taking up the subject in third and fourth year.

(Ron looked up at Ginny, who was blushing furiously and looking down at her plate. Hermione, on
the other hand, was looking at Ginny with open-mouthed surprise, as if she couldn’t believe that
anyone could beat her grades!)

I’m sure they will also be able to help you decide which subject would be best suited for
you.

Please owl me before the 31st of August with your decision. In the meantime, please find
attached the course books for both subjects, so that you can purchase the necessary materials once
you have arrived at a decision.

Thank you, and my congratulations for your improved sense of maturity and responsibility.
Sincerely,
MINERVA McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress

The silence following the reading of the letter was broken by a loud snicker from George, who
said, “Well, Ginny. Looks like you’re going to follow in the illustrious footsteps of Bill and
Percy … what’s it gonna be? Prefect next year, and then Head Girl in seventh year?”

Ginny blushed even deeper and was about to retort when George held up his hands, “Just
*joking*, Ginny! That’s great … I think we’ll be the only family with *three* Head
*People* from Hogwarts. Kind of hits you right here (hitting his chest), doesn’t it?”

“Four, if we count Hermione in … Owww!” Fred said, as George kicked him under the table.

Hermione, blushing, laughed at the two. “Much as I love you guys, I’m still a Granger at heart,
not a Weasley … I’m sorry, Mrs. Weasley!”

“No problem, dear. I understand …” Molly Weasley smiled at her, while looking daggers at Fred,
who had mumbled, “More’s the pity!” under his breath. Fortunately, no one else at the table heard
this.

“So, Harry,” Ron said bracingly. “Which subject will you be taking?”

“Huh? Oh … ummm, I haven’t decided yet.” Harry said, looking down at his plate, and playing with
the food on it. He looked up at Ron with a smile, “I’ll probably toss a coin and see what comes up
on August 30th.”

“Oi!” Ron laughed, tossing a roll at him. “After two years of Divination, that’s the *best*
you can come up with? No tea leaves, crystal balls or something?”

While this exchange was going on, Fred and George had been surreptitiously kicking each other
under the table as they watched the almost similar reactions of their sister, and Hermione. Both
girls had slightly reddened cheeks … Ginny was pushing food around her plate, while Hermione seemed
to be engrossed with memorizing the letter naming her as a prefect.

Ron continued, “It shouldn’t be that difficult a choice. What do you think, Ginny? Hermione?
Which one should Harry take?”

Both girls looked up in surprise, and glanced at each other, only to look away at once.
Surprisingly, both girls seemed to be at a loss for words, gesturing for the other to make the
first suggestion. Ron looked at the two, brow furrowed in surprise. Harry, however, was looking at
the ceiling as if the answer could be found there.

The silent tableau was suddenly broken when the twins suddenly stood up and bolted out of the
room, apologizing profusely as they left. Molly, frowning at their departing backs, said, “I don’t
think you need to make a decision right now, Harry dear. Why don’t you put it off for the moment …
Arthur and Percy should be home tonight, you can ask their advice.”

Harry, Hermione and Ginny all smiled at her, as Harry said, “Thanks, Mrs. Weasley. I think I’ll
do just that.”

“What about your books, Harry?” Hermione asked.

He smiled at her, “I can always borrow the basic references from you and Ginny … or I can get
both later when we get to Diagon Alley. It’s not a problem.”

“I don’t believe it!” They all looked in surprise at Ron, who had spoken. “You’re gonna turn
into a bookworm like these two, mate! I expect I won’t be seeing you around as much since you’ll
soon be buried in the library …”

“Ron!” Both girls exclaimed loudly, and slapped him on the arm. Their impending tirades were
stopped when Fred and George, furtively wiping their eyes, came back and sat down to their
unfinished breakfasts. Mrs. Weasley glared at them and they focused on their plates, hastily
finishing up their eggs and bangers.

“Goodness, look at the time!” Mrs. Weasley exclaimed. “Children, you’d better hurry up if we’re
still going to Diagon Alley.” Obediently, they all bent to their plates, and resumed eating.
* * * * *

Ginny tackled her food with renewed energy. She’d been nonchalant about her grades, simply
telling her parents that she was doing quite well … knowing the teasing she will be getting from
Ron and the Twins if they thought she was trying to emulate *Percy*. In truth, it was
*Bill’s* footsteps that she was following in …

And she would *finally* get a chance to work closely with Harry! She knew that the others
thought she still had a *major* crush on The Boy Who Lived … the reality was that *that*
had been gone since her second year at Hogwarts … she *wanted* this chance to work with him,
however … it was the opportunity to pay him back for rescuing her from the Chamber of Secrets …

Her mind wandered back to that eventful year and, as the memories grew darker, she focused her
mind on the single incident that served as her talisman against the darkness that surrounded her:
the moment of waking up in the Chamber, and seeing Harry Potter, in bloodstained robes hurrying
towards her … showing her the destroyed diary … helping her to her feet and guiding her out … and
all the time, holding … *holding* her …

*That* was the single *brightest* spot in her memories of her first year at Hogwarts –
not the moments that embarrassed her … not the fact of waking up, *alive*, after the torturous
and traitorous thoughts that filled her mind for *days* … *not* seeing Mum and Dad in
McGonagall’s office, and being wrapped in her Mum’s warm arms … *but of Harry holding her*
…

She glanced up then, and caught Harry looking at her, his green eyes sparkling with an inner
mischief. She smiled at him, and he winked back at her … and Ginny felt a warm flush rising in her
face. ‘Darn it,’ she thought. ‘Will I *ever* get over that blushing and flushing whenever
Harry paid her any sort of attention? *Everyone* thinks that it’s because I *still* have
a crush on him …’

And she sighed to herself. Simply because she had never told *anyone* – even Harry – about
it. But what the *hell* do you tell them? ‘Sorry, I don’t have a crush on you anymore … I
still blush, however, because you saved my life, you know …’ Hearing that statement in her head,
she knew how everyone would react … they’d simply *laugh* at her …

Well, maybe not, she thought, as she contemplated her now-emptied plate. *Harry* wouldn’t
laugh at her … he’d probably be embarrassed by it … try to talk her out of it … well, she sighed
again, at least she’ll have a chance to discuss it with him …

Or maybe not. She’d looked up in time to see Harry glance at Hermione – and caught Hermione’s
warm smile at Harry, which *he* returned. ‘Hmph’, she thought, ‘I sometimes wonder about those
two.’ In spite of her brave words to Ron … she *still* wondered about them.

She’d known Hermione for about as long as she’d known Harry, of course … they’d shared a
compartment on the Hogwarts Express in her first year, when Ron and Harry were left behind … and
arrived at Hogwarts in her father’s flying Ford Anglia. She’d felt like a lost lamb on the train …
Percy had gone off with the Prefects (and probably to snog with Penelope) … the Twins had run off
with Lee Jordan … luckily, Hermione had introduced herself … and they spent the trip alternately
laughing and worrying about her missing brother and his friend.

It was great fun for the young Ginny … it was an opportunity to get to know Harry better without
him knowing … everything Hermione told her about their first year had, of course, gone into that
infernal diary (Ginny blocked her mind again about *what* happened to those memories) … and
she’d formed her first impressions about the girl who had featured so prominently in Ron and
Harry’s stories.

She could see the bossiness and take-charge manner that the boys had so often laughed about …
but she could also see the intelligence and thirst for knowledge that, surprisingly, *Harry*
had talked about during his summer stay with the Weasleys. She’d felt some sympathy for Hermione’s
insecurities about fitting in with the wizarding world … although Ginny was a pure-blood, she
didn’t have the snobbish pride for it that others, like that odious Malfoy had.

She’d tried reassuring Hermione about this, pointing out that there were many Muggle-born
witches around (she recalled her Mum saying that Harry’s *Mum* was also a Muggle-born) …
They’d left the train as friends that day -- but had drifted apart over the course of the year. She
had her own friends, of course (including Colin Creevey and his ever-present camera trying to
document every moment of *Harry’s* life at Hogwarts) … and Hermione had Harry and Ron, of
course.

Plus she had the diary to confide her thoughts and fears to … she shivered again, involuntarily
and quickly focused on her mental talisman of Harry holding her as he led her out of the Chamber to
drive back the darkness …

“Ginny … Ginny … hey, Ginny, *wake up!*” For a second, her mind was confused … she was
looking into Harry’s eyes … hearing Harry’s voice … felt Harry *holding* her … and snapped her
head when she realized that she was sitting in The Burrow …

“Excuse me?” she asked, looking around in confusion – seeing Harry and Hermione’s worried faces,
her brothers’ broad grins (doubtless, they were thinking that she was lost in a dream world with
*Harry*), and her Mom’s look of concern.

“Are you all right, Ginny?” She turned to Harry’s worried face. “Hermione and I were talking
about Arithmancy, and we wanted to get your opinion … you seemed to be spaced out there for a
while.”

“Oh … I was just … thinking of something. Sorry, what was it you wanted my opinion on?” She
forced a laugh, although it sounded hollow to her ears, “But, really, Harry … Hermione knows
*more* about that subject that I do!”

“Well, I should, Virginia Weasley!” Ginny looked at Hermione in surprise (‘is she
*jealous*?’ she wondered in panic), but caught Hermione’s warm and amused smile at the same
time, “I’ve been taking the subject for a *year* longer than you …”

“And you’re at the top of your class …” Ginny responded.

“Well, *your* grades are apparently better than mine …”

“But I’ve got to thank *you* for steering me there rather than *Divination*.”

“I thought you could handle it … you know, the *hard* work, rather than the *soft*
option *some* people have opted for …”

“I wonder,” Ginny said, “does it mean that those people are really *soft in the head*?”

“I think so,” Hermione responded, to the pained “Oooohs” of the Weasley twins. Before she could
say anything else, Ron jumped in with the comment, “Will you two *shut it*? You’re beginning
to sound like a convention of Ravenclaw witches!”

The two girls turned and gave him the same sort of glare, and were imminently satisfied to see
him actually flush and push back his chair in a defensive gesture. “Will you quit it, you two?” Ron
said in a plaintive voice. “I get enough of that from *her* (pointing to Hermione), without
getting more of the same from *you* (turning to Ginny)!”

They broke off their glares and smiled at each other. “I think it needs a little more work,
Ginny,” Hermione said, “but for a first time effort … I think I’ll give you an ‘A’.”

“Oh, so you’re grading each other’s performance now, are you?” Ron butted in, knowing, as the
words escaped his mouth, that he was really asking for it. The two girls didn’t disappoint him,
turning the full force of their combined glares at him.

He pushed his chair back further, and was rescued only when Harry gave a slight snicker from
behind the napkin he was using to ostentatiously wipe his mouth – a prelude to suppressed laughter.
This was, however, easily cut off as both girls turned to face him … Harry hastily threw his napkin
on the table and stood up. “I … I’d better change my shirt if we’re going to Diagon Alley. Excuse
me!”

As Harry beat a hasty retreat, Ron called after him, “Coward!”

As the two girls turned to him, he also stood up and made his excuses. He could feel the stares
of the two girls boring into his back and rushed up to his room. He vaguely heard Ginny say,
casually, “Anyone else?” to be followed by the clatter of chairs as the twins *also* beat a
retreat …

Back at the table, the two girls smiled and erupted into laughter, giving each other high fives
at the same time. “I can see you’ll have no problem controlling the boys,” Mrs. Weasley said to
them, at which both girls blushed deeply.

They started gathering plates and the breakfast dishes as Mrs. Weasley went to the kitchen.
Hermione stopped Ginny before she could leave the room, asking, “Everything OK, Ginny? You got
Harry worried there for a moment “

Ginny shook her head, not looking at Hermione and wondering whether Hermione could *really*
pick up on what Harry was thinking … ‘probably comes from all that time spent together,’ she
thought. She wondered whether she should talk about it with Hermione … but decided not to … not
until she can clarify what *their* relationship was.

“Ginny!” She looked at Hermione’s concerned face. “Talk to Harry, will you? No matter what
anybody thinks, you’re also his *friend* … You’re not his best friend’s sister … you’re also
his *friend*! Harry will understand.”

“Thanks, Hermione,” she smiled at her. “I’ll … I’ll finish up here … you better get ready to go
to Diagon Alley.”

As Ginny left the room with the dishes, Hermione looked at her, wondering what she could do to
help. She shook her head and thought, “I’d better discuss that with Harry … “ as she turned and
went to her room.



5. A Wizard and Two Witches
---------------------------

Epiphanies – 04

Chapter 04 – A Wizard and Two Witches

Hermione Granger was breathing heavily atop a breathless and sprawled Harry Potter, her
chocolate-brown eyes locked on the green eyes looking at her through his trademark glasses. She
could feel his arms holding her waist, where they had placed themselves in an automatic gesture of
protection.

As Hermione tried to scramble up and out of the way, she was slammed back into Harry, foreheads
touching, lips suddenly meeting for a single, electrifying instant before an embarrassed Ginny
Weasley could climb off Hermione’s back.

‘*Next* time, I’ll try the Knight Bus!’ Hermione swore to herself. Floo powder, no matter
how convenient, was definitely *not* her cup of tea. The others had tried to warn her about
this form of wizard travel but, as with all things, experience was the best teacher … she’d had no
problems with leaving the Burrow … she’d enunciated *properly* to make sure that she came out
of the Leaky Cauldron’s fireplace … she’d braced herself when she felt the slowing down the others
talked about as she neared her destination …

And had been unable to control her feet as she burst out of the fireplace.

She’d tripped – and fell right into the waiting arms of Harry Potter. The momentum of her
entrance caused him to sprawl backwards, and she had fallen on top of him, his strong arms closing
around her in that instinctive protectiveness that was so much a part of his personality … only to
fall back down as Ginny had tripped over the bag that Ron had dropped near the fireplace
portal.

Hermione had been about to scramble out of the way the second time when Harry suddenly rolled
her over, and placed his warm body above hers – mere *seconds* before Molly Weasley stepped
out of the fireplace – and walked all over the place they had been lying down on.

Before either of them could move, Ron’s plaintive voice rose above the suddenly –silenced Leaky
Cauldron: “Are you two going to make that a *habit*?”

And *that*, Hermione thought, had been the perfect dramatic entrance for this day of
shopping at Diagon Alley. She’d tried to hide her embarrassment as she dusted herself off, avoiding
the stares and looks of the Leaky Cauldron’s patrons … while at the same time, trying to avoid the
eyes of her companions.

As such, she had only given herself a cursory look in the Leaky Cauldron’s mirror, insisting
that she was all right and didn’t need *anything* … and now, she had to endure the stares and
avid looks of various witches of all ages … all of them, no doubt, wondering where she had gotten
the bruised lips from.

She wondered what they would say if she told them that it came from snogging Harry Potter on the
floor of the Leaky Cauldron.

She shook her head impatiently. Now why should she be thinking about snogging her best friend?
‘*In fact,’*she thought, *‘why should I be* thinking *about* snogging *at all? I’m
too* young*for that … I’m only* fourteen*, for crying out loud* … *well, fifteen in
a few months, anyway …but I’m* too **young** *for that!’*

Or was she?

She stopped so abruptly as the thought seized her that Harry, who was walking beside her, also
stopped and looked at her, a question in his eyes. She smiled at him, shook her head slightly, and
proceeded to walk on. Harry raised an eyebrow at her, and continued talking with Ginny as if
nothing had happened.

Young? Of course, in both the wizarding and Muggle world, fifteen was still *young* (she
smiled as she started humming to herself, “I’m not a girl, not yet a woman …”). She glanced at her
friend, and caught his smiling profile as he listened to something Ginny was saying and was struck
with a sudden thought.

‘*My best friend has never been* **young** *… at least, not since he stepped into
Hogwarts and the wizarding world.’*

Or at least, not ‘young’ in the same way that other teenage wizards or Muggles were ...
*young*. She knew his story well enough: living alone, abused and without any knowledge of
magic for most of his childhood, “escaping” into Hogwarts at eleven only to confront the Dark Lord
who had killed his parents when he was a baby … confronting a *basilisk* at twelve … fighting
Dementors at thirteen … and again, confronting his deadliest enemy, an enemy who had vowed to kill
*him* at fourteen …

It’s a wonder, she thought, that *Harry* doesn’t have any grey hairs … going through all
that in the space of four years would be enough to make one’s hairs turn *white* … maybe
that’s why the Goblet of Fire *didn’t* reject Harry last year … the Goblet must have thought
that Harry was *older* because of what he’d been through …

But what does that make of *me*, she thought. She’d been nearly killed by a troll at eleven
… been Petrified by a Basilisk at twelve … helped *Harry* in the escape of a dangerous convict
at thirteen … had worried, fussed, and fretted over Harry through all those years, especially
*last* year when he was the Hogwarts champion … or *one* of them, she corrected herself,
remembering what had happened to Cedric Diggory.

She suppressed a shiver at the thought … remembering the moment when they learned that Harry and
Cedric had disappeared from the maze … that was *worse* than Harry fighting the Horntail! At
least she could *see* him as he flew the Firebolt … she didn’t *know* what had happened
to him in the maze … and she remembered the way he looked when Professor Dumbledore brought him
into the Hospital Wing that night.

She forced her mind from that night, and reflected on the other events of that eventful year …
and wondered if the *maturity* forced on her by her years of friendship with Harry Potter was
what drew *Viktor* to her. She frowned at *that* thought … Viktor Krum had been her first
*real* date, and the *first* person who had seen her as more than a bushy-haired,
know-it-all, witch!

She’d been flattered by his attention, no doubt about *that*. But now … she recalled the
shock on his face when she told him that she was only *fourteen* (somehow, it had never come
up before the Yule Ball) … he had gallantly told her that she didn’t look it (‘how
*flattering*!’ she’d thought at the time) … but now, *now*, she wondered about it …

And forced her mind from thoughts of Viktor and the summer just past. She glanced at Harry, who
was listening to something that Ginny was saying, and heaved a sigh of relief. Harry’s a
*real* friend, she reflected. Thank God that Harry had never asked about her summer in
Bulgaria! He’d taken the attitude, when she showed up at The Burrow a week ago, that it was
*her* story to tell … if she chose *not* to share anything with her best friend (and he
had winked at her), he’d understand.

She smiled at the thought. He’d been as good as his word … and Ginny told her that he’d
threatened *Ron* with emasculation if he even opened his trap about Viktor and her Bulgarian
summer … she was thankful for that. Not that her summer vacation was something to remember … it
was, as far as she was concerned, a summer best forgotten.

Hermione tensed, her thoughts distracted, as she saw a small, very pretty witch with long black
hair coming towards them.
* * * *

Harry Potter had been enjoying the trip to Diagon Alley so far (aside from being flattened by
his best friend twice in less than a minute!), especially as it gave him a chance to enjoy the
bustle of the crowded wizard’s marketplace. He still felt uncomfortable about it all – knowing that
he was a *wizard*, after eleven years of “There is no such thing as magic!” being drummed into
his head, in spite of the fact that he can – and *did* – do magical things … there were times
when he was *sure* that he’d been living in a dream world … that he’d fallen into a coma for
the past four years, and will soon wake up and find himself trapped in the *real* non-magical
world.

He’d been enjoying Ginny’s chatter about her Arithmancy classes, while leaving Hermione alone
(he didn’t think teasing her about her awkward arrival at the Leaky Cauldron earlier was a good
move!) when he felt her tense up – and immediately scanned the area around them.

And saw Cho Chang approaching.

A flurry of confused memories boiled up within his mind at the sight of her diminutive form:
seeing her for the first time at the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch in third year; the lurch in his
stomach when he saw her again during the Quidditch World Cup last summer; apologizing to her for
being rude soon after he’d been named as a Hogwarts champion last year … screwing up the courage to
ask her to go with him to the Yule Ball – and learning that *Cedric Diggory* had already asked
her …

And, the most painful memory of all: seeing Cho with tears pouring silently down her face as
Dumbledore honored the memory of Cedric Diggory during the Leaving Feast last school year.

He’d sent Hedwig with a long letter to Cho a week after his return to Privet Drive; Dumbledore’s
words at the Leaving Feast had unlocked something within him – he’d been able to tell his friends
everything that had happened during the Third Task on the way home on the Hogwarts Express. It had
also enabled him to open up in that letter – to explain to Cho in a clear, precise manner what had
happened to Cedric … and to express, as clearly as he could, the pain and guilt that still rode his
shoulders and his mind.

And now, as he saw Cho approaching, the horror of that night – and all the attendant pain and
guilt – came crashing through his mind – forming a pit of utter coldness in his stomach. He didn’t
know whether to turn away and run, but the courage that marked the heart of a Gryffindor made him
pause, prepared to confront this development.

As he braced himself for the encounter, he felt a warm, soft hand grab his own – without looking
down, he knew that Hermione was holding him … and he felt a calmness that was absent only seconds
before flow over him, washing away the coldness that he felt.

“Hello, Harry,” Cho Chang said. She’d glanced at Hermione and Ginny briefly (raising an eyebrow
at Hermione’s bruised lips), but her eyes, drifting down, caught sight of their held hands – and
she looked at Harry with a wistful smile.

“Cho … I … I …” Harry stammered.

“I wanted to thank you for your owl, Harry,” Cho said, stopping him. “You’ve answered a lot of
questions about what happened …”

“Are you all right now?” he asked, finally getting the words out of his suddenly tight
throat.

Cho smiled. “Yes, I am. Thank you for asking … It was quite hard for a while, because no one
could tell me what had happened,” she paused as she held up a hand to Harry, “I understand, Harry …
it must have been difficult for you to talk about, so soon after what happened. Cedric’s parents
told me some of it, but they were still in shock … when your letter arrived during the summer, it
helped settle some of the questions I had.”

She took a deep breath. “I … uhm … thank you for bringing his body back, Harry. It meant a lot
to his parents … it meant a lot to *me* … I was at least able to say ‘good-bye’ to him.”

Hermione turned away, not willing to let the other girl see tears sparkling in her eyes. She saw
Ginny turning away at the same time, and felt Harry giving her hand a reflexive squeeze. She
squeezed back, trying to communicate her support for her friend, as a silence fell – all of them,
no doubt haunted once again by the memories of that night, a bare four months in their past.

Cho Chang broke the silence, extending her hand to Harry. He held it for a moment, and Cho
suddenly stood on tiptoes to kiss his cheek, saying, “Thank you, again, Harry Potter. For
everything.”

She glanced at Hermione and, with a wistful smile and a meaningful look, said, “Take care of
him, Hermione. Oh! And, congratulations for being named a Prefect.”

Hermione’s mouth dropped open at that, and Harry asked the question she was unable to ask, “Uhm
… how did you learn of *that*, Cho? Mion … I mean, Hermione, learned of the appointment only
this morning.”

Cho looked puzzled for a moment, brows coming together in thought. “I … someone mentioned it … I
don’t remember who …” She shook her head again, “But still … congratulations, again. I’ll probably
see you at the Hogwarts Express.”

With a final wave good-bye, she said, “And next time – the Snitch is *mine*, you hear me,
Harry Potter?”

Harry smiled and waved good-bye. They watched the smaller girl fade into the crowd, and they
stood silently for a few seconds, both deep in thought, neither aware that they were still holding
hands. Suddenly, Harry took a deep breath and said, as he exhaled slowly, “I’m glad that
*that’s* over.”

“So am I,” Hermione said. She had noticed that Harry hadn’t blushed this time – she’d felt the
tension drain from him as she held his hand. They were smiling at each other in mutual
understanding when Ginny, with a small cough, brought them both back to the bustling sounds of
Diagon Alley. They looked at her, and said the same thought that was in their minds, “I wonder how
she learned …”

A barely suppressed giggle came from Ginny, who told them, “I think the answer’s approaching …
you’d better …” But whatever it was that she was going to say was drowned out as Hermione’s
dorm-mates, Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil descended on the three, chattering away like maddened
budgies.

“My dear! We were so *thrilled* … we knew you’d make it … when the letter came … what
happened to your lips?” the two girls said, while giving Hermione cheek-kisses and looking
meaningfully at the still-held hands of the two friends.

“Letter?” Hermione asked, confused, but was interrupted by Lavender’s “Oh, how *sweet*! But
after what I *heard* happen at the Leaky Cauldron …”

Confused, Hermione glanced at Harry – and caught the meaningful glance that Parvati and Lavender
threw at their hands – still clasped together, even though Cho had long gone, and the need for any
emotional or physical support had passed. They freed their hands from each other, with a quietly
whispered, “Tut-tut! I tried to *warn* you …” coming from Ginny. Hermione tried to center the
discussion on her other concerns: “What *letter*, Parvati?”

Parvati waved her hand airily, “Oh, really now, Hermione! Didn’t you *read* that letter …
Padma’s the Ravenclaw *prefect* along with Terry … so, of course, when I saw your name there …
I was so *thrilled* … I just had to tell *someone* … when I got to the Leaky Cauldron,
Lavender was already there so I just had to *share* the news …”

Lavender was nodding her head eagerly, “Yes, yes … and what a *wonderful* entrance you
made, Hermione! Falling into Harry’s arms like *that* … it was *sooo* romantic! I
*must* try that technique some time …”

“Yes!”, Parvati squealed. “D’you think I can get Terry to do that for me, Hermione? Although
he’s not as good-looking as Harry … (she batted her eyes at him) will *you* try to catch me if
I *fall* out of the fireplace, Harry?”

“I’d rather try catching Hagrid,” Harry muttered under his breath, which led to a sudden
coughing attack on the part of Ginny. The others, however, did not seem to notice, especially as
the two other girls found a new topic to discuss with their dorm-mate. “What *I* don’t
understand,” Lavender butted in, “is why *no one* was named as your counterpart, Hermione …
although we were all expecting *Harry* to be the one, right Parvati?”

“*What*?” Hermione cried, surprised. She and Ginny glanced at Harry, who looked stupefied
at the news.

“Oh, come *on*, Hermione,” Parvati twittered, “don’t *tell* me you were not
*hoping* that *Harry* wouldn’t be your counterpart for Gryffindor!”

“Uhmm, no … not really … no,” Hermione mumbled.

“*Really* now, Mione,” Lavender intoned. Harry gave her a sharp look, surprised that
Hermione hadn’t reacted to that hated nickname … but then, they were *her* dorm-mates, weren’t
they? He was shocked, however, with Lavender’s next comment, “*Harry’s* grades are the
*best* among the Gryffindor boys … he’s gotten top marks in DADA, Charms, and Transfiguration
… well, among the *boys* that is … no one can beat *you*, Mione … even those snooty
Ravenclaws … and *Divination*, of course …”

“I’m not so hot at Potions, Lavender,” Harry protested, butting in on the twittering witches,
only to be met by an airy, “Oh, who *cares* about Professor Snape, Harry? Besides, since
*you* were the Hogwarts champion, mean ol’ Snape *had* to pass you … all things
considered, *you* should be Hermione’s counterpart!”

“Oh.” Harry said. “But I *didn’t* get it, did I?”

Lavender and Parvati twittered at that, eager to share their gossip. “Well … the school
governors have to agree to the appointment, don’t they? We heard that Lucius Malfoy has been doing
everything he can to block *that* appointment … Draco didn’t make it, did he?” Hermione shook
her head, no. “So I heard that Mr. Malfoy was *blocking* you, Harry … if *Draco* can’t
get it, neither should you.”

Parvati’s voice dropped to a whisper, “My father said that Mr. Malfoy tried to block *your*
appointment too, Hermione. Something about lowering the standards of the school by making
*you* a Prefect … although everyone laughed him off … you were too obviously the *only*
choice.”

“Oh,” was the only response the two could say. Parvati saw someone behind Hermione and, waving
furiously, called out, “Terry! *Terry*!” Turning to them, she said, “I’ve got to go … I have
to congratulate Terry … coming, Lavender? Congratulations again, Hermione … and Harry, we’ll be
waiting for the announcement!”

The two left, leaving the three standing there, gaping at each other. They looked around for
Mrs. Weasley, who was in conversation with another witch some distance away, obviously not hearing
what the school mates had discussed. As they started walking her way, a snide, all too familiar
voice in a *faux-*falsetto voice said, “Oh, how *romantic!*… Harry Potter’s
g*irlfriend* is a *Prefect*, is she? But the real question is … *why* isn’t she in
*Bulgaria* with *Veek-tor*?”

The three spun around to see Draco Malfoy, with Rita Skeeter beside him and his cronies Crabbe
and Goyle to one side. Harry tensed; he suspected that Draco, Crabbe and Goyle were looking for a
return bout after being hexed on the return trip from Hogwarts the previous school year. Out of the
corner of his eye, he noticed that Hermione had paled and was shaking with fury.

Rita Skeeter spoke up, “Care to give me a *quote*, Miss Granger? A little bird told me that
the reason you had been *sent home* to England *early* because …” and she gave Hermione a
vicious smile, “and I *quote*, ‘Victor Krum’s parents do *not* like their little prince
consorting with a *Muggle­*.’ How do you react to that, *Miss* Granger?”

She had raised her voice as she spoke, making sure that people within hearing distance heard
her. Hermione flushed, red spots on her cheeks burning, as she said through gritted teeth, “No
comment.”

“Is that *all* you can say, Miss Granger? How about *you*, Mr. Potter? Is she
*really* your *girlfriend* (Rita Skeeter added an inflection to her voice that made the
word sound like an insult) … or is she using you as a *substitute* because she’s been
*rejected* by her Bulgarian boyfriend’s *family*?”

Through gritted teeth, Harry said, “Lay *off* her,Rita! As for *my* comment, you can
have it in three words: *take a hike*!”

Harry heard the noise in Diagon Alley dropping … glancing around, he could see that people were
whispering to each other … many pointing to him and Hermione as they stood frozen in their tracks.
He grabbed Hermione’s arm and started to walk away, Ginny beside him. He was stopped by Malfoy’s
sneering voice, raising itself above the whispering crowd: “Oh, poor, *unfortunate* Harry
Potter … coming second to a really *famous* Quidditch player!”

Harry tried to turn around, but Hermione and Ginny held tightly to him, keeping him walking
away, when Draco called out, “What’s the matter, Potter? *Hiding behind your Mudblood
girlfriend?*”

That did it. Harry whirled around, hand reaching for his wand … and his eyes widened as he saw
that Malfoy had *his* wand out and pointed at him … in that split-second, he realized that
Malfoy had engineered the situation in order to hex him …

As Draco shouted “*Stupefy!*”, Harry pitched his body backwards, dragging Hermione and
Ginny (who were still holding on to him) down with him. The curse shot above them, missing the
three by a good two feet … Harry grabbed for his wand and pointed it at Draco, who was standing
still, shocked that his spell had missed …

Harry’s first instinct was to shout “*Stupefy!*” but changed his mind and shouted,
“*Expelliarmus!*” Draco was blasted backwards as his wand shot up into the air. As if it was a
well-rehearsed move, Hermione scrambled up and grabbed the wand, at the same time pointing her wand
at Crabbe and Goyle, shouting in a shrill voice, ““*Go ahead! MAKE MY DAY!*”

Hermione’s wand was pointed at the two when she heard, “*Stupefy!*” behind her. Acting on
pure instinct, she dropped to the ground just as the beam of red light flew over her and squarely
hit Goyle in the chest, blasting him back. Twisting around, she saw Millicent Bullstrode and Pansy
Parkinson, wands out and aiming at her … without thought, she twisted and pointed her wand at them,
shouting “*Expelliarmus!*” – hearing Harry shouting the same spell … watching the two
Slytherins being thrown back, wands flying, to be caught by Ginny, who now had her wand out … and
then, Harry whirled and pointed his wand at Crabbe and another Slytherin …

The latter two froze, unwilling to test the mettle behind those blazing green eyes. A palpable
sheen of magical energy seemed to pulsate around Harry Potter; many of those within a ten-foot
radius of the conflict stepped back at the raw *power* emanating from him … Hermione slowly
got to her feet, eyes sweeping around for any threats … she felt Ginny standing beside her, and the
two girls slowly stepped backward to stand back-to-back with Harry … as they approached him, it
seemed that the radius of energy had *doubled* …

The silence that descended over Diagon Alley felt like a physical force , weighing down the mood
of the always-festive street. The fight that erupted had been so sudden … so *unexpected* …
that none could react … Hermione could vaguely see three red-heads fighting their way through the
crowd … Molly Weasley standing at some distance, gaping …

She felt her back touch Harry … the physical contact with her seemed to communicate an aura of
protection and safety to Harry … eyes and bodies still alert, the three (including Ginny this time)
slowly lowered their wands – and the oppressive silence that weighed down the street seemed to
lift.

People began breathing, slowly … movement started as people shook off their momentary trances …
Hermione’s mind vaguely registered various Gryffindors in different places (including Neville,
Seamus and Dean Thomas) also lowering their wands, and was distantly thankful that they hadn’t
tried to intervene … she knew that they would have been in bigger trouble if their friends had
tried something …

The silence was finally broken as a tall, elegantly-dressed witch with blonde hair started
screaming, “*Arrest them … arrest them! They* attacked *my husband and son! Get
them!*”

Surprised, Hermione spun around to look at whoever was screaming for Harry to be arrested, and
saw Narcissa Malfoy, Draco’s mother, on her knees beside her stunned husband. Hermione, Harry and
Ginny heard distant ‘pops’ as wizards from the Ministry’s Law Enforcement Squad started apparating
in, while Mrs. Malfoy continued to sob.

An older witch with a most regal bearing, wearing a tall hat with a stuffed vulture on top
stepped forward, saying in a voice straight out of the Arctic Circle, “I don’t think so, Narcissa …
too many witnesses saw what happened … if there’s anyone to be arrested here, it should be your
*son*. Mr. Potter and his friends were clearly acting in self-defense.”

Mrs. Malfoy stared at the elder witch in disbelief, and the latter (Hermione recognized her as
Neville Longbottom’s grandmother) stared her down. A Ministry wizard kneeled down beside her,
examining her husband. After a brief look, the wizard pulled out his wand, pointed it at Mr. Malfoy
and said, “*Ennervate!*”

The elder Malfoy woke up and tried to stand up, grabbing for his wand at the same time. The
Ministry wizard, however, immediately grabbed his arm and held him down. The elder Longbottom, her
eyes glinting like diamonds, said in the same steely, icy voice: “There will be no more of
*that*, Mr. *Malfoy*! Your son tried hexing another wizard while his back was turned …
something I expected from someone like you.”

She looked around, spotting the now-revived Slytherins. Turning to Lucius Malfoy, she continued,
“Apparently, they have forgotten the Hogwarts motto – ‘*never tickle a sleeping dragon*’! Now,
I suggest you get your poor excuse for a wizard and his *friends* and get out of here! They
can do their shopping tomorrow, when these children (and she pointed to the three) are not
around.”

Mr. Malfoy glared at her, but did not respond. With a shrug of the shoulders, and a short,
courtly bow, he turned away after shooting a venomous look at Harry and Hermione that would have
Petrified a basilisk, and stalked out through a path that the crowd cleared for him.

Draco looked at Harry with an equally vicious look and turned to Hermione: “Give me back my
wand, Mudblood.” Before Harry or Hermione could react to this, Mrs. Longbottom’s wand was out and,
with a muttered spell, shot out yards of tape which wrapped themselves tightly around Draco
Malfoy’s head. “That will keep your evil tongue in your mouth until you learn to keep it civil!
Now, *go!*”

Draco slunk away through the crowd, with Millicent Bulstrode and Pansy Parkinson on either side
of him, and Crabbe and Goyle behind him -- people parting to let them pass. The elegantly dressed
Narcissa Malfoy shot all of them a venomous look, and also turned away to leave.

“Harry! Harry!” Mrs. Weasley’s voice came through the crowd which still surrounded them. Harry
looked in that direction and started walking towards her, ushering his two companions in front of
him, when a sarcastic voice was heard above the murmuring crowd: “Well, well, well … if I were you,
*Miss Granger*, I would keep my eyes constantly on my boyfriend. Apparently, *someone* is
marking some territory of her own.”

Surprised, Hermione looked at Harry – and saw Ginny Weasley suddenly letting go of his arm,
blushing deeply at the same time. Ginny gave Rita Skeeter a look filled with scorn and hatred, when
Hermione placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Miss Skeeter,” Hermione said in a soft, sweet voice, “maybe you should keep *your* eyes on
*your* job rather than on my friends …” Surprised, Rita Skeeter looked at Hermione, and looked
around to see reporters rushing for the Daily Prophet’s offices … apparently, they were headed in
to file a scoop before she could.

She started shoving her way through the crowd but was stopped by Hermione’s voice, “Why? Can’t
*fly* to your desk, Miss Skeeter?” She glared at Hermione, and turned to go.

Hermione turned to Harry and Ginny. “Shall we?”

Harry, however, was thanking Mrs. Longbottom, who accepted his gratitude with a haughty, but
warm, nod of her head. With a small bow, he turned away with his two friends and started walking
away. Mrs. Longbottom’s voice was heard, still steely-cold but oddly with a tinge of warmth
underneath it: “Mr. Potter!”

Harry and his two friends stopped to look at her.

“Mr. Potter, it is obvious why my grandson admires you – and why you are a Hogwarts Champion.
You would do well as a Prefect for your House … the younger students will be needing someone to
look up to and emulate.” She looked into his green eyes, and continued, “You are a true
Gryffindor.”

Turning to Ginny and Hermione, she said, “As are you two ladies. Miss Granger and Miss Weasley,
am I right?” The two girls nodded. “I am very pleased to meet you three at last … my grandson has
often spoken highly of you … Thank you.”

The three looked around uncomfortably, unsure of what to do. In a burst of inspiration, Harry
placed his arms around his two companions and, as he bowed his head to the grand lady, his two
companions curtsied to her.

As they walked away, someone (was it Seamus? Neville? Cho?) started clapping … within seconds,
there was an roar as the crowd applauded the young wizard and his two witches.



6. Reactions and Recriminations
-------------------------------

Epiphanies – 05

Chapter 5. Reactions and Recriminations

Time slowed.

She could feel him trembling through the arm that was around her waist … and felt fear coursing
through her. Why should *he* be afraid? she wondered. He was *Harry Potter*, for heaven’s
sake! He was the only wizard to have defeated You-Know-Who *three times* … he’d fought a
basilisk *and* that infernal Tom Riddle when he was *twelve* … fought back Dementors at
thirteen (she could still remember herself shaking when *one* Dementor entered their
compartment at the start of her second year) … won the Tri-Wizard Tournament when he was fourteen
…

But she could feel him *shaking* … and she didn’t know what to do.

So she kept walking, placing one foot carefully in front of the other … looking down at her feet
– and quietly berating herself for her actions, or rather, *inaction* during the fight that
erupted around her. She’d *frozen* the moment she turned around and saw Malfoy with his wand
out … stared in shock from where Harry had pulled her down, and couldn’t *move* as she watched
Hermione scramble and grab Malfoy’s wand … she couldn’t even shout a *warning* as she saw the
two Slytherins hexing Hermione …

She finally engaged her brain and *moved* when Harry Disarmed the two … scrambling for
their wands, and pulling out her own (knowing at the same time that there was *nothing* she
could do but wave it around …) and finally, standing side-by-side with Hermione, trusting that the
older girl would know what to do … and following her movements until they were back-to-back with
Harry …

And here she was … pale as a ghost, forcing her legs to move and doing her best to force her
fear and shaking *down* … and felt herself shivering again as the events of only minutes ago
played and replayed in her fevered brain … and then a tiny, taunting voice in her mind broke
through: “*Do something, Virginia Weasley! Don’t act like a ninny! Do something!*”

Instinctively, her arm went up to wrap itself around Harry’s waist. Dimly, she thought she had
to help him walk … to hold him up … knowing that he would have to show the world a brave face …

And froze as her hand encountered *another* arm already around Harry’s waist … and her mind
registered the fact that Harry was no longer shaking … heard him taking in a deep, calming breath
that he let out in a whoosh … realized that his arm was no longer around her … and her pace
faltered, falling behind unnoticed, as that mocking voice resounded in her head, “*Too late,
Virginia Weasley, too late. As always, too late.*”

* * * *

He was *hurting* … it was so difficult to walk *normally* when his knees were
knocking, his whole body was trembling, and his hands shook so much that he could barely hold his
wand. He wanted nothing more at that moment than to fall on his knees and allow his body to
*relax* … to shake, tremble and quiver all it wished … to simply let *go* for a moment,
until the adrenaline surge wore off and he could face the world again.

But he could not.

He was Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, and he would *not* show any weakness to the
world.

And so he *walked* … goose-stepping like a soldier in those old films so that he could keep
his legs straight, even as they shook … arms around his companions, stiffened as he tried to keep
them from quivering … chest hurting as he controlled his breathing, trying to force a calmness that
he didn’t feel … while his brain yammered in an unconscious echo of Neville Longbottom’s
oft-repeated lament:

“*Why does it always have to be me?”*

He’d never wanted to be anything except a normal boy with a loving family, but Voldemort had
taken that away and he landed with the Dursleys … his treatment at their hands was anything
*but* normal, such that *anything* was better than his life with the Dursleys -- which
was why he never gave a second thought when Hagrid fetched him from the Hut-on-the-Rock four years
ago …

And even then, all that he ever wanted was to be just an *ordinary*, “normal” wizard – or
as normal as one can be in the magical community. He had never bargained for this … he had never
even *asked* *for* or *wanted* the fame that he found when he entered the wizarding
world …

Would he have climbed aboard the Hogwarts Express four years ago if he had known that, before
*that* year ended, he’d be sticking his wand up a troll’s nose … that he’d be almost thrown
off a hexed broomstick, or he’d be wandering the Enchanted Forest … that he’d be leading his two
best friends into danger … that he would have to face Voldemort *alone* deep within the bowels
of the castle?

Would he have *willingly* climbed aboard the Weasley’s Ford Anglia three years ago if he
had known that Hermione would end up Petrified *for a month* … or that Ginny would end up
unconscious in the Chamber of Secrets while he battled a basilisk with only Fawkes and the Sorting
Hat as his companions?

And the thought struck … would he have been that *excited* to leave the Dursleys had he
known all that he knew *now* … all that he had gone through for the past four years – but
especially, what happened only *this* year? Was leaving the Dursleys worth the *price*
he’d paid almost every night since he’d parted company with Hermione on Platform 9 and ¾ -- seeing
Cedric Diggory lying spread-eagled beside him in the graveyard, gray eyes blank and devoid of all
expression, mouth half-opened as if surprised … the horrific ritual he had been forced to witness
and unwillingly participate in … that *unholy* sacrament that had ended with the revival of
Voldemort …

Would he have thought life with the Dursleys to be so totally *loathsome* if he had known
that *he* would cause the death of Cedric … that his *blood* would resurrect Voldemort to
full flesh and blood life … and that his high and mighty *nobility* would allow *Peter
Pettigrew* to escape – and eventually, become an instrument in both the death of Cedric and the
revival of Voldemort?

He’d escaped a cursed life with the Dursleys … but at what price? What *price*?

As the doubts, recriminations, and memories breached the barriers that he had spent so much time
building over the summer months, he again felt the pain, like a physical force, coursing through
his body -- and he closed his eyes to ward off the howl of despair that was building in his lungs
…

* * * *

Her mind was spinning, confusing thoughts of what had just happened running rampant, her fear
and trembling battling with her logical mind … and through it all, a single thought kept taunting
her: “Of all the stupid, *inane*, mindless, *ridiculous* things to say … why did I have
to say *that*? Why? Why, oh why did I have to sound off like a second-rate *actor* in a B
movie … It’s lucky no one heard me … I’ll be a laughingstock! They’ll be laughing at me, Hermione
Granger, till the day I die …”

She berated herself again as her mind replayed the scene … grabbing Malfoy’s wand … pointing her
wand at Crabbe and Goyle … those stupid, *stupid*, *stupid* words coming out of her mouth
… and through the chaos of thoughts in her raging mind, felt her friend’s arm around her waist …
and she felt the shivers coursing through his body as reaction set in … and somehow sensed the
*pain* he was going through …

Without a thought, without a moment’s hesitation, she wrapped an arm around her friend and held
him, tight. There was no need to look at him to see the anguish in his eyes brought about by his
doubts, uncertainties and insecurities – and the memory of the horrific events of the past months …
she held him tighter, and felt him calming down …

She’d felt this with him once before … riding on Buckbeak as they flew to rescue Sirius … she
could remember her fear as she sat behind Harry, grabbing him tightly around the waist … leaning
her head against his back, eyes tightly closed, her voice, muttering, “*Oh no … I don’t like this
oh I really don’t like this*” … feeling his body trembling also … and then, that indefinable
moment when she felt a *calmness* descending over him. In the next moment, she could feel that
calmness and – yes, a sense of *security* -- washing over her … soothing her own fears …
enabling her to do what she had to do to help him free Sirius from the tower …

A wave of affection for her friend ran through her … mentally she shook her head at the innate
*innocence* of the boy. She knew he would blame himself for what had happened … ignoring or
*overlooking* the fact that *Malfoy* started the fight, doubtless wanting a return match
after the hexing he and his cronies got on the train at the end of the school year … or that
*Skeeter* wanted to get back at her for imprisoning her Animagus form for a month – and then
*exposing* her to the Ministry!

But that was the way he was.

The magical community saw him as Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, Vanquisher of
He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, perhaps their best hope to defeat the horror that will soon be upon
them.

But for Hermione Granger, he was just Harry Potter – classmate, housemate, close friend and
companion for the past four years. She’d been with him through good times and bad – beaming with
pride as Harry was carried by the Gryffindors when they won the Quidditch Cup in third year … the
panic on his face as he asked her to help him perfect the Summoning Charm, and his shock when he
did succeed at one o’clock in the morning …

To the majority of the wizarding world, he was Harry Potter, Hero – with everything that that
implied.

To Hermione Granger, he was Harry Potter, *friend*. She’d seen him masked and unmasked:
from gloriously happy to low and sad, from utterly focused and confident to shaken and unsure …
and, all too often, she’d tried to console him whenever he felt that he was to blame for some
misfortune or other that befell the community he had grown to love.

She felt his arms wrapping around her, holding her tight … she leaned her head against his chest
… felt his chin resting on her head … and she held him tight … a sense of comfort and
*security* in their closeness flowing from one to the other … heard a familiar voice breaking
through her rampaging thoughts, sounding as if it were coming from a distance, calling out, “Harry!
*Harry!*” … felt him trying to break away from her, gently pushing her away … and for a
single, convulsive moment, she held him tighter before letting go …not noticing that tears had
spilled from her eyes and had wet the front of his shirt … and she looked up into his eyes …

And she whispered with fierce intensity, as she slowly hit him on the chest, “*It isn’t always
about you, Harry … do you hear me? It … is … not … always … about … you!*”

* * * *

He knew that it was Hermione … and he engulfed her in a tight embrace … felt his body sagging
for a moment while she held him … resting his chin on top of her head (and thinking, irrelevantly,
that her height was just right for him to do that) … and felt the tension and despair draining away
from him as he held her close.

He took a deep breath to compose himself, and let it out in a whoosh … feeling the tension and
fear finally leaving him, although his mind still gyrated with his jumbled, pained thoughts … and
he thanked whatever Divinity there existed in his world for giving him a friend like Hermione.

It was then that he heard Molly Weasley’s voice breaking through his fogged mind, calling him …
with a deep breath and a final sigh, he tried to disengage himself from Hermione’s embrace … only
to feel her hugging him tightly for a brief moment more before letting go – but in the next second,
he could feel her hitting him as she said, “*It isn’t always about you, Harry … do you hear me?
It … is … not … always … about … you!*”

He looked into her eyes and saw the concern and worry for him there … he was about to ask, to
clarify that statement, when he felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned to see the worried face of
Ron … saw Ginny leaping into the arms of Bill Weasley (‘where had he come from?’ he thought
vaguely) … noticed that Arthur was standing beside Molly, talking to a vaguely familiar wizard …
and the Twins to one side …

* * * *

Ron was cursing himself for having agreed to the Twins’ mad scheme to have *him* front
Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes to Zonko’s. He had to admit, however, that the logic was sound – the
owners of Zonko’s knew the Weasley Twins as *customers* and inveterate jokers … it would have
taken a major leap of faith for them to think of Gred and Forge as *suppliers* and
*manufacturers* in their own right.

Admittedly, however, the prospect of a commission from the Twins on the sale (if consummated)
was the final icing on the cake. For once, he’d have his own money to spend, rather than trying to
make do with whatever allowance his parents can provide (after spending on their school supplies
and clothes) … he could go to Hogsmeade and buy out Honeydukes … buy drinks for his friends without
thinking of what he would have to forego … and, like Harry, never have to *worry* about money
… maybe work up the courage to ask Hermione out on a date, just him and her …

‘*Concentrate!*’ his brain said (in a voice strangely like Ginny’s), and he mentally
thwapped himself up the head. The presentation of the Twin’s products had gone surprisingly well …
the fake wands and Ton-Tongue Toffee had gone over like a beer and a shot with the owners … he had
just started on a presentation of the Canary Creams (complete with photographs from Colin Creevey
of Neville’s “test”) when they heard the commotion in the Alley …

They’d rushed outside the store with the owners in time to see Ginny grabbing the Slytherins’
wands and walking with Hermione to stand back-to-back with Harry … but even from that distance,
they could *feel* the raw energy emanating from the three …

Ron took off, forgetting the deal he was about to close … ignoring the shouts of the Twins as he
fought through the crowd … thinking only that, *again*, he was being left out of things
through *no fault* of his own. He wasn’t with Harry and Hermione when the freed Norbert in
first year … had to *sacrifice* himself in that gigantic chess game … wsa stillunconscious
when they rescued Sirius from the North Tower … wasn’t with them when they practiced Summoning
Charms for the first task … and, irrelevantly, his mind locked on something he’d heard Seamus
Finnegan say one time: “*The Dynamic Duo*.”

But the crowd wasn’t cooperating … although the filling meals of Hogswart had added inches to
his height, it hadn’t built up his bulk – and he could feel people shoving back as he tried to move
forward. There was a temptation – quickly suppressed – to draw his wand to blast a way through … he
found the crowd starting to disperse as Harry, Ginny and Hermione were walking away and he moved
faster to catch up …

Only to feel himself grabbed by the arm – he fought to free himself, only to hear a low, quiet
voice hissing, “*Leave them, Ron! They need a moment to themselves!*” He turned, face
contorting with a snarl – only to come face to face with his eldest brother … he realized that it
was *Bill* who had grabbed him, and was holding tight to him.

His mouth dropped but before he could say anything, Bill repeated his words, forcefully: “Give
them a moment, Ron. They need it … *Harry* needs it.”

He looked from Bill to the others – realized that Ginny had fallen back from the other two … saw
that Harry was embracing Hermione tightly with his chin on her head … Hermione’s face hidden in
Harry’s chest … Ron swallowed a lump in his throat, and looked at his eldest brother for a moment,
as if he were about to break free from his hold, wishing to break away … but Bill’s eyes held him
rooted to his spot.

He turned back to his friends … feeling abandoned, alone … left out of events.

Again.

* * * *

Harry turned to Ron and felt a brief flicker of some unknown emotion in his chest when he saw
that, while Ron was asking about him, his focus was on *Hermione* … and then he realized he
was still holding Hermione’s hand. He tried to let go (hoping that Ron hadn’t noticed) -- and felt
a last, encouraging squeeze before Hermione finally released him … and he moved aside to allow Ron
to take his accustomed place between them.

He vaguely heard Bill explaining to Ginny, “There’s an emergency meeting of the Gringott’s curse
breakers. I’d just apparated in when Hermione was making like Clint Eastwood (‘*Clint who?’*
Harry thought) … you were magnificent, Gin.”

Harry gave a guilty start – he’d forgotten all about Ginny! He took a step towards her, and
placed a hand on her shoulder, asking, “Are you OK, Ginny?”

There was a flicker of … sadness? regret? *anger?* in her brown eyes as she replied, “I’m
fine, Harry … thanks,” before she turned away. He looked at her curiously … there was something
*different* about her … something he knew should have been obvious but was not … but he was
distracted by Bill suddenly grabbing his hand, saying, “That was *brilliant*, Harry. I’ve
never seen anything like it since the Dueling Club at Hogwarts …”

As Bill talked on, Harry kept looking at Ginny uncertainly. She *said* she was fine … but
she was acting strangely, as if a mere “Boo!” would make her jump right out of her fair skin … but
he didn’t know what to do. He looked around for help and saw Hermione and Ron …

* * * *

“Are you all right, Hermione?”

He was looking at her intently, as if it was the first time he had seen her … and not as if she
hadn’t been a constant companion for the past four years.

She didn’t respond at once … she wasn’t looking at him. Her eyes, apparently defocused,
seemingly glazed, were looking elsewhere – and he knew, without asking, that she was looking
towards where *Harry* was.

And the memories started falling into place …

“*Has anyone seen a toad? Neville’s lost one*.” With those words, Hermione Granger had
stepped into his life … or rather, had walked into *their* lives …

Or perhaps, more correctly, into *Harry’s* life.

It had been that way from the very beginning, he knew. He’d caught Harry’s eyes following her
when she’d been Sorted into Gryffindor … it was *Harry* that she’d run to, screaming “*You
solved it, you solved it!*” in second year … *Harry* that she’d been trying to protect when
she turned in his Firebolt to McGonagall in third year … *Harry* that she’d stuck with in the
months immediately after he was named Hogwarts Champion last year.

*They’d* had their moments too, he knew … after all, *he’d* cast the charm which
knocked out the troll on Halloween … he’d hidden out with Hermione in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom
while they brewed the Polyjuice Potion … *he* was with Hermione for her first excursion to
Honeydukes in third year, returning pink-faced from the cold and looking as if they’d had the time
of their lives …

But the truth was, no matter the moments they’d shared … they could never really *compare*
to the “quality time” she’d spent with Harry: saving his life during his first-ever Quidditch
match, while he stood frozen in the stands, urging her on … finishing each other’s thoughts as they
pondered Tom Riddle’s diary while he belittled their efforts … rescuing *Sirius* in third year
while he lay unconscious in the hospital wing … perfecting the Summoning Charm last year while he
sulked like a rat, wishing to join but too proud (and admittedly, *ashamed*) to do so …

. How could his moments with her compare … he’d *resented* her at the start, culminating in
that spiteful statement to Harry, “*It’s no wonder no one can stand her* … *she’s a
nightmare, honestly*“ – which triggered the whole troll incident … constantly bickering with her
in second year, first over their homework and then about Lockhart …. their awful fight in third
year, first over Harry’s Firebolt and *then* with the traitorous Scabbers … and (he sighed to
himself), finally, the one that we’ve all been waiting for: the Yule Brawl.

He was so engrossed in his thoughts (while continuing to stare at her) that he almost jumped out
of his skin when she near-shouted in his face, “*Ron! Have I got dirt on my nose or
something?*”

“Huh – urk,” he shook his head, caught his senses, and repeated his question, “Are you all
*right*, Hermione?”

Her eyes softened as she recognized the care and concern in his voice and eyes … and he thought
again how adorable she looked, biting her lower lip with her now perfect teeth (which, he
remembered sourly, was a result of a ricocheting curse from *Harry*) … and felt a surge of
warmth as she gave him a swift hug, saying, “I’m all right. Thanks, Ron.”

He finally smiled – and felt another wave of warmth enfold him as she continued in a low,
confiding voice, “I hope Ginny’s all right, however.”

“Ginny?” he responded, surprised and a bit ashamed that he’d thought of *her* first rather
than his sister. “She’s all right, she’s with Bill …”

And he felt a chill chase away the warmth in his chest when he realized that, although Hermione
was asking about Ginny, her *eyes* were on *Harry*.

He was about to comment … to say something, *anything* to draw her attention back to him …
when he saw Harry glance at her … saw her shrug her shoulders at him … saw Harry nodding in
acceptance before turning back to Bill and Ginny … and he knew that a conversation had taken
place.

A conversation that he could not, for the life of him, have listened in on.

A silent conversation that was happening more frequently between the two – and something that
many others, including himself, had noticed.

A conversation that, *again*, he was *not* part of.

He wanted to ask what they’d discussed … just so he could be *part* of it all again, but
saw his parents approaching them with another wizard in tow.

* * * *

Hermione watched as the older wizards approached Harry. She knew that he was worried about
Ginny, but the latter was in good hands already … which was why she’d shrugged at his silent
question to her. She knew he understood – his nod showed that much – and she found herself hoping
that this day would end … that they could be back in the Burrow before a warming fire, reading
their school books for the coming year.

She was as surprised as Ron, however, when Harry apparently recognized the older wizard wearing
a top hat who had joined the Weasleys, “Mr. Diggle! I remember you!,” Harry said as Arthur and
Molly approached him with the other wizard. “You were at the Leaky Cauldron the first time I went
there with Hagrid …”

Mr. Diggle shook his hand enthusiastically, but they all noticed tears shining in his eyes.
“Bless the boy, he remembers! I am impressed … most impressed! All the stories about the Tri-Wizard
Tournament … I could see why you won! Most wizards wouldn’t even have *thought* of ducking a
curse … but you did …“

Harry flushed at his onslaught of admiration. He didn’t think that *that* had been any
great achievement … it was *survival* at that moment. He glanced at Hermione and shrugged,
knowing that she was smirking at his discomfort at the admiration from the older wizard. He vaguely
heard Mr. Diggle prattle on while still shaking his hand, “And your young lady! That was most
admirable … the way she caught Mr. Malfoy’s wand, and pointing her wand at *them*! They’d have
tried something, I daresay, if she hadn’t stopped them!”

“Oh!” Harry pulled his hand away from Mr. Diggle’s and turned to introduce them. “Hermione
Granger, this is Mr. Dedalus Diggle … we met at the Leaky Cauldron years ago. Mr. Diggle, Miss
Hermione Granger … she’s been my best friend, along with Ron, ever since I started at Hogwarts
…”

“Pleased to meet you, Miss Granger,” said Mr. Diggle, but now looking at Hermione with keen
interest. “Granger? Uhmm … aren’t you … ummm …”

Hermione flushed, unsure of how to respond to this but Mr. Diggle, noting this, continued, “Ah,
well … one must not believe all that one reads, of course. Especially if it comes from the
poisonous pen of Rita Skeeter! She’s got nothing *good* to say about *anyone* …”

Hermione smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Diggle. It’s nice meeting you.”

“Might I ask something, young lady?” Hermione frowned. “What you said to those two buffoons …
was that a curse or something?”

“I … I did?” she said, apparently confused but internally appalled that *someone* had
picked up on *that*. “I … I don’t remember saying *anything* …”

“Of course you did, Hermione,” Ginny broke in. “You were saying something like, ‘*Make my
day!*’ Crabbe and Goyle simply *froze* …”

“Ah … errr …” Hermione flushed again, her face now an interesting shade of red which would have
done justice to the Weasley family’s hair, while stealing nervous glances at Harry’s clueless face.
No one noticed Bill Weasley’s wide, wide grin as he watched her expression. She was saved from
replying, however, when Mr. Diggle finally took his leave.

“Well!” Mr. Weasley said. “At least that’s over … although I would have given up a lot to see
Lucius Malfoy’s face! He’ll take a *long* time to live that down!”

“Arthur!” Molly said warningly. “We haven’t even started our errands and …”

“Quite right, quite right!” he said, embarrassed. “We can discuss this later at lunch. So, where
are you all headed now?”

The twins said that they had to get back to Zonko’s with Ron. Ron looked hesitant about leaving
Hermione, but she nudged him away, saying that she still had to have her Muggle money changed.
Harry, Mrs. Weasley, and Ginny still had to go to the bank to get some money – and Bill, of course,
still had his meeting with the goblins and other curse-breakers.

They decided to split up again, with the Weasley’s *pere et fil* joining Mrs. Weasley and
Ginny, with Harry and Hermione, while Ron was to join the twins back at Zonko’s. They agreed to
meet at Florean’s ice cream parlor in thirty minutes or so, and then would lunch at the Leaky
Cauldron before proceeding with their shopping.

As they were about to split up, however, Harry turned to Hermione, “What *did* you shout at
Crabbe and Goyle, Mione?”

To everyone’s surprise (except Bill, who stifled a snicker), Hermione blushed again, and started
stammering, “Nothing … nothing … it’s just a slip of the tongue …”

A full-bodied belly laugh suddenly erupted from Bill Weasley, who replied, “I’ll say … it is
*sooo* appropriate, Hermione!” The others looked at him in shock, unsure of why ... except for
Hermione who looked as if she were wishing she could just disappear into the ground …

“Did you *really* say, ‘*Go Ahead! Make My Day*?” Bill asked. “I saw that movie in
Cairo … they were doing a Clint Eastwood festival …”

The others, including Harry, were puzzled – Clint *WHO*? Hermione, however, turned away,
not wanting to look at Harry or the others. She turned back, however, when Bill addressed her
directly, “Hermione? Care to tell them what that movie was?”

“The movie was …” Hermione’s voice dropped, and shook her head.

“Dirty Harry.” Bill completed, to be followed by another laugh.

“*Dirty **Harry***?” Ron said, incredulously. He took in Hermione’s blushing, Bill’s
laughter, Harry’s open-mouthed cluelessness about the title and gave his opinion: “That’s bloody …
*brilliant*!”

Silence descended. And then … Ginny giggled, followed by snickers from the Twins … and then
Arthur Weasley let loose with a belly laugh … and they were soon laughing their heads off, except
for Hermione and Harry, who were looking at each other with bemused expressions.



7. Expectations and Realizations
--------------------------------

Epiphanies

Chapter 6. Expectations and Realizations

It was … *cute*.

It was … *endearing*.

It was … *charming.*

It brought back memories of other times, other people … and one special witch in particular,
which brought a slicing ache to his heart.

The sight brought a wistful smile to the tanned face of Bill Weasley as he watched his youngest
brother’s best friends walking in front of him, weighed down with the results of the day’s shopping
at Diagon Alley.

Or rather … *Harry* was the one carrying the burden of the day’s shopping: slightly
hunched, both arms drooping from bags full of books (Hermione’s purchases probably making up the
bulk of these), while Hermione walked beside him carrying a bag emblazoned with the name of Madam
Malkin’s shop. He was telling Hermione something, his face alight with an inner mirth while she was
giving him her full attention, although her face was glowing with its own mischief.

It must have been *some* joke, Bill thought with amusement, as he watched Hermione shift
the bag she was carrying to her other hand, and proceeded to swat at Harry’s head. The latter,
however, neatly evaded her hand and, moving a few steps away, stuck out his tongue at his
friend.

A smile and a shake of her head were Hermione’s only response; in the next moment, she had
stepped closer to Harry, linked her arm around his elbow, and leaned her head with its bushy crop
of hair on his arm. Harry, on the other hand, had moved his arm around her waist – a move which she
copied so effortlessly, so naturally, that a dispassionate observer would have thought they’d done
this a hundred or a thousand times before … and the two continued walking down the road without
missing a beat.

“Do you believe in platonic love?”

The question was so startling, so *unexpected*, that Bill almost missed a step; turning
sharply, he cast an upraised eyebrow at his youngest brother, who’d been walking quietly beside him
all the time.

Ron stared back, unblinking, although a slight blush was making its way up his face … and Bill
gaped at him in surprise. He was *not* expecting this … there was *nothing* that he could
see in the times he’d seen the infamous Trio together to even indicate that Ron was interested in
*that* way towards the female member of the group. He knew about Ginny and her crush on The
Boy-Who-Lived … he’d read Rita Skeeter’s story about Hermione being Harry’s girlfriend when the
Triwizard champions were announced … and his mother had almost blistered his ear off with her anger
and disgust at the girl for playing with the affections of Harry *and* Viktor Krum in the
hours before they went to Hogwarts to watch the Third Task.

He’d been full of admiration for the way Harry had handled his mother in the Great Hall when
Hermione approached them … at the straightforward manner with which he’d confronted the uneasy
situation (although he did wonder why Hermione blushed when Harry refuted the Skeeter’s reports) …
and he could still remember Hermione’s barely-in-control panic when they’d gone to the Hospital
Wing after the Third Task to ask about Harry -- and learned that he wasn’t there …

The memories of that night flooded back … seeing a bedraggled and befuddled Harry walking in
with Dumbledore and a large black dog … his mother giving a muffled cry and nearly bowling over a
shocked and shaken Hermione, who’d stood there frozen at the sight of her friend looking like he’d
been through seven levels of hell …

And a snapshot from that night flashed into his mind … a picture buried in the avalanche of
shocking revelations that the night had brought. He’d caught Harry and Hermione exchanging a glance
… a single *look* that made him avert his eyes, *feeling* that he’d walked into a room
without knocking, make a mental note to himself that it was *not polite* to listen in on a
private conversation … and mentally thwapping himself in the same second as he realized that there
had been *no* conversation between the two friends.

But, he reflected, watching the two ahead of him, they may as well have been *talking*
…

He shook his head at the memory; and was startled when Ron commented in a slightly bitter voice,
“I didn’t think so.”

With that, Ron turned away and walked into the crowds that thronged Diagon Alley.

* * * *

This was … *nice*, Harry thought, an arm loaded with books around Hermione, her head
resting on his shoulder and *her* arm around him, as they walked in step down the familiar
path towards Florean Fortescue’s ice cream parlor. The tension and fear that enveloped him after
the confrontation with Malfoy and his gang had dissipated … he felt at peace with the world, at
peace with himself … warm and contented in the comforting embrace of his best friend.

She was like the sister he never had and wanted … no, that he *needed*, *prayed for*
through all the painful years of growing up, alone and unwanted, with the Dursleys. Someone who
understood him … someone who really, truly, *cared* for *him …* who would stand beside
him in any conflict … who was always looking out for him. Someone that he could share his fears and
nightmares with, knowing that she would never laugh at him, never sneer at him … would always
*understand* that, beneath the unruly hair and the famous scar, was a scared, oftentimes
*frightened* little boy who never felt he was good enough … who often felt that he was to
blame for everything bad that happened to him and to his friends …

“*It isn’t always about you, Harry … do you hear me? It … is … not … always … about …
you!*”

The words echoed and re-echoed in his mind … the words she muttered as she kept hitting him on
the chest earlier that day … and, at some point between the time they’d separated from the others
and before he reached his Gringotts’ vault, the realization came: his best friend was right.

As always.

*He* wasn’t to blame for the fight that morning … *Malfoy* started it, using his
well-honed talent for getting under his skin to *provoke* him. There were those, he knew, who
would think that *he* was to blame … that Malfoy and his cronies were only trying to get back
at him after the humiliation they’d suffered on the train back from Hogwarts, but the fact
remained: *Malfoy* started it, insulting Ron and Hermione and *then* insulting Cedric for
good measure …

And for a brief, horrifying moment, Harry was back in the graveyard, Cedric on his back, mouth
open, grey eyes staring up at the empty sky … and he felt his neck stiffen as he stopped himself
from *physically* shaking the memory off …

“*It … is …* not … *always … about … you!*”

*He* may have been the ultimate target of Voldemort … *he* may have provided the
‘blood of the enemy, forcibly taken’ that Voldemort needed to complete the spell … but if he
*hadn’t* touched the Triwizard Cup, Cedric would *still* be dead – Disarmed and then
*Avada Kedavra’d* by Voldemort without a thought or even the offer of a duel. There was no
other way to look at it … Cedric had been the clear winner at the end of the Third Task, but it was
the Hufflepuff’s sense of honor and his innate decency and kindness which made him tell Harry to
claim the cup and the victory … in the face of such civility and graciousness, what was he to
do?

Smile and grab the Cup? Keep on arguing with Cedric about who should take the Cup and claim
victory, exchange notes on who did the most for whom from the time Harry told him about the
dragons, to Cedric’s advice about the Golden Egg (and the generous offer to make use of the
Prefect’s Bathroom), to who saved who when they were lost in the maze …

He was a *Gryffindor*, Harry thought. In the face of such decency, he couldn’t do anything
but *return* the favor … and opted for the only compromise that made sense to him. All because
of Cedric’s innate decency and sense of honor … a presentation which he *had* to return in
full measure.

If he’d grabbed the Cup for himself … chances were that he could have escaped, as he *did*
escape that night.

Or maybe not.

If he hadn’t escaped the trap … if he had *died* that night, then it would be *Cedric*
mourning his death right now … blaming *himself* for pushing Harry into the trap – such were
the conventions of the virtuous and honorable.

And there’d be no one to console Hermione.

His heart wrenched at the thought … and he could see in his mind’s eye that horrific and painful
memory of the Leaving Feast … raising his goblet to the memory of Cedric … and seeing Cho’s tears
as she silently cried … and imagining, for a brief instant, *Hermione* sitting there and
crying … perhaps with Viktor Krum beside her, trying to console her …

And probably getting hexed by a maddened, *angry* Hermione in the bargain.

What *was* it with Krum, Harry wondered yet again. Why should he even *think* of Harry
as a potential *rival* for Hermione, when it should have been obvious to even the most blind
of *bats* that *Hermione was nothing more than his friend!*

His mind suddenly jumped on the revelations made by Rita Skeeter, and he forced himself to hold
back his *rage* at what had happened to his friend … he felt her suddenly tensing beside him,
and he held her a bit tighter in reassurance … and felt her relax, imperceptibly, although he knew
she would be scanning their surroundings, prepared to hex anyone or *anything* that presented
a threat …

To be fair, he thought … Skeeter was clear on one thing: it wasn’t *Viktor* who’d had
problems with Hermione … it was his *family* that apparently questioned his best friend’s
*acceptability*. He smiled grimly at that … *their loss*, he thought. They didn’t know
her the same way *he* knew her … his *sister* … his *friend …*

Yeah, right, his friend. Some *friend* … the one who’d bullied and pushed him into
completing his assignments and studying his lessons … who’d wheedled and cajoled him into eating
something before his first Quidditch match … the straight arrow who’d broken at least fifty school
rules in concocting the Polyjuice potion – including stealing boomslang skin from *Snape’s*
room… who’d gone with him into the tunnel and the Shrieking Shack, without even thinking of running
back for a teacher … who’d brought him a stack of toast so that he could have breakfast in peace,
the day after the Goblet of Fire announced him as a champion …

Who’d talked about nothing but *him* whenever she was with Viktor Krum.

Some sister.

He almost tripped as the thought blasted through his body …

Some *friend*.

*What a girl!*

And he suddenly wondered if, for some obscure reason, Voldemort had made a fatal mistake … that
it wasn’t *him*, that it wasn’t Harry Potter, The Boy-Who-Lived, who was the *real*
threat to his mad schemes of domination, but the girl who was walking beside him … the one, the
only, Hermione Granger.

The thought brought a smile to his lips … a smile that soon made its way to his eyes, and the
shadow of gloom lifted a bit more from his shoulders. Wouldn’t it be ironic, he thought … wouldn’t
it be supremely *hilarious* if, after all the effort, all the suffering and pain that he had
caused in the past four years in his insane efforts to *kill* The Boy-Who-Defeated-Him,
Voldemort’s *real* enemy was the slim, petite girl with bushy brown hair walking beside
him?

From out of nowhere, an errant memory struck … something in one of the pocketbooks that Dudley
never read, thrown into the room he occupied in the summers but which had been Dudley’s storeroom …
given as a gift by some unknowing and unknown benefactor … something about the deepest, darkest
secret in the universe … what was it? Oh yes … that was it …

“*It is something even the Masters don’t reveal about the inner nature of the secret heart of
the universe … The deepest darkest secret of all that the Force lets you see …*

“*The universe has a sense of humor.*”

A smile broke out that would have melted the polar ice caps – or melted the heart of Severus
Snape, if he ever swung that way. For a tiny instant, a laugh boiled up within him and he felt …
*liberated*. It felt so good to laugh … to find even a tiny shred of humor in the darkness
that he could feel gathering around them … and for a wild moment, felt a sudden, *insane* urge
to plant a kiss on the bushy head of hair resting on his shoulder …

Did he just think about *kissing* her?

Why?

Why should the very thought of *kissing* her make him feel torn … no, it wasn’t that … it
was as if his *mind* had split in two … one side saying that doing so was the most
*natural* thing to do, while the other was screaming at him that it was *not* natural,
that it was incestuous … that one does *not* think that way about one’s *sister* …

But she’s not.

My sister, that is.

She’s my *friend* … she’s my *girl* friend.

Oh.

He resisted that mad, mad *itch* for a moment – and gave in to the impulse.

He leaned forward, lips puckered to plant the kiss … at exactly the same moment that she decided
to look up at him … and they froze – noses a hair’s breath from each other … lips a thin ribbon’s
width away, so close that they could feel each other’s breathing as they inhaled and exhaled in a
rapid, sharp tempo, eyes locked in a question that neither recognized or understood … or were
prepared to acknowledge.

And they quickly reverted to their original stance … Harry looking ahead, an arm carrying a bag
of books around his best friend, the other arm similarly weighed down with another bag of books at
his side … Hermione with her head resting on his shoulder, an arm around her best friend, neither
of them missing a beat as they walked side-by-side down the length of Diagon Alley …

Neither one saw an extremely annoyed, not to say *chagrined*, wizard swearing softly at
what had almost happened. A moment later, with a resigned sigh, he tossed a golden Galleon at his
smirking twin.

* * * *

This was … comfortable. No, *reassuring* was a better word … but not quite … not quite
…

Hermione Granger, who was *precise* in everything she did … who had memorized and could
recite without a stutter a thousand and one arcane facts, from the twelve uses of dragon’s blood to
the names of the first Board of Directors of Gringotts … found that she could not describe
*exactly* what she was feeling at this moment as she walked the streets with her best
friend.

Except to say that it was … *nice*.

It was … *wonderful*.

It was … *natural*.

It felt as if her whole life had been a journey, with a few detours here and there, towards
*this* … to be walking the streets of magical London, surrounded by her friends and family
(well, the Weasleys may not have been her biological family, but they’d adopted her into their fold
so easily, except for that little awkwardness over the stupid Skeeter’s article), an arm around her
best friend … his arm around her … and walking along so naturally, not even talking about which
direction their steps would go, almost stepping into the gutter as they avoided a large stack of
boxes being levitated by some wizard, but avoiding it just the same, without breaking stride …

Just walking along comfortably, quietly, *naturally*.

Unconsciously, she rubbed her head against his shoulder, and felt the tension of the muscles
there as his arm carried a bag of *her* books. She’d offered to relieve him of the load but he
had answered, in a voice with a *slight* echo of her own bossy, know-it-all manner from her
first year, that he didn’t think she could *manage* it … that the weight of her books may well
stunt whatever *little* growth she’d had over the summer …

She’d swatted at him then, but he’d easily avoided it. She knew that her body language must have
communicated her intentions to him (as *his* body often told her his feelings and emotions
without words being said), and he’d stepped away and stuck his tongue out at her.

She could only smile at him, and toss her hair … in the next moment, she’d stepped closer to him
and tucked her arm in his so naturally, leaned against his shoulder and whispered, “*Behave!*”
and he did … placing an arm around her without thinking … and she had placed her arm around him so
naturally …

As naturally as hugging a brother.

If she had one.

Which she definitely did *not*.

But then … why did she feel so comfortable, so at ease … so *at home* with Harry
Potter?

She didn’t know.

It just felt so *natural* (there was *that* word again) … even when she did not know
him from Adam, that first day on the Hogwarts Express when she’d stumbled into the compartment he
shared with Ron and saw him for the first time – all hair and glasses, almost swimming in the
castoff clothes of an enormous Dudley … and for some reason, started chattering away to them, even
before she could give her name.

Or even ask who *they* were.

She nearly cringed as she remembered her first days at Hogwarts and (this time, she *did*
cringe) the seemingly *desperate* attempts to get the boy beside her to take notice -- and
making a total *fool* of herself -- talking about the enchanted ceiling in the Great Hall …
chattering away with Percy about Transfiguration … raising her hand during their first Potions
lesson, not because she wanted to show off (as many of them undoubtedly thought) but because she
wanted to draw attention away from *him*.

Only for that miserable Professor Snape to take points away from Gryffindor.

She sighed to herself, and snuggled closer to her best friend, and continued pondering that
question: Why *did* she feel so at home with *him*?

She was no Princess Leia, *that* was for sure. She’d been a *Star Wars* aficionado for
*years* … rather, her *parents* were (which was a rather startling idea for dentists) but
*Star Wars* had been her parents date-movie when they were at Uni … and she’d grown up with
the full collection of toys, including an action-figure Princess Leia and Luke Skywalker.

And then they’d brought home the VHS movies to celebrate their new large-screen TV.

She’d been so entranced, especially with Obi-Wan’s explanation of The Force (“*It's an
energy field created by all living things. It surrounds us and penetrates us. It binds the galaxy
together.*”); enthralled by Yoda’s training and admonitions to Luke; watched, goggle-eyed, as
the diminutive figure lifted Luke’s X-Wing fighter out of the Dagobah swamp … and his final,
cutting statement to Luke’s “I don’t believe it”: “*That is why you fail.*”

It made her *determined* to be a Jedi Knight.

She focused her mind on the popcorn bowl as her parents continued watching the movie … and kept
repeating Yoda’s “*Do. Or do not. There is no try*” to herself … and watched the bowl give a
sudden jerk and float into the air.

Only to crash as her mother’s shriek of surprise broke her concentration. But it *proved*
to her that the Force *did* exist, no matter that her parents kept insisting for months after
that it was only a *movie*, that there was no such *thing* as the Force, and tried to
explain away the many strange (to her, *wonderful*) things that kept happening around her.

They refused to believe, until the letter from Hogwarts arrived – and they were forced to admit
the fact that, while their daughter may not be a Jedi Knight, she did have something like the Force
within her.

Only, it was called *magic*.

However … if there was *one* thing she didn’t like about *Star Wars*, however, it was
the way they handled the story of Princess Leia and Luke Skywalker. It was a plain and simple
cop-out, she thought irately, making Luke and Leia siblings separated at birth because big, bad
Darth Vader was their *father*, so they could develop the Han-Leia angle … she’d been rooting
for Luke and Leia from the beginning, but knew, by the second movie, that her wishes would
*not* be granted … all those icky glances and verbal clashes between Han and Leia … like the
constant bickering between her and Ron …

She almost missed a step.

Was *that* what it was?

Was she *living* in a Star Wars movie, where Luke was Harry, she was Princess Leia, and Ron
was *Han Solo*?

No.

Of *that* she was sure.

She felt a quiver of tension from her best friend, and she quickly glanced around for the
threat, but he’d hugged her tightly for a moment, and she relaxed …and her mind brought back the
question that started it all … and for which she could find no real answer.

It was just … it just *is*.

She just felt more comfortable, more at ease, more *at home* with Harry than with anyone
else … and no, it was *not* because he was her long-lost brother or something. She’d made sure
of *that*, when her mother asked her (eyebrows raised) why she was spending so much on
*Harry*, the summer before their third year, when she’d bought him the Broomstick Servicing
Kit … and she told her Mum that it was for her best friend.

They’d talked about Harry that night … his adventures and his life, his miserable life with the
Dursleys and his parents … and her mother had commented, “Sounds like Luke Skywalker, doesn’t
he?”

She’d laughed at that, and told her Mum that no, Harry was no Luke … although he did have the
messy hair, Harry’s eyes were green … and while he did pick up magic in much the same way that Luke
handled the Force (instinctively), *he* didn’t even have a light-saber to duel with …
although, she said reflectively, he *did* have Godric Gryffindor’s sword.

And *she*, Hermione Ann Granger, was certainly no Princess Leia, flying all over the Galaxy
fighting the bad guys … but (and she kept the thought to herself, knowing the shock and dismay her
mother would feel) what *had* she been doing since first year? She’d been with Harry until
almost the end in the chambers leading to the Sorcerer’s Stone … OK, she was Petrified when he and
Ron went after the basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets, but she had *helped* even then … she
was with him when they rescued Sirius … in any case, she’d said awkwardly to her mother, she was no
*princess* …

“Well, to your father and myself, you always were a princess,” her mother had replied. She’d
smiled and hugged her Mum, and broke into a laugh as she continued, “and one thing for sure …
*you* are most definitely *my* little girl. I *carried* you with me for nine months,
talking to you, singing to you, *reading* to you …”

She’d hugged her Mum again at that.

She felt a sudden mirth in her best friend, and wondered what he found so funny … and heard
Harry murmuring something under his breath, and caught the last part as she listened closely from
her position with her head on his shoulder: “…*The deepest darkest secret of all that the Force
lets you see … The universe has a sense of humor.*”

“Children of the Jedi,” she thought. She’d seen the book when she went shopping with her Mum for
her summer clothes, and bought it on impulse … and she recognized the line even as she wondered why
Harry would be thinking of *Star Wars* … and *what* had brought *that* particular
line to his mind … which brought her mind back to Ron Weasley-as-Han Solo …

No, Ron was *no* Han Solo … he didn’t have that smuggler’s *style* … she couldn’t
imagine Ron piloting the Millennium Falcon telling the others, “*Never tell me the odds!*” And
if the way they *bickered* was any indicator … he was *definitely* no Han … and she was
*no* Princess Leia!

If anything, their bickering sounded more like … like … oh, no, she thought in dismay. They
often sounded like C3PO and R2D2, with *her* taking on the protocol droid’s spinsterish,
old-maid tone and manner, while Ron’s responses followed the sharp, cutting tones of the astromech
droid …

And she stifled her own laugh.

Now *that* would be the heart of irony and hilarity! If the wizarding world *knew* of
*Star Wars*, they may fall into the same trap of thinking of the three of them in the same way
the world saw the Trio of Luke, Leia and Han … when it may very well be the *other* Trio of
Luke, C3PO and R2D2, with Harry as the heroic Luke Skywalker … and his two sidekicks constantly
bickering and sniping at each other, although the roles were often reversed: she could see
*Ron* as C3PO moaning, “*we’re doomed, we’re doomed!*” while *she* was R2D2, running
in to find a solution on the ship’s computers … slotted behind Harry’s X-Wing fighter trying to
hold that bucket of bolts *together* …

At least their *heights* matched with the two druids … except when she was in her
Hermione-as-C3PO mode, acting like a spinsterish old maid, cautioning them about the rules …
bullying them to do their homework … hounding them to help her with S.P.E.W. … holding Harry back
from making a fool of himself over the veela …

Her moment of hilarity dimmed as she wondered whether they really did look at her *that*
way … she felt a hint of tears beginning to form, and sneaked a peek at her best friend, wondering
what he *really* thought of her … and catching a smile so unaffected, so artless and
spontaneous that she felt herself feeling enveloped by warmth … the kind of warmth he radiated when
they were together like this … quietly, sharing a moment of companionship together …

And she realized that *that* was what seemed to bind her so closely to Harry Potter … It
wasn’t the things he did for the wizarding world that made him whatever it was that *he* was
to *her* … it was *everything* that he’d done for *her* from the moment she’d barged
into their compartment in a search of a toad. He had *never* laughed at her … didn’t join in
with everyone else who’d thought of her as a bossy, know-it-all witch who wanted to be Head Girl
before she was twelve … who’d *realized* she did not know about the Troll in the castle even
though she hadn’t spoken to him in *weeks* … and who’d waded bravely, if *stupidly*, into
the girl’s bathroom to try and pull her out …

She remembered the moment in the room with the Potions challenge beneath the castle … the moment
she’d given in to impulse and hugged him tightly before letting him go to face the final challenge
alone.

*“Me!” said Hermione. “Books! And cleverness! There are more important things -- friendship
and bravery and -- oh Harry -- be careful!”*

She’d been about to say “love” but had stopped herself in time … what did *she* know of
*love* at the tender age of eleven? But it was what she’d wanted to say … it was what she
*felt* at that singular moment in time …

She felt a sudden impulse to stand up on her toes and kiss him on the cheek … it was the
*same* compulsion that made her kiss him on the cheek at Platform 9 and 3/4 : that combination
of concern, affection, caring, *love* for someone who was a brother to her …

If she had a brother.

Which she did not.

She had a *friend*.

She had a *boy* friend.

Oh.

She resisted the mad urge to kiss him for a moment … and gave in, because it expressed for her,
everything she felt towards him *now* …

She turned and tilted her head to kiss his cheek … and *froze* as she felt his nose almost
brushing her own … his lips, warm and full, less than an *inch* away from hers … and felt his
breath mingling with her own … and her eyes locked with his in a question that she was not prepared
to acknowledge.

She quickly reverted to her original stance as he did … looking ahead, arms around the others’
best friend … her head resting on his shoulder, *his* head resting on her hair, neither of
them missing a beat as they walked side-by-side down the length of Diagon Alley …

Neither one noticed Molly Weasley, who was walking ahead of them with her husband but constantly
glancing back at them, heave a *long* sigh of frustration … an act which made Arthur look
questioningly at his wife. Molly simply reached up and gave him a kiss on the lips …



8. Awakenings and Confrontations
--------------------------------

Epiphanies 07

**Author’s Notes:** The usual disclaimers: this is based on stories created by JK Rowling,
copyright owned by whoever, and there is no profit being made from doing it except the reviews (and
the appreciation) of the people who read it.

I would like to thank all those who reviewed on portkey.org and astronomytower.org, but
especially **DragonKain3**, **CJH**, **fopalup**, **Nicole**, and all the others … but
especially, thanks for my lovely **PQ Queen, sugarjet erin**. J

Chapter 7. Awakenings and Confrontations

“Where’s Ron?” Hermione asked, as they entered the courtyard of Florean Fortescue’s ice cream
parlor.

“I don’t know,” Harry replied absently. He glanced around him, feeling as if he’d suddenly
walked out of a fogbank into the brilliant sunlight, blinking at his surroundings and wondering,
irrelevantly, if this was what "Unfogging the Future" meant. “He was right behind us a
minute ago …”

A sudden dread swept through him … Ron was just behind them when he’d placed his arm around
Hermione … did he see what I almost did? And even if he didn’t … the way they were walking along,
arms around each other …

He looked at his best friend … and saw the same look of dismay in her eyes as they met his. It
had been so natural, so *spontaneous* an act for both of them that they’d never even thought
of their other best friend … hadn’t thought that he’d feel left out, boxed out … thrown out of
their tight circle of friendship because …

Because of what?

Because … Harry pushed that train of thought away. He didn’t want to focus on it, did not want
to think about it now ...

He quickly put down the bags he was carrying on an empty chair and turned to Ginny, who had
walked up behind them, “I’ll go look for Ron ... he must have wanted to look at the new brooms
...”

“I’ll go with you,” Hermione said, as she laid down the bag she was carrying. He was about to
protest, but he knew that it was useless. She’d feel just as responsible for what happened as he
did ... and would be doing whatever was needed to help heal this rift ... if it were a rift ...

He merely nodded and walked out, Hermione beside him ... neither one noticing Ginny's
wistful expression as she watched them leave, or the Twins' bemused looks from where they stood
at the door of the ice cream parlor ...

* * * *

“And the Dynamic Duo rides again,” Ginny thought to herself as she watched them melt into the
crowds, feeling a brief twinge of envy towards Hermione ... and realizing that, while she may be
envious of the older girl’s closeness to Harry, she herself was still a long way from establishing
the kind of trust, friendship and ... and *teamwork* that they (including her brother Ron) had
built over the years ...

And there, she thought, lay the crux of her problem. The three formed a cohesive whole ... each
of them contributing something to the group. But if one were missing ... and she realized, with a
stab of surprise, that if *Ron* were missing, Harry and Hermione would still prevail over
whatever was thrown their way. The two would be able to continue ... be able to function ... maybe
not as efficiently, maybe not as effectively, but they would easily regain their balance and spirit
and carry on ... able to continue because they had each other ...

She shivered at the thought ... and wondered if her brother understood the implications ... and
if *that* was the real reason why he seemed so obsessed with Hermione: not because of any
feelings of love, hormonal urgings, or romance, but because he knew, or could sense, that his place
in the Trio was slipping away ...

In a way, she reflected, she was luckier than Ron. Much as she wanted to be part of the group
(or rather, she admitted to herself, much as she wanted to be part of *Harry*), the fact that
she was on the fringe -- and never part of the Trio -- meant that she could go her own way ...
never suffer any heartache, never go through any feelings of hurt or loss ... except for the
constant thought of what might have been ...

All such thoughts and worries disappeared, however, as she felt two strong arms suddenly
grabbing her about the shoulders ...

* * * *

“No interference, brother?”

“No interference,” Fred (or was it George?) affirmed. He sighed, “Ronnie better grow up ... he’s
got no chance with little Miss Granger, not after what we just saw.”

“You think he'll grow up?”

“I hope so ... remember what Mum always says about girls as friends? You either grow up ... or
move on.”

“How come she never told me that?”

“She was talking to Charlie, you dumb prat! You think she'll ever be telling *me*
that?”

“Well, she hasn't seen you with Angelina ... Oww!”

“Neither has she seen you with Katie, you git! Or are you still wanking off on McGonagall?”

“Hey! No talking about my love life ...”

“Yeah,” Fred (or George) replied. He sighed again, “I better not make any more bets on those two
... I could have sworn that he was going to kiss her ... “

“Leave it, George,” his twin replied. “Besides, what I got from you goes back into the Fund. And
... Uh-oh ...”

“What?” George glanced at his brother, followed his gaze, and muttered darkly, “I’ll put a stop
to that!”

A stocky wizard with blonde hair and a camera slung around his neck had grabbed their sister,
and they could hear his formerly thin and whiny, now deep and husky voice saying, “Ginny! Are you
all right?”

“That’s not ...”

“It is ...”

“It can’t be ...”

“It is ...”

“He’s not ...”

“He might ...”

The Twins watched in mingled amusement, sibling pride and brotherly protectiveness as Ginny came
eyeball-to-eyeball with Colin Creevey, somehow taller and more filled out than either remembered
from last year, dark blue eyes flashing with concern, the ever-present camera slung around his neck
totally forgotten -- his seeming obsession with cataloguing the Life and Times of Harry Potter
completely set aside as he scanned her face and body anxiously for any injury or bruise.

Or so they hoped.

“People were talking when we got here ... did you really have a wizard’s duel with Malfoy and
the Slytherins? Are you all right? You’re not hurt, are you? C’mon, let’s have an ice cream... I’d
like to hear about what happened,” Colin continued talking as he pulled Ginny towards a group of
younger witches and wizards from her year and below ...

“He’s taller ...”

“Quite good-looking, too.”

“Think he’ll make a good Beater?”

“Beater?” A sly grin broke out on the other’s face. “Oh, you mean as a target for Bludgers?”

“Yeah ...”

“Too bad Lockhart’s no longer around ...”

An evil grin broke out on the other’s face. “Right ... he could make all his *bones*
disappear ...”

“I would rather that *he* disappear ...”

Before they could make a move, a heavy arm clapped Fred’s and George’s shoulder -- and they
turned into the smiling eyes of their big brother, who’d grabbed them by their upper arms, and
started pulling them towards the shop. “Leave her, boys ... it’s what she needs right now.”

“Bill ...”

“Yeah, Bill ...”

Their eldest brother gave them a look which had shut them up without a squeak in their younger
years, and they fell silent, accepting but not committed to the idea.

Bill smiled: “If he goes too far, you have my permission to shove his *camera* all the way
where the sun doesn’t shine.”

The Twins looked at each other and nodded, evil schemes popping into their minds ... both
agreeing that they’d found their next laboratory animal (test pilot? George thought with a wicked
gleam in his eye), and allowed themselves to be pulled into the ice cream parlor ...

* * * *

Head bowed ... hands in pockets ... letting the crowds that thronged the marketplace push him
this way and that. Eyes blank, vision blurred but not from unshed tears ... for there were no tears
to shed, as his mind played and replayed scenes from that day: the two of them falling into The
Burrow, muddy and laughing that morning ... discussing the relative merits of Arithmancy and
Ancient Runes at breakfast ... Hermione on top of Harry as she arrived at the Leaky Cauldron ...
Harry and Hermione standing back to back, Disarmed and stunned enemies around them ...

Why did he torture himself? He should have *known* ... they’d been friends for years ...
how come he’d never really seen it before?

It had always been Harry and Hermione ... Hermione and Harry, ever since their first year ...
Hermione looking as if she wanted to climb into Harry’s bed and hug him in the Hospital Wing after
the incident with the Sorcerer’s Stone ... Hermione running towards Harry screaming, “You’ve solved
it! You’ve solved it!” in their second year (and slamming into Harry for a fierce and joyful hug in
front of Dumbledore and the whole school) ... Hermione telling Harry to cheer up as he watched
Hogwarts disappear behind the mountains on the way home after their third year ... Hermione kissing
Harry at Platform 9 and ¾ last year ... and the sight that he was witness to earlier after their
confrontation with Malfoy and his cronies ...

And the score now stood ... in the Hugs Department, Harry Potter, 4; Ron Weasley, 3. In the
Kisses Department, Harry Potter, two; Ron Weasley, none.

Harry Potter leaves the Weasley behind.

It was enough to drive a boy to drink.

Unbidden, a gloomy confession made in the comfort of a compartment shared by two frightened,
insecure boys came to mind: “I’m the sixth in our family to go to Hogwarts. You could say I’ve got
a lot to live up to ... Bill was head boy and Charlie was captain of Quidditch. Now Percy’s a
prefect. Fred and George mess around a lot, but they still get really good marks and everyone
thinks they’re really funny. Everyone expects me to do as well as the others, but if I do, it’s no
big deal, because *they did it first* ...”

It seemed that even in the department ruled over by Cupid with his stupid arrows full of love
potion, someone *else* was going to come in first ...

It was enough to drive a *man* to drink.

The question was ... what ever made him think that he even stood a chance with Hermione?

And the thought struck him with all the force of a rogue Bludger ... whatever made him think
that he could think of Hermione in *that* way?

Comfort.

Assurance.

Security.

With Hermione, he wasn’t just *another* Weasley, as that stupid git Malfoy had sneered at,
so many moons ago. He was Ron: friend, classmate, sometime companion ... someone she could boss
around to do his homework, pester about his assignments ... embarrass every once in a while, as she
had done with the first ever Charm they’d learned, the never to be forgotten Wingardium Leviosa --
with the ‘gar’ nice and long.

And ... with a profound shock, he realized that *that* was the same way Harry felt about
her: comfort, assurance … *contentment*.

With Hermione Granger, Harry was just Harry Potter -- not the famous Boy-Who-Lived, not the
youngest Seeker in a century, not the Triwizard Champion ...

Just plain Harry: wizard, fellow student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and more
importantly ... *friend*. Most especially ... the person who’d saved her life in first
year.

Or one of them, depending on how you looked at it.

But in a curious way ... he saw Harry the same way now. Oh sure, the first time, he was all agog
about the famous Boy-Who-Lived. Everyone was, even Hermione ... and he smiled as he remembered the
rambling introduction that had caused both of them to stare at her, stunned, stupefied, and ...
shocked.

But, as the days passed, he’d come to think of Harry as just that ... plain Harry Potter,
*friend*.

Or not.

He mentally cringed as he remembered last year when the Goblet of Fire announced Harry as the
other champion ... and he pushed that thought out of his mind, mentally hitting it as if it were a
Bludger out to kill him ... only for the memory of the Firebolt and Scabbers incidents of their
third year to come crashing in ...

Again, he forced his mind to stop wincing, and focused on that most profound thought ...

Which, he realized, was where it all started.

He was comfortable with Hermione ... there was no need to put on any pretensions ... any airs
... any *facades* that he was anything more than what he truly was ... a *nice* guy to
have around.

Or was he?

Cringing in embarrassment was getting to be a habit; he must have done more of it during this
one day than he’d ever done in his whole life. But ... he sighed to himself, that’s what you get
for facing up to reality ... the more he thought about it, the more he realized that Ginny’s
cutting words to him that morning were sooo true ... he was a dense, insensitive, idiotic,
*immature* prat.

Correction.

I am.

His mind brought back the image of minutes before ... his two friends walking together so easily
... Harry carrying her books, Hermione carrying his robes. They looked so cute together, arms
around each other ... an aura of profound comfort emanating from them.

There was that word again. But honestly, what other word was there to describe it? He knew that
if he walked up and joined them, there would be no awkwardness, no discomfort or unease between
them ... not unless he brought it in to their tight little group.

Which, he admitted to himself, he *had* brought in ... too many times to count.

Was that why Hermione always seemed so comfortable with Harry ... and not with him? Harry was
just *natural* whenever he was with Hermione ... unaffected, spontaneous, completely relaxed.
He took her bossiness in stride ... accepted her intelligence without lifting an eyebrow ... and
returned her affection in even measure. All it took was a smile and a question ... and all of
Hermione’s objections dissolved, that time when Harry sneaked out to join them in Hogsmeade.

He wasn’t even trying to be charming, Ron realized ... he was just being Harry: secure in their
friendship, confident in their protection, unquestioning in their understanding. It had been
Harry’s confidence in her friendship and support that led Hermione to break the rules too many
times to count ...

And she returned his confidence in full measure, and more.

Was that the key to their relationship? That they *trusted* each other to do what had to be
done ... knowing the other enough to do the right thing without thought, without question?

But what about him?

Breathe.

Go with the flow.

Shrug your shoulders.

There.

He’d flinched again ... he was getting better at it. The way he was going, he’d have done enough
cringing, flinching and wincing at his past actions to last him a lifetime. Although, as Ginny told
him, he’d better get used to this ... he’d be doing it again in the future ... well into the
future, unless he changed his ways.

That brought him back to the thought which started all this: what had made him think that he
could think of Hermione in *that* way?

Back to comfort, assurance and security.

Especially the last.

At the end of it all ... Hermione was a *known* entity to him. It may have taken him a
little longer to twig to the fact that she was a girl ... but she had shown them all, and how!
Showing up at the Yule Ball with Viktor Krum, looking so absolutely beautiful that she’d bowled
them all over -- including Draco bloody Malfoy with the banshee he called a girl -- and practically
all the girls in Hogwarts, including the snooty Fleur Delacour, feeling, for a moment, that they
had *all* been had.

And *that*, he admitted to himself, was where his resentment came from. If Hermione had
gone with him, he wouldn’t have been embarrassed to death with his stupid dress robes, which were
more properly *dress* than robes. She’d have been able to come up with a hundred and one
charms to make his robes more presentable ... she would have made him relaxed at his first-ever
formal ball ... she would have been a comfortable companion during the dinner, the dancing, the
walk back to Gryffindor Tower ...

He would have entered the Great Hall of Hogwarts on the arm of a beautiful girl who accepted him
for what he was.

Instead, she’d gone with Vicky ... but then again, why shouldn’t she? He never asked her ...
never even thought of asking her ... he’d been so engrossed with hooking up with the most beautiful
girl he could think of that he’d totally ignored her ... and conveniently forgot the fact that she
was a girl.

He’d turned to her only as a last resort ... and was rightly, shot down in flames.

And of course, he being himself, had acted the total and complete prat about it ... pestering
her about who her date was ... boiling in resentment during the ball that he’d forgotten all about
his date ... finally ending what should have been an enjoyable night for all of them with the
biggest fight he’d ever had with her -- and in public at that!

And there lay the difference.

Harry simply accepted it ... he *trusted* Hermione enough to let her be ... to let her have
her time with Viktor with no questions or recriminations ... to tell her that he had no issues with
her dating Krum ... in fact, he’d told Ron later that Hermione could have shown up with the
Mountain Troll that almost killed her in first year and he wouldn’t have any issues with it.

Because Harry trusted her.

As Hermione trusted Harry.

While he ...

Enough.

Flinch, cringe, wince, shrink ... what more did he need to do? He’d done it all in the space of
a few minutes more than once ... it would be a mercy if the earth just opened up and swallowed him
whole ...

**Thump**.

He’d been so engrossed in his thoughts that he wasn’t thinking about where he was going ... and
looked up in surprise as he heard someone shouting, “Give it back!” followed by another small voice
shouting, “Yes, give it back!”

He walked towards the alley where the voices were coming from, and saw a huge student he
recognized as Derrick, a Slytherin Beater, holding up a wand as a small, thin-framed girl with
long, straight black hair kept trying to grab it from him, but looking more like a poodle trying to
jump for a stick held out of reach. They were surrounded by other students ... beside the huge
Beater was his partner Bole, easily holding off another small girl, with long, slightly wavy black
hair but with a somewhat stockier build than the other.

She was trying to get to Derrick, crying, “Give it back, or I ... I’ll ...”

“You’ll *what*? Tell your Muggle mother?” Bole sneered. It was then that Ron noticed an
older woman dressed in muggle clothes standing by a wall near the two girls, shocked and uncertain
about what to do. “Filthy mudbloods! We don’t need your kind at Hogwarts ...”

Ron’s protective instincts, never far below the surface, boiled out. “Give it back, Derrick! Or
can you only handle little girls who haven’t been Sorted yet?”

The Slytherins turned to him, surprised ... but another huge player that Ron recognized was
their Chaser, Montague, sneered, “It’s only the Weasel, Potty’s lapdog. He can’t do anything
...”

That did it ... all his frustration, and perhaps all the cringing that he’d been doing
throughout the day, finally let go. In a blur, he pulled his wand and shouted,
“*Expelliarmus!*” ... and watched in gleeful satisfaction as the wand in Derrick’s hand flew
into the air while the huge Beater was thrown backward to crash into the alley’s wall ... with a
graceful move that belied his assumed awkwardness, he grabbed the little girl’s wand as it flew
towards him, and spun around to face the other Beater -- only to see Bole doubled up on the ground,
gasping for breath, and the stocky little girl walking backwards away from the fallen goon, a look
of surprise on her face ...

A movement seen from the corner of his eye and he dropped to the ground, dodging the jinx thrown
at him and casting the Full-Body Bind at the same time ... and watched the slow-motion, face
forward, fallen-tree collapse of his opponent.

He stood and spun around, wand ready ... and realized his predicament: there were still six or
seven thugs facing him, led by the massive Montague. He could possibly hold off one or two at a
time ... but if they all rushed him, no amount of magic and cursing would prevent him from being
beaten up ...

Apparently, the same thought had come to Montague; with a cry of, “No wands! Let’s beat him up!”
the gang rushed and he prepared himself, thinking only of his regrets for all the prattishness that
he’d shown his best friends ...

* * * * *

No words were exchanged ... they fell again, naturally, into their established routine: Harry
leading, bulling his way through the crowds, and automatically dropping his hand behind him, and
Hermione’s hand automatically finding its way to his ... for an instant, their hands flinched at
the contact but entwined themselves together effortlessly as she followed behind him ...

“Was he going to *kiss* me?” she wondered as she followed him automatically through the
crowd. “Why? What’s happening to us ... what’s happening to me? Is he my friend or my brother ...
no, he isn’t, I know that ... but why was he going to kiss me ... but why was I going to kiss him
... stop it, Hermione! Focus ... where’s Ron ... if that silly prat uses this against Harry, I ...
I’ll ... “

“You’ll what, Hermione?” She looked up guiltily at Harry’s concerned face and wondered how much
she’d actually said ... and she could read the worry and concern in his eyes.

His friendship with Ron meant so much to him ... Ron had been his first *real* friend,
aside from Hagrid ... not just in the wizarding world, but in the whole wide world, in fact. She
felt a twinge of ... envy? jealousy? spite? as she remembered their reconciliation last year at the
end of the First Task ... how she’d been crying and had hugged both of them ... feeling happy that
their Trio was intact, but at the same time, feeling a wrenching loss, knowing that the time spent
alone with Harry was over ...

But why should she feel that she had lost something, when their Trio was back together again? He
was still her best friend … if anything, that incident had bound the three of them closer together
but still …

She bumped into him and was surprised, realizing that he’d stopped at a deserted area of the
marketplace and was facing her, both hands held in his, and she looked up to see his eyes on her
face ... an unreadable expression in them. Which was a surprise, because she’d always been able to
read and understand what he was thinking ...

“He’s still our friend, Hermione,” she heard him say ... and she turned away, nodding. Yes he
was, she thought, but wondering at the same time whether what she felt for Harry was going to
interfere ... to work its insidious way between the three of them and force a break ... and
worrying that, if it came down to a choice, *she* would be the one left out ...

And she barely caught his whispered words, “... and if he doesn’t like it ... ... he can go
hang!”

“Harry,” she whispered, uncertain of what he’d said, and watched as he locked eyes with her.
Before she could continue her question ... or he could respond, they both heard a muffled,
“*Petrificus Totalus!*” from a nearby alley... and both ran towards the sound ...

* * * * *

“*Impedimenta!*”

Ron watched, shocked, as Montague hit an invisible barrier -- and bounced back into the rushing
gang, bringing them down like pins in a bowling alley. He tensed as he felt a presence materialize
beside him, and relaxed as he realized who it would be ...

“Took you long enough,” he said, without looking around, still focused on the hooligans.

“You were doing quite well on your own,” Harry said. “Four down ... think we can take the
rest?”

Before Ron could respond, he felt a presence on his other side, and knew that Hermione was
there, wand out and probably casting her death-glare at the fallen thugs. If that was not enough to
make *anyone* back down ...

For a single, satisfying moment, the Trio felt their fellowship fall into its accustomed place:
facing a gang of enemies together as they’d faced danger before, prepared to do what was right,
assured of their mutual protection and concern for each other ... all other thoughts and issues set
aside for the moment ...

The shocked gang stepped back ... facing two determined wizards and a witch who looked just as
capable as the other two. They slowly moved back ... away from their fallen comrades: Bole still
rolling around on the floor, clutching his groin; Derrick still winded by the wall and unable, or
unwilling, to move; another Slytherin still in the Full-Body Bind; Montague shaking his bashed head
from running into an invisible wall ... one of them suddenly turned and ran down the alley ... as
if that were the cue, the rest turned and followed, leaving the Trio alone, with the two little
girls and their mother standing there, still in shock at what had happened.

Ron slowly put down his wand, feeling his rapidly beating heart rumble along ... heard deep
pants roaring into his lungs ... felt his knees weaken as if hit by the Jelly-Legs jinx … but
forcing himself to stand straight and tall, thinking, “So *this* is what Harry has to go
through ...” and knowing, in the same moment, that what he had just gone through was a mere
*fraction* of what his best friend had gone through every single year since he started at
Hogwarts.

He made his way over to the two girls and their mother. With a smile and a flourish that he
couldn’t feel, he handed over the wand to the long-haired girl, saying, “I believe this is
yours?”

The younger girl slowly reached for her wand, looking at Ron with teary eyes and whispering in a
small voice, “Thank you ... thank you ...”

Before Ron could even say, “You’re welcome,” the girl had jumped into his arms and was hugging
him tightly, saying “thank you” over and over, and crying into his shirt ... before he could say
anything else, he was slammed back as the other girl leaped in to hug him also, saying the same
thing to him ...

He awkwardly held them, patting their backs and thinking, “So this is what it feels like to be a
hero ...”

* * * *

Harry and Hermione glanced at each other, smiling as Ron gently disentangled himself from the
sobbing girls. With a glance at his companions (and a quiet nod from them), he gently placed a hand
around the younger girls’ shoulders and started pulling them towards their mother, who was standing
still, shocked at what had happened …

“Ma’am?” She looked up at him (Ron stood a head taller than her) and silently nodded as he said,
“I think we better go ...”

Ron gently pushed the sobbing girls towards their mother, and was surprised when the older lady
wrapped her arms around the girl with the long, straight black hair ... after a moment, she
enveloped the other girl in her embrace, and the three quietly began walking away towards the mouth
of the alley.

“That was bloody brilliant, Ron,” he heard Harry say as his friends walked up to him. The three
started following the others, Hermione walking on Harry’s other side, and he turned to her with
gratitude.

“Thanks, Harry ... and thanks for finding that Shield Charm, Hermione,” She waved his thanks
off, glancing at Harry; and Ron saw Harry blanch ... and remembered that Harry had tried the charm
against a giant spider during the Third Task, and he shuddered at the thought.

“Good thing that the stupid git was a lot smaller than ...” and he stopped suddenly at
Hermione’s glare, mentally kicking himself for his big mouth, knowing that it wouldn’t help to
remind Harry of the nightmare in the maze. He was saved from burying himself deeper when they
reached the others, who were now waiting for them at the outskirts of a more crowded section of
Diagon Alley.

“Are you all right, ma’am?” he asked as he came closer, noting that his two friends had slowed
down, allowing him to take the lead.

“Thank you,” the older woman said in a heartfelt tone. “If you hadn’t arrived ... I don’t know
what would have happened, Mister ... err ...”

Shaking his head in apology, he held out his hand, “I’m so sorry. I’m Ron ... Ron Weasley.”

“Pleased to meet you.” The woman paused as she shook his hand, and continued. “That sounds so
... inadequate, after what you’ve done for us. Oh! I’m Mrs. Wright … and this is my daughter,
Carolyn (gesturing to the girl with long hair), and her friend, Cindy ...”

“You’re Ron Weasley?” The other girl was looking at him with something close to awe, and she was
actually trembling as she extended her hand to Ron. “I’m Cindy … Cindy Galloway.”

Before Ron could ask why she was looking at him so strangely, she squealed in excitement: “…
I’ve heard so much about you! You’re Harry Potter’s friend ... my cousin Clara’s a Ravenclaw and
she’s told me all about you and Harry Potter! Is it true that Sirius Black went after you with a
knife? She was in first year when that happened, and she said everyone was talking about it ... and
you were also with Harry Potter during last year’s Triwizard tournament ... and ... and …”

The sudden chatter from what Ron had assumed was a quiet little girl (now almost bouncing with
excitement and glee) was interrupted by a shy, almost ashamed and definitely bewildered voice
asking, “Who’s Harry Potter?”

Ron turned in surprise to Carolyn, who looked as if she wanted to hide behind her mother’s
skirt, so embarrassed was she at professing her ignorance. The awkward silence was broken, however,
as Cindy took her friend’s hands in hers and said, “Oh, I’m sorry, Carolyn! I keep forgetting that
you’re not from our world ... I’ll tell you all about it as soon as I can get my books. Maybe you
can stay with me for a few days ... we can go to Platform 9 and ¾ together and from there take the
Hogwarts Express ... I’ll clue you in on what to do, what to expect ... I hope we get into the same
House, I would love to be in Gryffindor ...”

Ron looked at Mrs. Wright with raised eyebrows; the latter, with an embarrassed smile,
explained, “We met Cindy and her parents at the wand shop … Ollivander’s? She was nice enough to
volunteer to show us around since we … uhm, were not familiar with the place … until those … those
*thugs* decided to make fun of Carolyn. If you hadn’t arrived in time …”

“I see,” Ron said, nodding slowly and he smiled. “Well then, allow me to welcome both of you to
the magical world. Please don’t think we welcome new members of the community in the same way that
those, uh ... *apes* did. You will find that most of us know how to welcome guests ...”

A slight cough from behind interrupted his speech. Turning, he saw Hermione covering her mouth
to stop from giggling ... Harry beside her, doing his level best to control *his* grinning
face as she said, “You sound just like Percy, you know.”

Taken aback, Ron hissed back, “I suppose you can do better?”

Turning back to Mrs. Wright, he said, “Please, call me Ron. And may I introduce my classmates
and fellow Gryffindors, Hermione Granger (Hermione extended her hand, which Mrs. Wright clasped
briefly) and ...”

“Ohhhh,” said Cindy in a voice of mingled embarrassment, humiliation and despair. She looked as
if she were suddenly younger than eleven, as her eyes focused on Harry, and he gave her a winning
smile at which point she blushed deeply ... or so it seemed, for she had rosy cheeks that made it
difficult to see if she were indeed blushing.

“Harry Potter, ma’am.” Harry extended his hand to the older lady, who warmly shook it. There was
something in her look, he thought, as if she had already heard of him from somewhere ... He shook
the feeling off as he extended his hand to Carolyn, who shook it hesitantly, and turned to Cindy,
who looked almost scared to be touching him, chagrined as she was with her earlier rambling ... and
looking as if she were about to meet the Pope or something ...

“Now who’s acting like the mayor?” he heard Hermione whisper beside him.

“Shut up, Mione - Owww!” he said, as she immediately swatted his head at his use of the hated
name. A small giggle escaped Carolyn’s lips, and both saw her mother smiling at them.

“I take it all three of you are good friends?” she asked in a very amused voice, although her
expression proclaimed clearly that she knew there was something more between two of the three.
Hermione smiled back at her.

“Yes, ma’am ... we’ve been friends since our first year at Hogwarts ...”

“Seems like ages ago,” Ron said in a light voice, “when she (pointing a thumb at Hermione)
*barged* into our compartment on the train and asked (in a perfect imitation of her voice),
‘Has anyone seen a toad? Neville’s lost one’.”

Hermione blushed, and gave him a glare as Harry laughed beside her. She was grateful, however,
that Ron had said that was when they became friends, not wishing to be reminded, once again, of her
unpopularity during her first months at Hogwarts ...

Ron turned back to Mrs. Wright: “Would you like to join us, Ma’am? My family should be at
Florean Fortescue’s ice cream parlor (he glanced back at his friends, who nodded back) ... and they
would love to meet with you.”

“Oh!” Cindy glanced at her watch, and said, “I almost forgot! I’m supposed to meet them there
about now! Mum’ll be furious ...”

“Well then, why don’t we all go there together? Would you like to join us, Mrs. Wright?
Carolyn?” Ron repeated his invitation. The mother and daughter looked hesitant, and he quickly
assured them, “My Dad works for the Ministry of Magic and he would just love to meet up with Mug
... I mean, uh ...”

“Thank you, Mr. Weasley, but I don’t want to impose ...” Mrs. Wright looked in surprise at
Hermione, who was trying to suppress what looked suspiciously like a laugh. “Is there something
wrong?”

“Oh no, ma’am. It’s just ...” she bit hard on her lip, as she quivered from suppressed laughter,
“I mean ...”

“She’s just not used to me being called *Mister* Weasley,” Ron replied with a hard look at
his friends. “Please, call me Ron … every time someone calls me ‘Mr.’ Weasley, the next thing I
expect to hear is …”

“Ten points from Gryffindor for your cheek,” Harry supplied, a hint of laughter in his
voice.

Ron raised an eyebrow at him. “Speak for yourself, Mr. *Potter* … you lost ten points from
Gryffindor within the first ten *minutes* of our Potions class.”

Harry raised an eyebrow in return: “Don’t look at me! *She* (pointing at Hermione) started
it!”

“Oh, stop it you two!” Hermione said with a smile. “Let’s just keep in mind the fact that, if it
were not for me, the two of you would still be pickling rat’s brains in Snape’s dungeon!”

Ron and Harry looked at each other over Hermione’s head … the same thought flashing through
their minds: they’d spent an uncomfortable evening doing just that, when they were still not
speaking to each other …

Ron broke the sudden silence: “She’s right, you know.”

“She’s always right,” Harry said, smiling down at her. “That’s my Hermione.”

It felt as if a cold draft wafted through the street, and an uncomfortable silence descended
until Ron replied, “That’s *our* Hermione.”

Mrs. Wright, noting the sudden tension in the air, broke it by starting to walk towards the ice
cream parlor, forcing the three teenagers to join her. She started asking questions about Hogwarts
and the magical world from Hermione; soon enough, the two boys joined in the conversation,
alternately listening and responding to her questions … and watching in amusement as a chattering,
bouncing Cindy pointed out various shops and places in Diagon Alley to her amazed friend.

Harry, smiling at the way the two younger children were talking, suddenly turned to Ron,
“Doesn’t she remind you of someone we both know?”

“Uh-huh,” Ron nodded, a broad grin now on his face. “Except for the hair, she sounds exactly
like ...”

“Hermione!” The two friends started laughing, both of them remembering their first encounter
with their bushy-haired, bossy, take-charge, know-it-all friend, who was now glaring at them with
all the force of her considerable personality ... but this time, surprised that her death-glare was
simply bouncing off the laughing pair.

“Stop it, you two!” She glared at them and, with a suddenly evil smirk, continued, “Besides, I’m
not the one with the fan’s club …”

The two boys quickly glanced at the direction she was looking at, and caught the look the
younger girls were giving them … actually, giving *Ron* – the two younger girls blushing
simultaneously and looking away at the same time. Smirking, Hermione started chanting in a low
voice, “Ronnie’s got a fans’ club … Ronnie’s got a fans’ club …”

Ron, beet-red, said, “Shut up, Hermione!” as Mrs. Wright gave in to a laugh.

Trying to divert attention from the gibe, Ron suddenly called the younger girls over, “Cindy? I
wanted to ask … seeing as you’re a witch and everything … how’d you get that big git Bole down? You
must have hexed him with a hell of a jinx …”

Cindy’s face, now returned to its normal, rosy-cheeked state, was suddenly blushing so badly
that it looked as if she’d spent far too much time in the sun (if that were possible), and seemed
to be unsure of how to answer.

Carolyn, however, gave a sudden giggle – and the three friends looked at her in surprise. In a
soft voice, she explained, “After you hit the one holding my wand, that big lunk was about to curse
you or something, but Cindy suddenly kicked him ...”

“My foot’s still aching,” Cindy said plaintively, as she looked daggers at Carolyn, “It felt
like kicking a *wall*, to tell you honestly ...”

Ron looked at Cindy in admiration, wondering at the same time why she looked as if she wanted to
dig a hole in the ground and pull it over her, “You *kicked* him?”

As the girl nodded slowly, he said in an admiring tone of voice, “That must have been some
kick!”

Carolyn, however, couldn’t stop from giggling. “It wasn’t the kick,” she said in her soft voice
as she giggled, “... it was *where* it hit that did the trick.”

The three turned in surprise at a sudden hoot of laughter from Mrs. Wright. Trying to control
herself at the puzzled look on their faces, she made a gesture at the region of her waist, waggling
her hand at the area between her legs. Ron’s eyes widened ... and he gaped at the still-blushing
Cindy, asking, “You mean ...”

Mrs. Wright nodded ... and finally, couldn’t stop herself. She lapsed into a shout of laughter
so loud that it startled them all ... and then Ron, Harry, and Hermione also dissolved into
laughter as Cindy, in a sudden fit of inspiration, mimed the look on Bole’s face when he was hit by
a *physical*, not magical, force …

The stopped laughing, however, as a familiar voice called out, “There you are! I thought you
three had gotten in trouble again …”

“Bill!” Ron called out, “I’d like you to meet …”

He stopped as he saw his brother’s face … gone so pale that his tan looked as if it had been
painted on, face stricken as if he had taken a Bludger to the stomach and it was still grinding in,
staring at Mrs. Wright – who was looking at him with an expression of profound puzzlement on her
face.

Bill whispered, “Erin?”



9. "Love Is Never Lost ..."
---------------------------

Epiphanies 08

**Authors Notes:** The usual disclaimers: the story is based on characters and situations
created by JK Rowling, copyright owned by JKR, Bloomsbury, Scholastic Press, Warner Bros., etc.
Cindy and Carolyn, otherwise known as “The Terrible Two” in some of my other fics, are my
creations, as well as some of the other characters in this story.

Dedicated, as usual, to all those who reviewed but especially to **erin, Nicole,** and
**Amelia**, whose thoughtful reviews and insights contributed immensely to this on-going story.
A special dedication to **fopalup**, whose review set loose a plot bunny which led to this
one.

Hugs and kisses to you, guys!

Hope you enjoy this one.

Chapter 8. “Love Is Never Lost …”

*Memory is such a tricky thing, especially with the passage of time. Things or events that
were painful at the time they occurred have a tendency to be seen as being more wonderful with the
passage of time. Or ... they can become worse.*

*Either way, things never remain the same.*

*And yet ... and yet ... there are some things that never seem to change. Or, at the least,
there are some things that one can still remember clearly -- and these have no tinge of good or bad
about them.*

*All that is there is the fact that, at one time, there was some* **thing***.*

*Or ... some* **one***.*

*Every once in a while, someone intrudes into my memory. She would be in her twenties by now:
tall, but not as tall as I am; fair complexion; dark brown eyes set wide apart in an appealing
face; thick, black hair to her shoulders ... a generous mouth that always seemed to be
smiling.*

*She was very fond of dresses, but always seemed to be wearing loose shirts and pants. There
was a quality about her voice and laughter that I could never place, but would always
recognize.*

*And there were her eyes, which always seemed to tell me more than she ever would.*

*She was my friend.*

*“Was” because she left soon after our graduation ... I have not seen her for some time.
Memories -- and a few things -- are all that is left for me now.*

* * * *

He didn’t know how long he stood there like a bull who’d taken a sledge hammer between the eyes,
his brain cataloging those well-remembered features, and comparing them with the person in front of
him, consciously noting the details that were so much like – and yet so *unlike* – his
memories.

Her voice broke through his befuddled mind: “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid you must be
mistaken.”

He shook his head as gave what he hoped was a winning, reassuring smile. “My apologies … it’s
just that you looked almost exactly like someone I knew years ago,” he responded, and extended his
hand. “I’m Bill Weasley … I take it you’ve already met my brother and his friends?”

Mrs. Wright smiled and shook his hand, saying, “Quite all right. I’m Mrs. Wright … Nicole Amelia
Wright. And this is my daughter, Carolyn, and her friend, Cindy Galloway.”

“Pleased to meet you.” He turned and shook hands with the two young girls, noting in passing
that Nicole’s daughter had inherited the best features of her mother: the long, straight black hair
that shone in the sunlight … the lips that were full and pale without lipstick … the straight nose
… and the strong chin that …

Nicole tilted her head in a gesture so reminiscent of someone that he almost thought, for a
moment, that it was Erin talking to him: “She must have been someone special.”

He smiled, at the same time hoping that he’d successfully kept the bitterness from his voice,
“She is, ma’am. She is.”

Their eyes locked for a brief moment, and he blinked, staggered at the depth of sympathy he saw
there, as well as the sparkling tears that seemed to have sprung out of nowhere … and he heard her
soft, almost whispered voice, “I know.”

Bill stared at her as silence enveloped them, but before he could make sense of his jumbled
thoughts, Ginny’s voice broke in, “There you are! Mum’s getting worried … the whole lot of you
going off like that!”

She stopped as she realized the look of keen interest that Mrs. Wright, Carolyn and Cindy were
giving her … and that three pairs of eyes were jumping from her to Bill to Ron and back to her.
Before she could ask what everyone was looking at, Nicole stepped forward and extended her hand,
“Hello. I’m Nicole Wright … and would I be correct that you’re related to Ron and … uh, Bill?”

A surprised Ginny shook hands with the older woman. “Yes I am, ma’am. How’d you know?” Before
the other could answer, she shook her head and gave a small laugh, “Of course, the hair … I’m
Ginny. Virginia Weasley.”

“Virginia?” Ginny looked at her in some surprise, “Not Guenevere?”

“Ma’am?”

“My mistake,” Mrs. Wright replied, shaking her head. “I was just remembering a favorite movie of
my late husband … It’s nothing. My apologies.”

Her statement about her husband cast a sudden pall over the group, and Carolyn held on to her
mother even more tightly. Before the moment could get awkward, however, Bill spoke up, “I take it
you were joining us at Florean Fortescue’s?” (A nod from Mrs. Wright confirmed his assumption.)
“Well then, why don’t we all go together … and get there before the other Weasleys consume every
last scoop of ice cream!”

“Yeah,” Ron said, “and we still have to celebrate Hermione’s promotion!”

“Promotion?” Bill and Nicole said simultaneously.

“Yes … meet the newest Gryffindor prefect!” Ron adopted an unctuous tone, smiling at the two
younger girls. “Which means that you will have to follow her orders … bow your heads whenever she
passes by … kneel when she says kneel … memorize ‘Hogwarts: A History’ …”

“Is that your favorite book? Goody! Is it true …” Ron and Harry stared at Cindy, neither one
bothering to hide their looks of horror … Hermione gave them a superior, haughty look and stuck out
her tongue before turning back to the bouncing Cindy.

“We’re in trouble, mate,” Ron said in a stage whisper to Harry. “Can Hogwarts stand
*another* Hermione Granger?”

“Well … Hogwarts has survived a thousand years, Ron,” Harry said. “Another two Miones shouldn’t
bother it too much …”

“Two?” Ron glanced at where Harry was looking and groaned. Carolyn was engrossed with the
exchange between Hermione and Cindy … a light of interest and scholarship sparkling in her brown
eyes.

“You’re gonna have your hands full, Ron,” Harry said, laughing.

If looks could kill, Hermione and Ginny would have been weeping over Harry’s body … before Ron
could say anything, however, they were in front of Florean Fortescue’s … and they were engulfed in
the warm embrace of the Weasley clan and their friends.

* * * *

*What was it we shared?*

*A lot of things that friends share: companionship, shared interests, mutual friends. But it
was never simply that. There was an aspect about those days that made the time spent with Erin all
the more unique.*

*There are times when I would be saying something, and a feeling would creep up on me:
“*I've said – or written -- this before.*” And it will all come back ... I first shared
the idea with Erin.*

*A writer once said, “*Learning is finding out about the things you already know.*” And
this was what made the time with Erin so unique ... a lot of things that I now am, were first shown
to her.*

*I guess that was what made the times spent so exceptional. It wasn't just because she was
with me ... we were both learning something from each other.*

*I never knew how much I learned until the sharing was gone ...*

* * * *

He blinked.

Carefully, he brushed away a tear that had fallen on the page he was reading and, with a quick
look around the crowded and smoky tavern, drew his wand – and paused, wondering why he had even
enlarged the normally pocket-sized journal to the size he was reading.

There was no need to read it – he had seared the words he’d written so long ago into his memory,
in a vain effort to vent his self-recrimination in a blast of blind rage during the first lonely
weeks in Cairo. He’d thought at the time that this was the easiest way to let go, to erase from his
mind the memories of that special person … and the pain that she had brought to him.

No, he admitted.

That *he* had brought on himself.

He glanced at the mirror behind the bar of the Leaky Cauldron, checking the locations of his
extended family … hands fiddling with a large mug of ale … conscious of an ache in his chest and an
imagined, phantom pain on his left wrist.

Arthur and Molly were in a corner, chatting with Nicole and Cindy’s parents. The Twins were
nearby with their friend Lee Jordan, apparently counting the money earned from the very first sales
of Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes … or hatching some diabolical scheme to show Colin Creevey that he
was courting an early grave if he continued with his attentions towards Ginny.

The latter was off to one side, chatting amiably with Colin and her classmates … directly across
from her was Ron Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan, waving his long arms like a windmill, undoubtedly
telling them about *his* encounter with a gang of toughs. Close by were Cindy and Carolyn,
both of them giggling and whispering to each other … and making faces towards the center of the
tavern.

He shifted, trying to spot what the two young girls were giggling about …

Of course, he thought. What else could it be?

Hermione Granger was apparently engrossed in a rather thick volume that she had propped up on a
table, absently curling a strand of her hair around a finger as she read. Harry Potter was beside
her, leaning back in his chair, another thick book opened in front of him.

Only, he wasn’t reading. He had tilted his head to one side, apparently engrossed in studying
his best friend. She looked up and saw him staring at her … and a warm smile broke out on Harry’s
face.

Hermione smiled back, and turned back to her book … neither one showing the slightest hint of
discomfort at what should have been an embarrassing moment for two people who thought of each other
as just the best of friends. It was as if getting caught staring at the other was … *natural*
for both of them.

It was an endearing sight, Bill thought, remembering other times and someone else … and one, he
reflected to himself, far too easy to misinterpret. Unless there was **no** misunderstanding or
misinterpreting what his own eyes could see …

He shook his head and sighed.

He knew the feeling too well … and he knew what his youngest siblings were going through, as he
caught Ron and Ginny casting glances at the pair who were lost in their own world.

Been there.

Done that.

Made mistakes along the way.

And the memories would have made any Dementor ecstatic at the mere mention of meeting up with
him.

* * * * *

*"Is it, or isn't it?"*

*"What? Is it, or isn't it ... what?"*

*"Love."*

*Erin ... Erin ... do you think that you need my opinion on this matter? Granted, I am older
than you are (if a few months can qualify me as ‘older’). I am more experienced in this matter than
you are. But still -- why ask me?*

*There are many ways to look at "love." The matter has been discussed a million
ways, in the thousands of years of human existence. Ask any person, and he will give his or her
opinion ... and another would differ ... and another ... and still another.*

*Who really tells you if this is "it" or not?*

*Certainly not them.*

*Positively, not me.*

*Then -- who?*

*You.*

*Follow your heart. That's all I can really say.*

* * * *

A clatter at his elbow brought him back to the present, and he turned to look into the blue eyes
of his youngest brother, who smiled and said, “You look like a man who needs a drink, Bill. Have
one on me.”

“No, thanks, Ron. I already have …” His answer was cut short as he looked down at the mug he was
lifting, surprised that it was empty. He stared at it blankly for a moment and then felt Ron
nudging him. With a grateful smile, he picked up the mug that Ron offered, lifted it to his lips …
and stopped. “On second thought, Ronald … why don’t *you* drink this?”

“That’s yours, Bill.”

“Fred or George didn’t happen to give you this, did they?”

“Bill!” Ron exclaimed in a reproachful voice. “Would I do something like that to my oldest
brother?”

“Yes.”

The two locked eyes briefly; with a resigned air, Ron called over Tom the bartender and asked
for two mugs of ale. Bill raised an eyebrow at this but merely smiled and said, “I may not be a
Cindy Galloway, brother … but I did watch the lot of you growing up.”

Ron snickered at that, remembering the incident in the ice cream parlor when Fred, in a gesture
of “friendship,” offered Carolyn a Canary Cream. The little girl had been so grateful (apparently,
all the walking and excitement of the day had worked up quite an appetite), but Cindy grabbed the
pastry from her just before she could bite on it.

The sudden move surprised them all, especially Fred who stood, mouth agape – which gave Cindy
the chance to shove the Canary Cream into his open mouth … and he promptly turned into a six-foot
canary with a red-feathered crown.

The shrieks of surprise from Carolyn and her mother were met by a roar of laughter from the
others; within seconds, Fred had popped back to his normal self, only this time with a face as red
as his hair, sputtering at the surprise attack.

“My cousin told me all about you,” was the smug reply from a laughing Cindy. “She told me never
to accept anything from you or your brothers … not unless I’m prepared to feed it to Mrs. Norris
first.”

Fred had taken it well, even treating the two girls to Florean’s special four-scoop ice cream
cones (each scoop changing colors and flavors with each lick), and promising not to use either one
as a test subject in the future.

“You’re gonna have a problem with those two, Ron,” Bill said with a snicker.

Ron sputtered. “Why,” he asked in an aggrieved tone, “does everyone think that I’ll have
*anything* to do with them when they get to Hogwarts? For all I know, they may end up in
Slytherin or Ravenclaw …”

He stopped at the look of amusement in Bill’s eyes, realizing that he was being too defensive,
was protesting too much … he broke away from Bill’s gaze (and an eyebrow that was almost to Bill’s
hairline), and glanced at the mirror behind the bar.

And suddenly blurted out, “Do you believe in platonic love?”

* * * *

*Erin ... Erin … don't try to treat love as an examination you can prepare for. Whatever
preparation one makes cannot take into account everything that may happen. And never try to reduce
love to an intellectual exercise. In the end,* feeling *-- an intangible* something *--
actually defines it for us.*

*Treat love as an adventure, as a cliché would go. Nobody wants to be hurt ... no one walks in
with eyes closed ... everyone wants to be sure of oneself. But how can we ever be sure, unless one
has tried?*

*Love is one of those intangible, undeniable things that happen -- unavoidable, except by
choice.*

*But then ... who does not make the choice to try?*

* * * *

“Are you talking about Harry or about yourself?”

Ron’s head snapped up to stare at him through the mirror’s reflection, his face confused. Bill
considered apologizing for a moment, to say that he’d probably misunderstood or was thinking about
something else … but no, he thought. Best to have this out … best for him to do his older brother
act *now* when an opportunity presented itself, rather than ignore it and let someone else
(like Percy!) try to do it for him …

He stared back at Ron in the mirror, blue eyes locking with blues, and said, “You *were*
asking about platonic love, weren’t you?”

Bill watched in amusement as Ron’s face turned white, and then red … Ron broke away from his
steady gaze to glance in the mirror at his best friends … before looking back and locking stares
with his older brother.

For a long moment, they locked eyes as they played a game from their younger days … daring the
other to break away and admit defeat. But the game was interrupted by Tom’s clatter as he set down
their order of ale and a plate of nibbles in front of them. “Sorry, Bill,” he puffed, “couldn’t
give you a room or table yet … the place is just too crowded right now.”

“No problem, Tom,” Bill said with a smile at the old man. “We can hold off for a while
longer.”

With a nod, the bartender left them and Bill lifted his drink in a toast.

“Here’s to love in *all* its forms,” he said, and took a deep gulp of his drink. He watched
as Ron pondered the toast and, reluctantly, lifted his own drink in a responding toast, and drank …
eyes again focused on the mirror and his friends.

“Speaking from experience, are we?” Ron asked in a mocking voice. He was about to comment
further when he stopped, surprised at the blazing eyes Bill directed at him. He tried to work his
suddenly dry throat, apologize for the tactless remark (one *never* joked with a Gringotts’
curse-breaker) … and started breathing again only when Bill shook his head and smiled back (a
forced, bitter smile).

“Yes I am, Ron,” Bill replied. “Speaking from experience, that is.”

“Anyone I know?” Ron asked in a bantering tone. “Like … umm, who was it that Nicole reminded you
of?”

Bill ignored the question as he raised his ale in a silent toast to the two people he could see
in the mirror, engrossed in their own world and each other, before looking back at his youngest
brother.

“So, who were *you* talking about, Ron? Are you asking about *yourself* … or are you
asking about Harry?”

Ron flushed as he replied, “I don’t know, Bill. Honestly … I don’t *know*.”

Ron turned away from Bill but kept his eyes away from the mirror and the sight that he knew
would be there. “I don’t know, Bill,” he repeated in a quiet, meandering voice. “There are times
like this morning … when I *think* of her as a girlfriend … and then I see how she looks at
Harry and wonder whether it’s love or envy that I feel … other times, I think that it’s just a
crush on her … you know, something that will get blown away when I go back to school and see
Lavender or Parvati or Padma … or maybe it’s just because I’m so used to having her around, you
know … teasing her, fighting with her … maybe it’s just because I’m comfortable with her … or maybe
I’m just scared to try it with other girls so I may as well fall in love with her …”

“Or maybe you’re just in love with love.”

Ron glared at his brother, fully expecting to see the mocking tone and manner that he’d come to
expect from the Twins whenever the subject came up … and was again startled by the look of utter
seriousness on his eldest brother’s face.

He sighed. “Maybe … but how do you *know*? How do you know if what you feel for your best
friend is the real thing or not?”

“I assume that the ‘best friend’ we’re talking about is Hermione?”

Ron had been about to gulp down his drink when Bill’s insinuation made its way through his
bemused brain – and he suddenly sprayed ale over the bar top as the liquid went the wrong way down
his throat. He gasped, trying to say something in response, but was stopped as he nearly choked …
and Bill, laughing, was pounding his back as he coughed and sputtered …

He looked around and caught sight of everyone looking at him, and he flushed. ‘Great, Ron!’ he
thought to himself, ‘Make a prat of yourself in front of a live audience … better straighten Bill
out, else I won’t be hearing the end of this!’

“Who else, Bill? What do you think of me … a … a …”

“Just checking,” Bill said, a wide, wide grin splitting his tanned, handsome face with the
dragon’s fang dangling from one ear. “So, it *is* Hermione, I presume?”

“Keep it down, will you!” Ron hissed, looking around nervously. “If Fred and George hear about
this … they’re liable to do something that *will* embarrass me ‘til the day I die!”

“You really think you can keep that away from them?” Bill replied with deep amusement. “Knowing
those two, they’re probably cooking up some scheme or another to bring you and Hermione together …
although, given the success those two have with their jokes, they’re far more liable to bring you
and *Harry* together.”

An image of Harry, messy hair, round glasses and knobby knees, walking into the sunset with a
tall, red-haired, freckled, long-nosed wizard, holding hands and whispering sweet nothings to each
other came into his mind … and Ron shuddered so badly that his drink spilled out of his shaking
hand.

“Now *that’s* something that could make a guy *sick*,” he said, as he tried to push
the appalling thought away – and nearly choked at Bill’s reply:

“Oh, I don’t know … depends on the wizard, I think.”

Ron’ eyes widened in shock, staring at his brother as the latter batted his lashes with a
simpering smile, and the thought popped into his mind, “Is *Bill* … ?”

“Sorry, Ron, I don’t swing that way,” Bill said with a laugh. Ron heaved a sigh of relief … he
didn’t know how he would deal with such a revelation … and felt momentary gratitude to his older
brother for taking his mind off his troubles. It was at that moment that he happened to glance at
the mirror again … and felt his relief slowly ebb away again.

His *friends* were leaning back in their chairs, smiling at each other in a way that he
could only envy … and again, he felt a tinge of resentment that they seemed to be sharing something
which he was not a part of. Mentally, he started counting off all the incidents which he should
have been part of but had missed out on … starting with Harry’s first Quidditch game and the time
when he’d stood frozen in the stands, silently urging Hermione on in her rescue mission … realizing
only after it was all over that he’d been standing there like a dodo, rather than doing something
to *help* …

“Hi, Bill … Ron.” The brothers turned as Ginny stood beside Bill, and felt their lower jaws drop
to the floor as she grabbed a mug and proceeded to take a huge gulp of the ale – after which she
nearly fell down, coughing as the liquor burned down her throat. A horrified Ron checked the mug
she’d grabbed, and sighed with relief when he saw that she had grabbed, out of pure serendipity,
Bill’s mug – not the one that the Twins had given him to offer Bill.

His relief swiftly turned to anger, however, and he glared at his sister: “What was that all
about? You’re not allowed to drink liquor …”

“Oh, blow it out, brother-o-mine!” Ginny responded through her coughing fit. She looked up, face
red and eyes tearing up, “And I suppose you’re drinking sarsaparilla or something?”

“Uh …”

“Thought so,” Ginny replied triumphantly. She was about to grab Bill’s mug for another swig when
Bill stopped her.

“I think you’d do better with some butterbeer, Ginny,” Bill said. The eldest and youngest
Weasley locked eyes for a moment, and Bill waved to old Tom. “On the other hand, a small gillywater
won’t hurt … a medicinal dose, I think.”

Ron was about to ask why when he glanced in the mirror … and dropped all protest.

Hermione was leaning back, for all the world like someone exhausted from reading and was now
resting her eyes – but instead of closing them, however, her eyes were *resting* on the
napping Harry Potter. A small smile was playing on her face, and Ron felt, again, a small thrill in
his spine as he realized just how much his friend had changed from their first encounter …

But her smile … affectionate, caring, loving … it was a smile directed at *Harry*, not at
him, and he again felt an ache in the region of his chest. As if she had felt his eyes on her, she
suddenly looked up and met his eyes … and turned away, embarrassed at being caught staring at
Harry.

He swallowed … and almost gagged as he felt warm ale flowing down his throat. He didn’t realize
that he’d lifted his mug as he stared in the mirror at his friends, and understood that what he saw
was the impetus which drove Ginny to take a nip from Bill’s mug …

His eyes shifted away from his friends, and saw Bill’s sympathetic eyes on his … knew that Bill
saw the same thing he saw and realized, in that instant, what Bill went through with the mysterious
person he had mistaken Nicole Amelia Wright for …

* * * *

*I knew what I was to Erin -- sometime father, sometime brother, at all times, a
**friend**. Someone she could lean on, someone she could cry on, a friend to whom she could talk
to about any subject under the sun, the moon or the stars ... and be assured of a serious
face.*

*Until one of us started laughing.*

*Someone who was there.*

*Just ... **there**.*

*But, not someone who would court her.*

*Not someone who would fall in love with her.*

*But I did. I had been, for some time. Yet, I could never bring myself to tell that to her. Or
even to hint that much.*

*I guess ... although Erin sometimes teased me for being "inhuman"... I knew I had
my own faults. Especially those of fear ... and indecision.*

*I wouldn't even admit it to myself for some time.*

*I had tried to rationalize it away ... I told myself that she was a very lovable person --
**anyone** could fall in love with her.*

*Yes, I know -- just look at me.*

*It was only because I was close to her ... I was her sounding board for problems ... she
trusted me more than anybody else ...*

*I kept telling myself, "I love Erin, yes ... but I am **not*** in love *with
her!"*

*Which was a lot of bull.*

*Something within me always refused to agree.*

*I finally had to accept it.*

*I had been a blind **fool** ... to have let my rationalizations as well as my fear of
losing Erin -- to overshadow my true feelings. Be what it may ... there was no way I could go back
to the past with her. It was over ... finished. She was with someone else ...*

* * * *

Bill was a good listener, Ron and Ginny reflected much later. It was as if the sight of a
comfortable Harry and Hermione together, sharing a moment in which it seemed there was no one else
in the world but themselves, opened the floodgates of their roiling emotions and thoughts.

Bill listened as they’d poured out everything that had gone through their minds that day …
starting with the moment Ron opened the door only for Harry and Hermione to fall into the house …
their talk among the trees as the sun was climbing into the sky … Ginny finally opening up about
her gratitude and debt to Harry after what had happened in the Chamber of Secrets (with Ron quietly
cursing under his breath at the missed opportunity for Ginny to open up) … to the spectacle of
Hermione on top of Harry as they Floo’ed in earlier that day (for which Bill had given a resounding
and appreciative laugh) … Ginny’s frustration and regrets at having frozen during the fight – and
the moments after … Ron’s feelings and emotions when Bill had stopped him from going to Hermione …
and finally, Ron’s thoughts, revelations and realizations in the minutes before his encounter with
the thugs and the two young girls …

The only distraction, Ron thought, was that Bill kept twisting that dammed copper bracelet on
his wrist. At first glance, it was nothing out of the ordinary … a dark metallic bracelet of no
remarkable design, and looking much like the copper bracelet that Seamus Finnegan had shown them
once, claiming that his Muggle Dad wore one for his health(of all things!), and which he had sent
to Seamus in the dark days before Harry destroyed the basilisk and Tom Riddle.

The only thing different about the bracelet that Bill was wearing were the words etched on it …
Ron could make out the letters, “*Cor …*” something, followed by some numbers, which he
quickly assumed was the mysterious Erin’s full name. He’d been so engrossed in his story, and
trying to make out the name on the bracelet that he didn’t realize that his story had ended … and
that Bill was asking him a question.

“So what do you want to do about it, Ron?”

“Huh?” He’d looked at Bill in surprise … Bill, with a sigh, repeated his question -- and Ron had
to face the question that he’d been asking himself since early that morning: ‘What the hell do
*I* want to do about it?’

“Why not just tell her?”

Ron looked at his brother in horror, “Tell her *what*, Bill? Tell her that I think I
*like* you and I would like to rock your socks? Tell her that, hey, I just realized you’re a
*girl*, after four years of thinking of you as just another one of the guys? Tell her I’ve had
this crush on you since our first year, only you were too bossy and such a know-it-all that you
were a nightmare to be with …”

“Why not tell her the truth? That you like her a lot, and that you want to be more than ‘just
friends’ with her?”

“And if she laughs in my face? If she tells me that she likes me as a brother and as a friend …
but she cannot think of me as being anything *more* than a friend? What if she *turns me
down,* Bill?”

“Then at least everything is clear … no expectations, no recriminations, *no regrets*.
Better to know what the score is, rather than brood and imagine things that may or may not be ...
and ruin a friendship with your best friend.”

“*Which* best friend are you talking about, Bill? Harry or Hermione?”

“Both.”

Blue eyes clashed with blues, but Ron couldn’t sustain the game; in truth, his heart wasn’t in
it because he recognized the truth in his brother’s statement. But a stubborn streak in him refused
to accept, and he cast about for something else to say …

“I don’t envy you, Ron.” He snapped around to stare at Ginny, who’d been so quiet the last few
minutes that he’d totally forgotten about her. She sat on her bar stool beside Bill, absently
swirling her glass of gillywater with a finger, and staring down into its depths. She looked into
his eyes and continued, “At least I have nothing to lose with Harry … he will always think of me as
your sister, he will always think of me as that silly little girl who’s had a crush on him since
first year …”

“And the person he saved from the Chamber of Secrets,” Ron reminded.

Ginny smiled, wistfully. “Yes, there is that. But don’t you see, Ron? *I* owe him a debt …
he doesn’t owe me anything. And … knowing Harry, he wouldn’t know what to do with a wizard’s debt
if it bites him on the … ah … elbow!

“I’ll have an easier time than you, Ron … I can go on with my life, make myself stop asking
‘What if,’ learn to stop blushing when Harry speaks to me, and give him all the friendship and
support he needs, if ever he realizes that I’m there.”

Ron looked at his sister in surprise, realizing that she was maturing fast, and learning to
accept things that could never be. While he felt relief that his sister was learning to accept
reality, he couldn’t help but feel a tinge of regret that Harry and Ginny would never really hit it
off.

It would have been the perfect solution, he thought. Harry and Ginny, him and Hermione … One Big
Happy Weasley Family, with their homes adjoining each other, their children playing together as
close friends first and cousins second, Ginny and Hermione exchanging recipes and household tips
…

And *that*, he realized, again, was another aspect he’d overlooked. He could easily imagine
his best friends and himself as a member of one big happy family – but he could not imagine
Hermione playing the “traditional” role of a housewife and mother that his own Mum had filled. She
was simply too headstrong, too independent-minded (and too bossy by nature) to fill a traditional
role in a traditional household …

She made a perfect complement to Harry, he realized … something that had been proven too many
times in their shared past. But the stubborn part of his nature held on … in constant conflict with
his essentially giving and sacrificial nature. He’d given up too many things when he was growing up
to let something wonderful slip away without a struggle – no matter what his eyes, and the eyes of
everyone else told them ... no matter what today and so many other incidents in their time together
showed him …

“Who’s Corinne?” he asked, absently. Bill raised an eyebrow at this, knowing full well that he
was trying to divert the discussion, but wondering where *that* question came from. Ron
gestured at his bracelet; glancing at it, Bill gave a bitter smile and twisted it around to let
them read the inscription written there: “*1 Corinthians 13: 4-8*.”

Ron looked at him, confused … he’d thought that it was a gift from Erin (which he’d assumed was
a nickname for Corinne) but the words held no meaning for him. He repeated them aloud, and was
startled to hear an unfamiliar voice speak up behind him:

“It’s from the Bible, first letter of St. Paul to the Corinthians, Chapter 13, verses four to
eight.” The siblings turned around, surprised, to see their new friend Amelia Wright standing there
behind them.

“I’m sorry,” she said in apology. “I couldn’t help but overhear … my sister and brother
practically dinned that verse into my ears when I was growing up, and I was surprised that it was
also familiar in your world.”

Bill looked at her curiously, for there was something in the timbre of her voice that he caught,
but couldn’t place – and he felt something breaking off within him, like an iceberg calving off a
glacier as a sudden thought struck him. His brother and sister, however, were pressing Amelia to
explain what the verse meant, and she answered, her eyes were locked with Bill’s:

“*Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is
not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does
not delight in evil, but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes,
always perseveres. Love never fails.*”

Nicole paused for a moment, and said, softly, “My brother and sister always changed that last
line to, “*Love is never lost.*”

Silence descended on the four: Ron and Ginny looking within themselves as they pondered the
words written by a wise man centuries before the foundation of Hogwarts, speaking about a universal
truth that few seemed to understand, two millennia or more since he’d first penned them, while Bill
and Nicole locked eyes, something unspoken moving between them ...

The moment was broken, however, by sounds much like the popping of corks from champagne bottles
– three loud pops which made heads turn all over the tavern to locate the source of the noise.

In the middle of the room, three teenaged wizards slowly put down their mugs and stared at each
other. They looked like refugees from the early seventies – all three in robes of psychedelic
colors that would have shamed Joseph’s Coat of Many Colors into a closet, wearing peace symbols on
chains around their necks, all wearing round sunglasses made popular by a wizard turned muggle
entertainer named John Lennon – two with enormous Afro hairdos that made them look like
cherry-flavored lollipops, the other a thin black boy in the same enormous Afro hairdo but with
black hair and tiny ribbons here and there.

The latter spoke first, in a voice surprisingly like that of Lee Jordan: “Now what the hell did
you two *morons* think you were doing?”

One of the cherry lollipops responded in the voice of George Weasley: “What do you mean
*we*, pale-face?”

The other lollipop piped up, “Yeah, what do you mean *we*?”

The Lee Jordan-turned-seventies-hippie snarled, “Who else can it be but you two?”

The second lollipop snarled back, “Don’t look at us, mate! We haven’t even thought of something
like this!”

“Don’t give me that! You’re the only ones around who would do something like this!”
Lee-the-hippie screamed back. “Do something before I hex you into next week!”

The bickering trio suddenly stopped as they heard giggles coming from different parts of the
tavern … the giggles soon turning into a roar of laughter as people realized that the tables had
been turned on the greatest jokesters in Hogwarts since the days of the legendary Marauders. The
three hippies looked around them and at each other … and soon, all three were clutching their
stomachs as laughter overtook them … Colin Creevey’s camera flashed, and the three refugees from
another era obligingly struck poses with various wizards and witches, with Colin’s camera flashing
again and again to record the event for posterity …

Bill was wiping the tears from his eyes when he suddenly turned to Nicole: “Why do I have the
feeling that you know something about this?”

Ron and Ginny stared in surprise; Nicole, however, tried to keep a straight face as she
responded, “Don’t look at me! Cindy and Carolyn asked me to order three butterbeers to be sent over
to them … I don’t know what they did with it!”

Bill, Ron and Ginny turned around in time to see the two young girls giving each other high
fives when the Twins’ backs were turned, broad grins on their faces and both with tears falling
down their cheeks from their laughter.

Ginny turned to Ron with a smile, “You’re gonna have a lot of trouble with those two,
Ronnie!”

Before Ron could snarl back a response, Tom the bartender bustled up, tears also streaming from
his eyes, and told them that a room was available and lunch would be served there for them. Turning
to Ginny, he said, “Ask your friend with the camera to send me a full set of pictures, Virginia …
this will be the talk of the tavern for months to come!”

As the four stood up, Bill turned to Ron and Ginny: “You two go on ahead. I think Nicole and I
have to talk.”

The two looked from him to Nicole Wright, who nodded and asked them to bring Carolyn in with
them. As they walked away, she turned to Bill Weasley and said: “Yes. I’m Erin’s sister.”

* * * *

*What could I do about it?*

*I resolved to break off her enchantment for me ... to fight off that feeling I had for her. I
hoped that the passage of time would disprove me ... that my feelings for Erin were only an
illusion ... only an obsession ... just another infatuation.*

*And yet ... something within me always refused to let her know. I knew there would be no
satisfactory explanation I could give her for saying "good bye" ... to turn my back on
the friendship we had before. She knew me too well to accept anything I would tell her. I
didn't want her to know ... or even suspect ... what I truly felt for her.*

*And ... yes ... I was a coward to myself. Seeing her would only open up too many things I
wanted to avoid. More, I was so afraid that doing so would only hurt both of us ... in truth, I
knew I would hurt myself more than it would hurt her ... and I didn't want that.*

*I just wanted to **go** ...*

*And I did.*

* * * *

“But you’re a … a …”

“Squib,” Nicole completed. “Don’t be bothered by it … I’ve had years to live with the fact.”

“I was going to say ‘Muggle,’ but all right.” Bill paused, unsure of where to go with this.

“Remus and Erin tried their best to make me feel no different from them, but …” and she sighed.
“It was difficult growing up … seeing them do things that I couldn’t do, having your parents and
relatives trying everything they can to scare the magic out of me. They finally gave up when there
was no Hogwarts letter the summer of my eleventh birthday.”

Bill didn’t reply; what can one say? He’d met his share of Muggles … sometimes pitied them but
always understood them, realizing that their not knowing about the magical world was best … but
what about those who knew about magic – and didn’t have one iota of magic in their blood?

Nicole continued, “Which was why they kept on drumming that verse into my mind – they kept
telling me that it didn’t matter that I was non-magical, that I was still their youngest and they
still loved me …”

“It must have been … difficult,” Bill said, awkwardly.

Nicole smiled at him and shook her head. “She remembers you with fondness, you know. She told me
that you were her best friend in the world … that you were the brother and friend that she felt she
… lost …”

“Lost?” Bill’s brain was in a jumble; too much information to absorb, and he was having a
difficult time doing his best to stop himself from blurting out the question he truly wanted to
ask. “I thought you said …”

He suddenly stared at Nicole, and whispered, “Is Remus *Lupin* your brother? Is that why
…”

He fell silent. He had always known that Erin was related to Remus, one-fourth of the legendary
Marauders that had included James Potter and the escaped murderer Sirius Black. And last year …
he’d been shocked to learn that Remus Lupin, who had taught Defense Against the Dark Arts in Ron’s
third year, was actually a werewolf … but his mind hadn’t connected the fact that Erin and Remus
were brother and sister … and he wondered at the pain and torture that Nicole had gone through:
brother a werewolf, she herself a Squib, and a sister who …

“She’s doing quite well,” Nicole said, almost as if reading his mind. “She went to North
Carolina in the United States with Richard. She and Remus were very excited when I told her that
Carolyn was accepted at Hogwarts …”

Bill turned away, not knowing how to react to the news. Much as he was glad to learn something
of an old flame, he could once more feel the shame, embarrassment and painful regrets of those
days. He looked at the journal he still held, recalling Erin’s last letter to him …

* * * *

*Dear Bill ...*

*You told me once, back when we first became friends, that:*

"Sometimes, the love you hold for a person can never be realized in the usual ways. At the
moment of realization, it begins to change ... away from selfishness to one of truly caring without
the need for any actual 'return.'

"Love is never lost."

*I remember laughing at you... teasing you for being an incurable romantic, in a time when
romance -- like chivalry -- was dead and gone with the dodoes.*

*I now know it can be. I have come to realize that the love shared in that kind of friendship
can be as precious as other relationships. It can also have as much meaning ... and maybe more,
much more.*

*Because it is founded on friendship.*

*And respect for each other.*

*I can understand it all now, my friend.*

*And ... I am very sorry for laughing at you.*

*Please.*

*Be around for a while longer.*

*Please, my friend?*

*Erin*

* * * *

He could remember laughing, bitter tears falling down his face, as he read the letter – and tore
it to shreds. He could recall with clarity throwing the copper bracelet she enclosed with the
letter into the fireplace of his Head Boy’s dormitory … and, hours later, streaming still-bitter
tears, reassembling the letter with Spell-o-tape … crawling to and pulling out the copper bracelet
from the fire and performing a charm to remove the damage done by the fire.

But he never backed down from his resolution: he cut himself off from Erin and Richard,
preferring to throw himself into his books, OWLs and NEWT preparations, fully focused on ensuring
that he got top marks – and his choice of career after graduation. Erin had tried to reach him …
but after pointedly ignoring her every time they chanced to meet in the corridors of Hogwarts, she
returned his denial of their friendship in full measure …

No more talks, no more walks … no more letters or notes, from the time he learned that she and
Richard were an item … all that he had left of his friendship with Erin were his memories … the
journal he put together during those first lonely weeks in Cairo … and the copper bracelet he still
wore as a reminder to himself of the pain and loss that he caused himself.

And all for *what*, he asked himself yet again. Because he could not accept that his best
friend was in love with his *other* best friend? Because he chose to *ignore* what he
could see with his own eyes – that, no matter how close he and Erin were, she and Richard seemed to
communicate on a totally different level – one where nothing needed to be said, nothing had to be
written but they each acted as if the other was sharing the same brain?

Because he felt *betrayed* by his best friends him because they fell in love with each
other?

Or were they already in love with each other from the very beginning, while he … was simply in
love with love?

“… She wants to know if you have finally forgiven her.”

His eyes, his brain, his *mind* flew back to the present, and he looked in utter shock at
Nicole. “Forgive her? I have nothing to forgive her for … I should be the one to ask for
forgiveness from her!”

“But you never *told* her, Bill. You never told her how you felt about her …”

His eyes locked with hers, and he asked the question that he knew the answer to: “Would it have
changed anything, Nicole?”

She broke away from his blazing eyes and whispered, “No. She had given her heart to Richard, as
he had … but at least everything would have been clear to both of you. There would have been no
expectations, no recriminations, *no regrets*.”

“And I wouldn’t have lost a friend.”

“You never lost her, Bill.” He looked at her, puzzled, and she continued. “She always felt she
lost *you* …”

He opened his mouth to protest, but stopped … and nodded. Yes, he thought, that was the way Erin
was … she would think that she was to blame, that it was her fault for not understanding him or not
realizing his feelings sooner … but knowing, in the end, that there was nothing she could do about
it.

She would have accepted the cards that Destiny dealt her, and would leave him alone to sort it
out. How could she have known, he wondered, that it would take him *years* to finally sort it
all out?

He felt a hand tapping his shoulder, and turned to look into the emerald-green eyes of his
brother’s best friend. “Aren’t you joining us, Bill? Nicole?”

He took a deep breath. “In a minute, Harry. Why don’t you and Hermione go on ahead? We’ll be
there in a few minutes.”

Harry looked at them for a moment, and turned away to walk towards Hermione, once again burdened
with the day’s shopping – and Hermione’s books. He watched them for a moment and whispered to
himself, “And history repeats itself.”

“I hope not.”

He turned back to Nicole and smiled. “It won’t. I think I can promise that.”

He drew his wand and waved it over his journal, reducing it back to its small, pocket-sized
form. As he was about to tuck it away, Nicole stopped him, holding the hand and the journal. Before
he could react, she had reached up and given him a kiss on the corner of his lips.

“Erin would have wanted to give you that,” she said, and handed him a small card. “As well as
this.”

He glanced at the card … and the words broke off the iceberg that surrounded his heart: “*I
have been, and always will be, your friend.*”

Underneath the words were an address in North Carolina, and he smiled at Nicole as he tucked the
card into his journal, which he carefully placed in its customary location – in the pocket just
over his heart.

“Thank you.”



10. Darkness Descending ...
---------------------------

Epiphanies 09

(**Author’s Notes.** The usual disclaimers, this is a work of fiction built around JK
Rowling’s masterful Harry Potter universe, yadda,yadda, yadda. As usual, a million thanks to all
those who reviewed the previous chapters.

For all those who were asking for more H/Hr, sorry to disappoint you. There’s almost no H/Hr
action here, but there’s a reason behind it all. Please read and review!)

Chapter 9. Darkness Descending

It was a two-toned world … black and white with every shade of grey in between. The only
illumination came from the brilliant orb of the moon and the cold, sparkling light of the stars as
they stared with cold indifference on the world below them. They’d been witness to the calumnies of
men, both Muggle and Magical, over countless millennia; if they knew any secrets, they kept these
to themselves in spite of the efforts of ordinary mortals, astrologers, Seers … or centaurs.

Harry Potter rubbed his eyes … and felt a sense of panic as he realized that his glasses were
gone. He wondered whether that was the cause of his seeming color-blindness but realized, in the
next moment, that the world around him was that way: cold, forbidding, grey.

There was no sense of familiarity about this place, even to his blurred eyes. It was not the
village of Ottery St. Catchpole … neither was it the neighborhood surrounding No. 4 Privet Drive.
For a second, he wondered whether it was Hogsmeade Village – but no, he could not make out the
dilapidated walls of the Shrieking Shack, or the warm sign of the Three Broomsticks … or the other
houses and shops that he’d grown familiar with in the two years he’d been allowed to visit the tiny
wizarding village.

This must be a dream, but what did it mean? He’d fallen into a comfortable sleep last night,
after spending a most enjoyable evening with Hermione, Ron and the usual cast of characters in what
he called the Weasley Common Room – although there was something off-kilter about it: Hermione and
Ginny playing Exploding Snap, the Twins playing Wizard’s Chess, Molly knitting while Arthur
discussed the latest developments at the Ministry with Percy … Ron and himself, reading.

Reading?

Ron was perusing what looked like an old, beat-up journal with seemingly avid interest, his eyes
running down each page swiftly … but just as often stopping, and looking off into the distance,
brow furrowed in deep thought – although Harry had felt several moments when he thought that Ron
was staring at him, only to look up to see Ron either looking away, or else seemingly focused on
Hermione.

And as for him? He was reading a book of Ancient Runes … which may well have sent his dorm-mates
into epileptic shock. Why should he, Harry Potter, the greatest slacker next to Ron Weasley among
the fifth-year Gryffindors, be spending the last few days of summer reading up on a subject he was
not even taking up? Or rather, that he was not *yet* taking up. He’d made the decision some
time during the day before … probably when he was reading the book that Hermione had ‘lent’ him,
and which he had lugged around all over Diagon Alley (along with her other books) …

He nearly slapped himself at the thought. The decision to take Ancient Runes was made the moment
he found himself staring at his best friend in the Leaky Cauldron, thinking to himself yet again,
as he had since the Yule Ball last year, that Hermione was not just brainy, bossy and a general
know-it-all … but was absolutely … beautiful.

At least, to his eyes.

Unconsciously he began rubbing his forehead … and felt as if he was slowly turning to ice … as
if someone or something had sucked out the warm marrow from his bones and was slowly pouring in
bucket after bucket of ice-cold water …

His scar was aching.

It wasn’t the sharp, acute pain that he’d felt before … it was a sustained, throbbing pain; for
a brief moment, he wondered if it was the mere thought of his best friend and how she looked to his
eyes that was keeping the worst of the pain away.

He shook off that thought – and felt the pain suddenly explode as he fell to his knees. It was
excruciating; he tried to stifle his screams and the agony in his bones by clamping down, hard …
grinding his teeth as he fought against the pain …

He tried to bring back the picture of his best friend, tried to bring back the pleasant memories
of that day in the same way that he prepared himself to cast a Patronious, but failed … the pain
was piercing, radiating from his scar down his marrow to his extremities and he doubled over in
pain, as he felt movement around him … sensed them moving towards a small, isolated house at one
edge of the unfamiliar village.

He tried to hide but knew that he could not … realizing, in the same moment, that this was but a
dream, a nightmare even, but powerless to stop it – and feeling fear at the memory of other dreams,
other nightmares … especially those that he’d had since he stepped into the hallowed walls of
Hogwarts.

His wand! A simple “Lumos!” -- and he experienced true panic as he realized that it wasn’t on
him … and he clamped down again, feeling his teeth encountering cloth and other things as he tried
to stifle his screams … through his tightly clenched eyes he felt, more than saw, a wash of green
light emanating from that isolated house outside the unfamiliar village …

Harry thrashed and kicked, fighting his way out of the dream, the *nightmare* that assailed
him … screamed once again into the cloth that had stifled his yells as he heard the high, cold
voice that haunted the deepest regions of his subconscious roar: “*MORSMORDRE!*”

As the Dark Mark exploded into the sky, Harry felt his clenched fist slam into the night table
and pain lanced through his arm … felt the nightmare dissolve as his conscious mind registered the
tiny bedroom, his sweat-soaked clothes and the pillow he’d been clutching and which had helped
muffle his screams … felt someone holding him, trying to shake him from his nightmare.

He reached out, eyes glazed and stinging from the sweat that had poured over his face … unable
to see anything clearly without his glasses, but needing to hold on to someone, to assure himself
that he was out of his nightmare and in the real world … felt himself embracing whoever it was like
a drowning man clutching an extended arm, and felt himself hugged back …

He felt a fleeting warmth in that human contact and drew in a deep, ragged breath … felt himself
relaxing momentarily, and released the air in his lungs with a whispered, “Mione?”

He felt the person holding him stiffen and pull away; confused, he let go and grabbed for his
glasses by the night-stand … before he could even put them on, his mind registered a flash of red
hair … as his eyes finally focused through the lens of his glasses, they met a pair of shiny blue
eyes that held an infinite sadness and a look of reproach as she stared back at him …

“Ginny?” he whispered. He spun around, quickly registering the undisturbed and empty bed beside
him, and asked, “Where’s Ron? And Hermione?”

* * * *

“It’s Harry, isn’t it?”

The moon and stars spread their silvery light over the grounds of the house just outside Ottery
St. Catchpole … and the words floated in the air between them. For a brief moment, it seemed as if
the world was waiting in breathless anticipation for the answer to the question raised.

Ron looked at the person sitting beside him on the bench and wondered again at the changes that
had taken place over the years of his friendship with her. His mind drifted … comparing the person
beside him with the girl he first met on the Hogwarts Express years ago. At first glance, nothing
much had changed – the same bushy brown hair, the same look of intelligence in her brown eyes, the
same nose, lips and chin … her teeth as she bit her lower lip were the only things different from
the memory he held of her.

He sighed, wondering where he found the courage to follow Hermione when he heard her stirring
awake and walking out of the room she shared with Ginny … how he found the nerve to watch as she
sat on the bench outside The Burrow where she had sat with Harry, watching yesterday’s dawn … where
he found the strength to sit beside her calmly – and open up about his confused and conflicting
feelings for her.

‘Bill’s diary,’ he answered himself. ‘Where else?’

It was surprising – but at the same time, gratifying – when Bill pressed the journal into his
hands when they were saying their goodbyes at the Leaky Cauldron. He had (somewhat cheekily, he
thought) asked if there was anything *interesting* that he should know about Erin, Nicole, or
Carolyn before Bill left for Cairo. Bill’s response was a smile … and the journal.

He still didn’t know what he truly felt after reading Bill’s … memoirs. It was exhilarating at
the start, looking into the innermost thoughts and feelings of a younger Bill – the larger than
life brother who was their hero and icon … but at some point, he felt as if he were riding a hexed
broomstick, as he felt his emotions zoom up and crash down the deeper he got into Bill’s story
…

And he began to wonder, what was the point of it all?

Why had Bill given him the diary in the first place?

Of course.

He’d been so engrossed in reading that he had simply nodded distractedly as the others went up
to bed; he must have read and re-read portions of it so many times that the words seemed imprinted
on his eyes … and he had sat in his chair in the living room, immobile and so sunk in his thoughts,
that he’d actually fallen asleep right there.

Only to be awakened by the sounds of Hermione coming down … and walking out to the bench outside
The Burrow.

It was that darned thing, Ron thought, that made him do this … follow Hermione out to the bench,
made him sit down beside her … and forced the jumbled, rambling and incoherent words out of his
mind.

But as he talked and tried to arrange his jumbled thoughts and emotions into some logical order,
he began to realize the futility of his plans and intentions. It wasn’t a mere crush that he felt
for Hermione Granger; it was a combination of so many things: admiration for her intelligence and
strength, appreciation for all the academic help over the years, respect for the loyalty and
affection that she showed him, even during the worst days of the Scabbers incident – and his
falling out with The-Boy-Who-Lived.

And yes … there was the comfort of having her as a friend: someone who accepted him for what he
was, who looked beyond his lack of money, his hand-me-down robes, his second-hand books and
Spell-o-taped wand ...

And there, he realized, was where the truth lay: it was Hermione’s friendship and acceptance of
who he was and what he was that formed the solid core and foundation of everything that he felt
about her. At the heart of it all was *gratitude* for everything that she had been to him …
but beyond the sense of thankfulness and appreciation for all that she had been to him was …
nothing.

Hermione accepted him for what he was, and that was enough. There was no need for anything more
…

But there lay the difference between him and Harry.

Because even he could sense that there was something more between them … something that made
Harry look beyond the bushy-haired, know-it-all, interfering and indescribably bossy persona that
Hermione initially exhibited … and made Hermione go past the messy-haired, green-eyed, clueless
face of The-Boy-Who-Lived.

It was the same something that made Harry realize, in a series of steps that even he could never
explain, that Hermione did not know about the Mountain Troll that had gotten into Hogwarts – and
the same something that made Hermione recognize that someone was hexing Harry’s broom during his
first-ever Quidditch match.

And made both of them act, thinking of only one thing: that the other was in danger, and they
had to do something about it.

They needed each other.

At the heart of every thought and every action was that single overriding reality: they needed
each other … to survive, to continue …

To live.

While he … did not really need them as much as they seemed to need each other.

He could hear himself rambling … but it was as if his mouth was running on auto-pilot (which, he
ruefully admitted to himself, was something it was wont to do often), fueled as it was by that
stubbornly optimistic side of himself that often refused to accept facts until he was beaten bloody
and bowed, forced to stare facts in the eye. He heard himself stumbling and mumbling until his
mouth ended with the question: “Will you be my girlfriend?”

And now that the question lay between them, he was totally surprised that what he felt at this
moment was … release.

Liberation.

There was no sense of anticipation, not one iota of *expectation* about the answer that she
would give … thinking back on the past ten minutes or so, he realized that she knew … that she was
expecting something like this to happen … and that he had known what her answer would be.

He watched as she turned to him, tears in her eyes as she said, in a soft, strangled voice, “I’m
sorry, Ron but I can’t … I can’t …”

He placed a finger on her lips to shut her, for once exhibiting a tenderness and understanding
that he knew was often absent in his dealings with her and told her, in the same soft, strangled
voice, “I understand, Hermione.”

And he truly did.

They fell silent at that, turning away from each other … retreating into their thoughts, staring
at their surroundings etched in black, white and shades of grey from the light of the moon and the
stars ...

He took a deep breath of the cool night air and released it in one explosive exhalation … and
felt his sense of relief magnified, expand to immeasurable proportions and spread through his mind
and his soul

It was … he struggled to find a word to describe his feelings … it was *wonderful!* It was
liberating … it was wonderful to sit in the garden with his best friend …

His friend.

Not someone to court. Not someone to think of as a prospective partner … just a bushy-haired,
bossy *girl* with whom he frequently bickered, often teased and sometimes insulted without
thinking, but who was attractive in her own way: enjoyable as a companion, intelligent in a way he
would always admire and want to emulate, loyal to her friends and the causes she espoused … but, at
the end of it all … a friend.

*His* friend.

And he was happier for it.

But the stubbornly insistent part of his personality demanded an answer … needed confirmation of
his thoughts and observations … required an assurance that he could still understand his friends,
that he was still a part of them as they were a part of him … and that they would continue to treat
him as one.

Which was why the question had to be asked.

“It’s Harry, isn’t it?”

From behind the curtain of her hair, an answer came … so softly that he almost missed it:
“No.”

He turned to her, stunned. “No?” he repeated, unsure whether he heard her correctly.

She turned, pushing aside her hair to look at him, unencumbered by anything in the way: “It’s
Gilderoy Lockhart, Ron … always has been, always will be.”

He felt his jaw dropping … he would later swear to all the wizards and witches in his extensive
collection of chocolate frog cards that he felt his lower jaw *waggle* in shock before he
could blurt out, “You’re *joking*, aren’t you?”

Hermione simply stared back … and he could only gawk in disbelief. His brain shut down and he
didn’t see Hermione biting her lower lip, didn’t notice that she was beginning to breathe rapidly
and shallowly, didn’t realize that she was turning red from the effort of holding back, until:

“I wish Colin Creevey could take a picture of your *face* …”

And he knew he’d been had; royally, totally *had* by his friend … he lunged at her, only to
trip over his own feet … and he was eating dirt as her laughter rolled out above him.

He sat up, spitting dirt and leaves … watching Hermione, who was now on her knees, laughing at
him. He wanted to stand up and brush himself off … to try and regain what dignity he had left … but
her laughter was infectious, and he found himself clutching his stomach as the humor of it all hit
him and he joined her in the cleansing relief of laughter at himself and his willingness to believe
his friend … and the sheer joy as he realized that he could still understand her, he could still
*appreciate* her sense of humor, even if it was at his expense.

The moon and the stars continued their course, indifferent witnesses to the sight of two friends
rolling around on the ground, sharing the cleansing gift of shared laughter.

* * * *

The silence between them stretched and expanded, neither one sure of where they were going, or
even how to get there, wherever or whatever it was. Harry couldn’t look at Ginny’s reproachful face
and eyes and he felt himself torn between the need to get out of bed and see to his friends’ safety
… and the immobile figure of Ginny Weasley in front of him.

Harry’s head suddenly snapped around at the sound of Ginny’s quiet voice: “It’s Tom, isn’t
it?”

Tom?

Tom Riddle.

Of course.

He didn’t respond immediately as his inner turmoil continued. He had no wish to rake up Ginny’s
buried memories, no desire that she confront once again those painful, tormented days and nights
when she had fallen so deeply into Tom Riddle’s power that she had ended up alone in the Chamber of
Secrets … drawn there by her childhood crush on Harry Potter and his own feeble, and in the end,
inept efforts to help her.

In truth, he had no inkling, no clue of what to do about her feelings for him … he’d recognized
the signs from the moment she walked into the kitchen and fled, that first time he’d visited The
Burrow. He didn’t need the constant snickers of the Twins or the sly teasing of Hagrid, to know
that Ginny had a crush on him … all he felt he could do was to let time and maturity work its way
on her and eventually, help her move on …

How was he to know that the infernal diary from hell would turn the tables on him?

Instead of the crush fading away, Ginny was now bound even closer because of the debt she owed
him. Instead of friendship and affection replacing immature emotions, he now had to deal with
hero-worship and awe – both of which he hated with a passion.

It was just another of the insidious ways, he thought, that Voldemort had ruined his life …
aside from the guilt that he had to carry, he again had to confront the fact that he was not living
an ordinary life … that he could not even hold a decent conversation with his friend’s sister
because of what had happened between them.

He remembered Piers Polkiss’ sarcastic remark from way back in his abused childhood (a miserable
time caused, once again, by Voldemort’s interference in his life): “Whoever said that life was
fair, Potter?”

Yeah, right.

Fate sucks.

His head snapped up at Ginny’s strident whisper, “Harry!”

He gawked at her next statement, “You better get dressed … we need to talk with Ron and Hermione
about this.”

“*We*, Ginny?”

She looked him in the eye as she responded, “Well, you got me up anyway, right? Might as well be
in on what happened … and what’s going to happen.”

“Ginny …”

“Shut it, Potter.” He gaped, surprised at the intensity of her reaction. “I’m involved … we are
all involved. You’re a member of this family now … whatever happens to you, happens to us. You
can’t keep on like this, carrying the load by yourself … if we can help you, we will.”

“Ginny …”

“Oh, stop it, Harry! I know what you’re trying to do! You want to protect me … keep me from
getting involved, stop me from getting hurt. Well, get this, Mr. Harry Potter – I *am*
involved. Tom used me to try to get at you … he almost succeeded because I was too weak … but no
more. No more, do you hear me? I’m not going to let you or my big brothers keep on hiding me from
the real world. I have a life too, you know … the sooner I learn to face it, the better for
me.”

“Ginny …”

“What? If you’re going to go all noble and protective on me …”

“*Ginny!* Would you please step outside while I get dressed?”

Blue eyes clashed with green, and Ginny felt the blood rushing to her head … but this time, it
wasn’t because of her feelings for the boy on the bed. It was embarrassing, she thought, she’d been
so engrossed with her declaration of independence that she had totally forgotten who it was she was
talking with (and his state of undress at that moment) … and remembered, once again, the reasons
behind her conflicting emotions for The Boy-Who-Lived.

She turned away, the blush still on her face from her mortification, and whispered, “I’m sorry …
I’m such a girl …”

She felt him leaving the bed and standing beside her, felt his hand on her shoulder and heard
him say, “Never apologize, Ginny … never apologize for the things we have no control over. If there
is one thing I learned over the summer … never blame yourself for the things that you never know …
and could do nothing about when they happen.”

The kind words and the soft touch broke her down. She turned around and hugged him; for the
first time in a long while, she gave in to her emotions and embraced him in the same way that she’d
hugged Bill during her troubled, growing up years as the youngest child and only girl in a family
of boys.

She wept not for the loss of him as a potential boyfriend; she cried from the sheer comfort of
knowing that he was around, that no matter who he was and would be, no matter who he was with and
will be with … that she’d have his friendship, his understanding … his protection and warmth from
what she knew was the gathering darkness.

She felt his arms around her, holding her tightly as he’d held her when she woke up in the
Chamber of Secrets … felt his clothes getting wet with her tears in the same way she’d wept on him
then … heard his comforting words: “Shhh, Ginny … it’s all right. It’s all right …”

Too soon, she could feel him pulling away and she convulsively hugged him tighter, wishing only
for a few more moments of comfort and protection … and let go only when she heard him say, “You’d
better wait for me outside, Gin. I doubt being a member of the family will keep Fred and George
away when they see you in my room!”

She giggled and wiped her eyes, whispering, “Thanks, Harry.”

He smiled at her and they spent a few moments looking at each other, understanding running
between them, before she turned and walked to the door of the room. As she was about to step out,
however, she paused again to look at him: “You’re not going to jump out the window when I’m out
here, are you?”

He grinned back at her, the patented Harry Potter Smile that once would have made her weak-kneed
and red all over, but now only bathed her in warmth and comfort, and replied, “Only if Fred, George
or Ron come in here demanding to know what you’re doing in my room.”

She giggled again and stepped out, secure and confident in Harry’s trust and affection – and
realized that she had been spending all that time talking and hugging him in her nightdress. She
felt herself blushing all over, knowing that the only non-red parts of her body would be the palms
of her hands and the soles of her feet, thinking at the same time, ‘No wonder Harry was scared of
the Twins or Ron or Percy finding me there!’

Soon enough, he was outside the door again and they started down the stairs, pausing only for
her to grab a robe from her room. They were in the living room, heading for the door when the
fireplace suddenly blazed with a startling, green light … and the face of Albus Dumbledore could be
seen in the midst of the flames.

“Arthur? Arthur, are you there?”

Ginny and Harry froze in surprise: why should their Headmaster be looking for Mr. Weasley at
this time of the night? Unconsciously, Harry began rubbing his scar, even though its aching had
stopped earlier … Before either one could respond, Dumbledore’s eyes focused on Ginny and,
seemingly ignoring Harry, called out, “Miss Weasley? Can you please call your father here? I need
to talk with him, urgently.”

Ginny looked in confusion to Harry; before he could say anything, however, she had given him a
gentle shove towards the door, whispering, “Go on ahead, I’ll catch up with you.”

As she turned and ran back up the stairs, Harry hesitated … and decided to go on. If Dumbledore
needed him, he’d have asked for him – and he could see that the Headmaster had turned away from the
fireplace, as if he was talking to someone out of his field of vision.

The decision made, Harry walked swiftly to the door and stepped out into the cool darkness of
the remaining night …

* * * *

They’d been sitting in comfortable silence for some time, both of them awed by what a few
moments of honesty and openness had wrought.

It was a silence without a tinge of tension in the air; it was comfortable with no sense of
anything unsaid floating between them. It was companionship, friendship and familiarity … and
though both knew that they would soon be bickering over things trivial or important (since both had
distinctly opposing views of what was trivial and important), they both knew that it would be more
in the nature of bantering, good-natured joking – and never bickering.

Because they both knew where they stood.

And both were comfortable with that.

Soon enough, Ron broke the silence – and Hermione smiled. He could never stand the silence, she
thought. Having grown up with a large and rowdy brood, he’d never understood the value of silence …
unlike Harry who was used to the silence.

“It’s Harry, isn’t it?”

She let her hair fall over her face once again, not willing to verbalize her response. Yes, she
wanted to shout out loud, yes, it’s Harry … it has been, always will be … but she didn’t want to
say it, fearful that doing so may break the magic … in much the same way that a mispronounced
Levitation Charm found Wizard Baruffio on the floor with a buffalo on his chest.

After a moment, she shook herself and turned to him, a teasing tone in her voice: “Are you sure
you’re Ronald Weasley? The Ron Weasley I know would have been turning the air blue with four-letter
words … “

“You forget, Hermione, love is also a four-letter word.”

She looked at him, eyebrow raised in surprise and speculation … and he smiled at her. “Well,
*that* Ron Weasley was a real prat who didn’t deserve you or Harry. Let’s just say that he’s
had a change of heart and mind … it just needed a few things to make him realize how much of a
dense, insensitive and totally immature prat he was.”

“Oh? And what would those changes be?”

“Bill’s diary.”

“Excuse me?”

Ron turned away and repeated his words, softly: “Bill’s diary.”

As if those words were the key to an unopened door, the words spilled out, and he started
telling her about what he had been reading that night … quoting passages from Bill’s thoughts …
interspersing these with his own thoughts and feelings memories … and as the words poured out, Ron
felt Hermione’s hand enfolding his, holding him tightly as she watched his face move from elation
to sadness …

“I guess it was that last letter that did it for me, Hermione. He’d kept the letter in that
diary … Spell-o-taped together after he’d torn it up … smudges here and there from his tears, her
tears, who knows? But he’d kept it …”

He took a deep breath and looked into her chocolate-brown eyes, now glinting with unshed tears.
“I kept asking myself … what would I have done in Bill’s shoes? Would I have turned away from Erin
simply because she was in love with someone else? From what Bill wrote, Richard was a nice enough
guy … who’d also been his best friend. In fact, it seemed as if Bill was the one who got them
together in the first place … during the times when he thought that Erin was just a friend to him
…”

“Oh, Ron … that’s so sad.”

He didn’t appear to have heard her, as he continued talking … “I finally understood what Erin
was trying to tell Bill … and why Bill tore up her letter to him. He felt she had betrayed him and
was trying to make up by throwing in his face something he’d said to her years before.

“It made Bill bitter. We never understood why he decided to accept the Cairo posting from
Gringotts. We always assumed that he would continue working here … in fact, Gringotts had offered
him a position with their London headquarters, but he said Cairo gave him a higher allowance and
better scope for promotion …”

He fell silent, breathing heavily, as if Bill’s story had been some sort of catharsis for him.
Hermione wisely kept silent as she listened to the story, although she wondered what had been in
that final letter that seemed to have affected Ron so deeply.

“I’m not going to repeat Bill’s mistake, Hermione. He turned away from his best friends because
he felt they had betrayed him when in fact, he betrayed himself. If there is one thing I’ve come to
realize from reading his diary … I’m not going to let myself destroy one of the most wonderful
things that has happened to me.”

“And that is?”

“You. Harry and you … you and Harry.” He turned to her and suddenly grabbed her hands, and she
looked into his blazing blue eyes. “You’re my *friends*, Hermione … you have always been with
me all the time. Even when I was acting like a complete idiot, even when I was being Hogwarts’
biggest prat last year, neither of you ever gave up on me … I’m not going to risk that. I’m not
going to risk what we have just because I’m jealous of what you and Harry have … I want to be your
friend, Hermione.”

“Oh, Ron.” There was nothing else she could say, so she did the next best thing … and gave him a
hug. For a moment he sat frozen on the bench, and finally gave in to his emotions – and embraced
her tightly, closer than he’d ever hugged anyone before – even his mother or father. As their
embrace tightened, he felt her tears soaking his chest … but did nothing because he knew that she
could feel his tears falling on her hair.

Neither one saw that Harry had come upon them … neither one realized that he was standing there,
gaping like a beached salmon at the sight before him … neither one heard as he turned away and
started walking swiftly away towards the paddock the Weasleys owned … only to suddenly stop some
distance away from them and turn back, staring as if he couldn’t believe his eyes, feeling as if
his insides had turned molten and was pouring down into his feet …

They finally broke their embrace … faces flushing at the raw emotions they’d felt … Ron feeling
that his emotional liberation was finally complete, Hermione finally understanding what Ron had
gone through during the past four years as he watched the friendship grow and deepen between his
two best friends, never knowing what it was that was happening, wanting to be a part of it all but
too often incapacitated and out of it through no fault of his own …

Impulsively, she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek … unconsciously, he turned his head to
look at her and the kiss landed near his mouth … they sprang apart as if stung, but their looks of
shock quickly turned into smiles and they hugged again, but this time without the raw emotions of
only seconds before.

This time, the hug was comforting … it was a hug shared between friends who’d reached a deeper
understanding of each other … for whom acceptance had arrived without fanfare or grand gestures …
who knew that their friendship would last for an eternity, never seeking or wanting anything more
from each other but acceptance, tolerance, support, affection …

Finally, they broke apart, to sit comfortably once again on the bench that had seen its share of
heartbreaks and loss, as well as affection and promise … but had never before seen or felt the
renewal or re-casting of a friendship into a different form.

Hermione leaned her head on Ron’s arm and felt him wrap an arm around her; instinctively, she
placed an arm around him in a reaffirmation of the new level of friendship they shared, and she
heard him murmuring something that she knew were the words of the mysterious Erin to Bill:

*"Sometimes, the love you hold for a person can never be realized in the usual ways. At
the moment of realization, it begins to change ... away from selfishness to one of truly caring
without the need for any actual 'return’.*

*"Love is never lost."*

She sighed in contentment, happy that she hadn’t lost a friend … feeling delirious in the
knowledge that she had nothing to fear in her deepest feelings for her other friend … feeling a
burden lifted from her shoulders that their Trio could only grow stronger, even if two of them were
going to be closer in a way she had hoped for and wanted …

But the moment was broken as they heard running footsteps behind them, and they broke apart as
Ginny’s frightened, strident voice reached their ears: “Harry! Harry! Ron! Hermione! Where’s
Harry?”

They stared at each other in shock – why should Ginny be looking for Harry out there? Wasn’t he
in bed, sleeping? He would have said something, anything if he had gone out to look for them,
wouldn’t he?

Their mouths dropped simultaneously just as a panting Ginny reached them. Ron grabbed his
sister’s shoulders tightly and shook her slightly in an effort to calm her down.

Ginny was babbling, almost incoherently: “Harry was having a nightmare and I woke him up … we
were going to look for you when Professor Dumbledore came on the Floo network asking for Dad … I
went upstairs to get Dad but told Harry to go ahead … where is he, Ron? Where is he?”

Before Ron could answer, they heard more footsteps coming their way and turned to see Arthur
Weasley and Percy bearing down on them, disheveled, hastily thrown-on robes flapping in the air,
both in fuzzy bedroom slippers that had seen better days …

“Dad!” Ron called as they approached, “What happened? What’s going on?”

“Ron! Hermione!” Arthur Weasley stopped beside them, gasping for air, “Where’s Harry?”

“What happened, Dad?”

Arthur’s eyes kept darting around, apparently searching for Harry as he answered his youngest
son, “It’s Dedalus Diggle, Ron. Dumbledore told me … there’s been a Death Eater attack and they
killed him … “

Ron’s eyes widened at this and he croaked out, “Are you sure?”

“The Ministry just confirmed it, Ron,” Percy said, as he tried to catch his breath. “There was a
Death Mark in the sky above Mr. Diggle’s cottage … the Aurors got there too late … they’d left a
sign …”

“What sign, Perce?” Ron asked, puzzled but trying to keep his panic down.

“Potter’s Fan.”

A stunned Ron looked from his father to his brother to his sister … and his eyes met Hermione’s,
who was now biting down hard on her fist, as she tried to keep from whimpering. Before he could say
anything, Hermione had turned and fled – and his eyes followed her as she ran, not to The Burrow
but towards the paddock and he breathed a sigh of relief …

He turned back to his family and their increasingly frantic questioning of where Harry was and
replied, in a voice that quickly silenced them all: “Hermione’s gone after him.”

He didn’t voice the next thought that popped in his mind: “Better her than me.”



11. "I Need You ..."
--------------------

Epiphanies 10

(**Author’s Notes**: The usual disclaimers (ducks objects thrown at him).

OK, guys, this is *it*. The last chapter (:sob:)

I would like to use this opportunity to thank some of the people who have made the writing of
this story so enjoyable and rewarding: **dan (griffiths eye)**, whose comment on an early
chapter helped define the story in a way I never expected; **catsky, elise** and **freya**,
whose constant follow-ups last year made me continue the story which I had set aside; **erin,
nicole** and **briarswt**, whose gentle reminders helped me bring the tale to this point; and
**lils, amelia, paracelsus, brazilianfan** and many, many others whose thoughtful reviews and
lovely insightshave helped improve this sometime writer’s craftsmanship immeasurably.

And, as always, hugs and kisses to the people of the HMS Pumpkin Pie, portkey.org and pumpkin
pie.org, my “homes away from RL” from whom I have often drawn inspiration, solace, and ideas. Thank
you all!

Chapter 10. “I Need You …”

Hermione stumbled yet again as she ran up the unfamiliar path towards the paddock where the boys
had often played Quidditch in the summer just past. She’d gone up there with them before but always
in daytime … but the changing light, as the night surrendered reluctantly to the coming dawn, made
it difficult to see the way. She felt brambles snag at her but she ran on, heedless that she had
torn Harry’s old Quidditch robes in several places, thinking that she could easily repair them when
she returned to her room, anxious only that she get to Harry.

She kept berating herself for not being there when Harry had his nightmare … scolding herself
for not realizing that whatever it was that had woken her up earlier was somehow related to Harry …
reproaching herself for going out of the house rather than going to Harry’s room to check on him
…

‘But what could I do?’ she asked herself. ‘I couldn’t just burst into his room because I had a
bad dream … not when Ron is sharing the same room …’

‘But he wasn’t,’ another part of her brain replied. ‘He said he fell asleep in the living room
while reading Bill’s journal …’

‘How was I to know,’ she snarled back. ‘It’s not as if I was looking for Ron when I went down
the stairs …’

‘You still should have gone to Harry,’ the voice in her mind said. ‘Then you wouldn’t be in this
mess …’

‘What mess?’ she shrieked back in her mind. ‘I just had a talk with Ron …’

‘And ended up hugging him, and kissing him, and hugging him again. What do you think Harry will
be thinking if he saw that … no, erase that. Not if … when he saw that.’

She tripped over an exposed root that her tear-filled eyes had missed, and felt her hands
getting scratched as she caught herself. Unheeding, she scrambled on, not even realizing that a
thorny branch had caught in her hair and drew a long, thin scratch down her face, drawing blood
that beaded along the cut skin …

She pressed on, one thing on her mind: she wasn’t there when Harry needed her.

She abruptly paused … and mentally threw her traitorous thoughts (now asking why and how she
knew that Harry needed her) behind her. She didn’t need those thoughts now … all that she knew, all
she wanted to know, was that Harry was safe.

She would deal with it as she had dealt with everything else in her life: with cool logic, even
in the face of fire.

But her pace faltered.

Cool logic came from knowledge; but her store of knowledge came from books, not hard-won
experience.

Books were her solace … books were her refuge … books were the perfect means to hide behind when
one’s mind was in confusion, although at those times, they seldom had the answers to the questions
that boiled in her mind …

At least, not the books she was most comfortable with.

Would *Hogwarts: A History* have an answer for her current predicament? Does *Most
Potente Potions* have a Time-Turner potion so that she can live the past ten minutes over again
– and prevent herself from letting her emotions go? Would *Gadding with Ghouls* have given her
any advice how to approach Harry now?

And, for a brief moment, she wondered whether *Unfogging the Future* would have helped
predict this: establishing peace with one friend but setting up a situation that would make the
other question her feelings for him?

She burst into the clearing and frantically looked around for Harry. She felt a wave of panic
and nausea engulf her when she didn’t see him … and realized in the next moment that he was
standing near a tree, his back to her … leaning on it and shaking his head …

Hermione walked forward slowly, feeling pain lance through her. He’d been sick, she knew … she
didn’t need to see the puddle by his feet to know that he’d thrown up … but was it because of his
nightmare, or his mad rush to get here, or …

Had he seen them, she wondered? Had he seen them on the bench as they’d hugged in that shared
moment of understanding … seen them and jumped to the wrong conclusion, as boys so often do?

She felt a twig snap beneath a bare foot and became aware that she’d lost a slipper in her mad
dash to find him. But she didn’t pay heed as a stone dug into her foot … Harry had straightened up
at the sound of the snapping twig and said, in a cold and distant voice, “Don’t.”

Hermione stopped, the stone she’d stepped on digging uncomfortably into her heel. She shifted
from one foot to another … waiting for Harry to make the next move.

“What do you want, Hermione?”

She nearly stepped backward at the venomously cold tone of his voice, but forced herself to
speak, knowing that she wasn’t answering the question he was really asking, but telling herself
that she had to set a priority: “It’s Mr. Weasley. He needs you back at The Burrow.”

He didn’t respond; neither did he turn around to face her. After a moment, she continued, nearly
stumbling over her words: “It’s Mr. Diggle, Harry … Dedalus Diggle? He’s been attacked by Death
Eaters …”

She watched as his shoulders slumped and nearly stepped forward, but his response stopped her
cold: “They killed him, didn’t they?”

“Yes, they did,” she whispered. “I’m sorry, Harry.”

“I know.”

Her head snapped up at this, and she felt the beginning of a smile break out on her face … only
to lose it as he turned around to face her: pale-faced, messy hair, looking slightly green, one
lens of his glasses shattered from an apparent stumble. She gave a small cry and stepped forward …
only to step back again as she saw the thunderous look on his face as he threw a soiled
handkerchief away from him.

“Your glasses …”

She couldn’t approach him … his very stance told her that. She could only watch helplessly as he
removed his glasses and pulled out his wand. With a murmured “*Occulus Reparo*!” he fixed it
himself and put them on … and she had to step back as her eyes finally met his blazing greens,
seemingly magnified to enormous, fiery orbs.

She flinched as he locked eyes with her … and she felt something within her curling up into a
fetal position, beaten into fear and submission by the aching pain that she saw in his eyes. She
could sense his feeling of betrayal as his eyes flickered with the memories of what he had seen
only minutes before, contrasting with the moments they’d shared the day before … and she knew he
would be feeling a wrenching loss at all that had happened …

Because she could feel the same wrenching loss, knowing that there was nothing she could do or
say right now … there was no answer that he would listen to at this point. Behind his anger, she
could see the shadows of that little boy who’d been abandoned to a family with no understanding or
sympathy for his uniqueness, the shades of the boy who’d grown up like a mushroom in the dankness
of a cupboard, unable to use powers he didn’t know he had to release him from his prison. She knew
he would not accept her, and she felt the tears spilling from her eyes at how coincidence and
unforeseen circumstances could so easily change moments of happiness into slashing pain and
longing.

She felt the sting of the salty liquid as they seeped into the scratches on her face, tasted the
tears as they trickled on her lips … she wanted to turn away from him, unable to look much longer
at his wounded, hurting face.

Hermione turned away as a ray of sunlight from the rising sun broke through the trees
surrounding the paddock, blasting like a laser beam into her tear-sparkled eyes.

She didn’t see Harry’s eyes blink … didn’t see his eyes – the eyes of the youngest Seeker in a
century – suddenly focused on a solitary tear which had mixed with a bloody drop that had welled up
from an angry scratch down her cheek.

His eyes raked over her face and body – noting the scratches on her face and hands, saw the torn
robe she wore and the thorny twigs that had caused them … realized that she had lost one slipper,
and understood the reason why … his mind instantly calling up all the times he’d seen her frantic
and worried, rushing to his side every time she felt he was in danger or when he was victorious:
all those moments from his first Quidditch match to the end of the First Task when she’d shown up
at the Champion’s tent with fingernail marks on her face …

But his mind intruded with the pictures that he’d seen only minutes before and he froze … the
film in his mind moving along one frame at a time … and he closed his eyes to the obvious hurts
that he saw on her … and tried to force the infuriating idea of his best friend tending to her
hurts from his mind …

However, his fickle mind suddenly shifted to a singular moment months before in Dumbledore’s
office, when he’d asked about something that he’d seen in the Pensieve … where he learned to his
horror, the real story of Neville Longbottom’s parents – a story that he had never bothered to find
out through four years of being Neville’s dorm-mate, classmate and fellow Gryffindor. He remembered
climbing into his bed later that night and listening to Neville’s snores – ashamed that he’d
immediately jumped to the conclusion that Neville was a natural klutz, without even bothering to
find out if there was a reason behind his seeming ineptness.

They deserved more than that, he realized … they deserved more than his anger at seeing them
together for a few moments that could have a hundred different explanations than the one he’d
immediately leaped to. They were his friends, who had been with him through joy and pain, who’d
stood up to defend him against everything life had thrown his way …

And, more importantly, this was Hermione … she deserved more than his dirty mind leaping to
conclusions – not after all that they had been through in the past four years and … and (he
shivered at the thought) what they will have to go through for the next how many months and years,
until he – or *someone* -- could bring this feud with Voldemort to a successful
conclusion.

She felt something blocking the sunlight on her face, casting it in shadow – she turned back to
Harry and almost fainted in shock. She had turned away when he was a few feet away … she turned
back to see him standing right in front of her, looking down with his blazing green eyes, and she
could only stare back like a deer caught in the headlights of an onrushing car …

His eyes bored into her doe-like brown eyes, and he felt something shifting within him … a
boulder or some such thing that had fallen on his chest being nudged away by the tears that were
falling from his best friend’s face, and he couldn’t help himself any longer …

He reached out with a trembling finger and softly, as gently as he could, wiped away the tears
from her cheek … watched, with a growing sense of panic that he quickly rammed down, as tiny
droplets of blood continued to well up from the scratches … felt his throat working, swallowing
repeatedly as he tried to wipe the blood away with still gentle, but increasingly frantic motions
…

“I don’t want you hurt, Hermione … I don’t want to see you hurt … you shouldn’t have come after
me like that in the dark … when I woke up and found that you and Ron were not there, it scared me …
it scared me, Hermione … I don’t want to see you hurt …” She had closed her eyes to prevent herself
being blinded by the blazing green orbs of Harry’s eyes, and she shivered as she felt his gentle
fingers wiping her face, felt the blood pounding in her ears, such that she could barely make out
Harry’s hoarse, croaking voice as his fingers touched her flushed skin.

She felt a sudden warmth on her face and her eyes blinked open … only to turn her face away as
the light from the ever-rising sun washed into her eyes … realizing in the same instant that Harry
was down on his knees, embracing her … his face in her tummy and his glasses pushing against her
clothes. Hermione could feel his body shaking, and knew that he was crying … finally letting go of
his fears and inner turmoil, starting from that night in the Hospital Wing when his need to cry and
let go had been rudely interrupted by her capture of Rita Skeeter in her Animagus form …

Instinctively, her arms wrapped around his head and she held him tightly, feeling his arms
around her waist, and she felt herself rocking him gently as her hands ran lightly and gently
through his messy hair … knowing that he could feel her tears on his head, but caring not one
bit.

There was only comfort in that embrace … and for the moment, there was no one else in the world
except each other … and no one – not Death Eaters, not friends, relatives or teachers, not even
Lord Voldemort – would have been able to catch the attention of either one.

Which was how the others found them a few moments later.

* * * *

With quick glances and silent nods, the Twins, Ron, Ginny and their father drew back … each of
them agreeing to a silent pact: none of this would be shared with anyone else, except for
Molly.

And not even her, if they could help it.

Quietly, they withdrew from the paddock … each with their own thoughts: scared at the prospects
of the gathering storm, happy at the same time that, even in the midst of darkness, light still
found its way in.

With another exchange of looks, they silently agreed to head back home and wait for the two to
come in. Arthur led the way, his mind in turmoil at the morning’s dreadful news, wondering how
Cornelius Fudge would try to cover-up this latest incident – and wondering what they could do to
prepare the wizarding world for the inevitable storm.

Ron and Ginny followed, both silent and sunk in their own thoughts. They would have been
surprised to find out, if they had only spoken to each other, that they were – for once – operating
on the same wavelength, with the same thought running through their minds: “So that is what true
love looks like,”and wondering whether they would be lucky enough to find someone to love – and
someone to love them back.

Fred and George were last … but no one could have said what they were thinking about – their
minds were too nimble, too quick, to remain focused for long on a single topic, unless they were
planning a joke – or watching for Bludgers. They were walking together … until Fred realized that
he was suddenly walking alone.

He stopped and spun around, eyes automatically scanning the surrounding terrain for any threat,
hand clutched around his wand ready to draw and curse if need be … and he spotted his twin a few
meters away, holding a fuzzy bedroom slipper, a bemused expression on his face.

Puzzled, Fred walked over to his brother as his mind ran over the possible significance of a
slipper in his brother’s hand. He didn’t recognize it – while it seemed to be a comfortable,
lived-in slipper, it was in far better condition than anything his family owned … from the style,
he deduced that it was a girl’s slipper – slim and feminine as it was … it could only belong to
someone from The Burrow, since no one from the village ever went up here … and he realized that
Hermione must have lost it in her mad dash up here in search of Harry.

His jaw dropped as he saw George, with an cheeky grin and an impish look in his eye, draw out
his wand and transfigure the slipper into a small bunny which he gently placed on the ground. The
bunny, after an inquiring look at the brothers, quickly turned and ran off into the bushes … either
looking for something to eat, or another bunny on which to vent its hormonal urges on.

And then, Fred smiled as his brain processed the information – and the brothers gave each other
high fives as they proceeded back to their home and breakfast, both of them wishing that they had
the guts to remain there and watch … but both too scared of living out life as a pair of pumpkins
in the grass to do so.

While they knew that Harry wouldn’t be able to handle such a Transfiguration, they wouldn’t put
it past Hermione … and at the same time, neither one wanted to face an enraged Harry Potter – or an
even angrier Hermione Granger.

Some things were simply not worth the risk.

* * * *

The emotional storms had passed, and the rising sun could now smile as it witnessed the sight of
two friends sitting side by side on the grass of the empty paddock beneath its warming rays – both
leaning on each other, Harry’s face resting on Hermione’s head, the latter snuggled warmly on
Harry’s shoulder, arms around each other … and Harry rubbing Hermione’s hand, trying to remove the
dried droplets of blood there.

They’d been talking for some time … both studiously avoiding Harry’s emotional outburst,
although the memory of that shared moment continued to envelop them in its glow. They quietly
shared their experiences of the night: Harry, calmly and quietly telling Hermione of his nightmare
while the latter listened in silence, shivering only as Harry described the voice that he assumed
was Voldemort, casting the Death Mark into the sky … and Hermione telling Harry of her conversation
with Ron, with Harry listening attentively and looking spectacularly shocked at the apparent change
in their red-haired, hair-triggered friend.

They had calmly discussed their fears of the night – of Harry waking up to realize that Ron was
not in his room, and learning from Ginny that Hermione had gone out of their shared quarters … of
Hermione so afraid that Harry had jumped to the wrong conclusions and would turn away from her or
worse, neither one realizing that they had held each other just that tiny bit more closely as the
words came tumbling out …

Harry finally broke the silence that had fallen, as he continued rubbing her scratched hand:
“Hermione … I meant what I said earlier … I don’t want you to get hurt …”

“Don’t, Harry,” she said, turning her face to look at him. “I know what you’re going to say …
don’t.”

“But Hermione …”

“Don’t be getting all noble and protective of me, Harry Potter! Ginny’s right – I’m involved, we
are all involved … nothing’s going to erase the past four years.”

“Hermione …”

“Harry. You can’t stop me, or Ron, or Ginny, or anyone else from helping you if that is what we
want, do you hear me?”

“Hermione …”

“Stop it, Harry. You cannot stop me from helping you without killing me, and that is a strange
way to protect my life.”

He stared at her, and she met his gaze head on – but he refused to bow to the inevitable, making
one last desperate stab at logic to dissuade her: “But Voldemort doesn’t know anything about you
…”

“You’ve forgotten Scabbers, Harry.” She suddenly giggled, breaking the tension between them.
“Remember the first time I met you on the train, and Ron was trying to cast that spell?”

Harry grinned, and solemnly recited, “*Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow, Turn this stupid, fat
rat yellow.*”

Hermione laughed out loud. “Poor Ron … he must have felt like a complete fool with that spell …”
She suddenly became quiet, as she remembered again what she must have looked like to Harry and Ron
that day, but her thoughts were interrupted by Harry.

“Maybe not as much as Ginny with that stupid dwarf singing …”

Hermione smiled as she supplied the memory:

“His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad,


His hair is as dark as a blackboard.


I wish he was mine, he’s really divine,


The hero who conquered the Dark Lord!”

The paddock suddenly rang out with their laughter, and Hermione – in between gulps of air and
laughter – sputtered, “You know, I’ve always believed that it was Fred or George who set that thing
up … I just couldn’t believe that Ginny would do something like that.”

“Yeah, I know,” Harry said as he wiped the tears from his eyes. “I’ve never believed it was
Ginny either. I always thought that it was you who – Ow!”

“Shut it, Harry! You weren’t even on *my* radar screen that time …”

“Well, who was?” Harry replied in a feigned, hurt tone. “Lockhart?”

He blinked at her in surprise. “Hermione! Don’t tell me that you were one of the forty-six who
sent Lockhart a Valentine’s card?”

She turned away with a forceful shake of her head, which sent her hair flying in all directions
but which successfully screened her reddened face as she whispered, “Actually, I sent him six
…”

Harry didn’t know if he would find the strength to pull his jaw up off the grass. He stared
blankly at Hermione, who steadfastly refused to look at him. “Hermione … *six* cards?”

“Well, I wasn’t the only one, Harry. Lavender sent ten, I think … Parvati and Padma sent five
each … I heard someone say that Susan Bones and Mandy sent two … even Cho Chang supposedly sent a
few herself …”

She finally found the courage to look at him, and saw Harry with his brow furrowed in thought.
Before she could ask what he was thinking, he looked at her with a cheeky grin. “Hermione … six
cards?” She nodded. “And Lavender, Parvati, Padma … all of you sent a few cards each?”

She nodded, wondering where this was going. “So, how many girls *actually* sent cards to
Lockhart?”

Hermione suddenly giggled. “I think … less than ten, Harry.”

He couldn’t help himself, and broke out laughing, “So, rather than forty-six, less than
*ten* sent him cards?”

“I said less than ten *girls*, Harry,” she replied in her officious voice. That stopped
him, and she gave him a saucy grin: “How do I know *you* didn’t send him something?”

Hermione gave in to laughter as he tried to sputter a response – but stopped when he replied,
“Well, for one thing … I know you’re a girl, Hermione.”

She responded to that statement with a smirk, “Took you long enough, Potter.”

“I know.”

Hermione looked at him in surprise, and felt herself wading into the deep, green pool of his
eyes, as her ears began picking up random sounds from around them. She felt her breath hitching as
she saw Harry leaning towards her, drawing ever closer, and felt the blood beating as her lips felt
flushed. She unconsciously licked her lips as she watched Harry’s come closer to her … and she
closed her eyes and leaned closer to him …

And felt him suddenly pausing and drawing away … she could have sworn that her hyper-sensitized
ears pick up his mumbled, “I can’t … I can’t … I’ve got morning breath …”

If there were a rock or stone handy, she would have *brained* the stupid git and brought
his body to Lord Voldemort herself. Her eyes flew open to see him still staring at her, and she
heard his whispered, “I don’t want to hurt you, Hermione.”

Her first thought was to tell him that a kiss wouldn’t make her pregnant, but she stopped on
seeing – and understanding – the naked fear and longing in his eyes. She knew that he was not
looking at her, but seeing once again the parade of ghosts that had fallen out of Voldemort’s wand:
Cedric, the old caretaker, Bertha Jorkins, James and Lily and now, Mr. Diggle … and imagining that
she, or Ron, or Ginny would be joining them.

“Oh, Harry,” she whispered, and buried her face in his shoulder once again, feeling his arms
wrapping around her tightly, and his lips on her hair. She could feel the tears again welling up,
and wondered, irrelevantly, how much in tears can the human body hold?

“I don’t want anything to happen to you, Hermione. I need you too much to risk losing you … not
now, not ever.”

She didn’t answer immediately, simply snuggled closer to him. She could feel his arms around
her, felt his heart beating next to hers, and knew that nothing she would say now would make him
change his mind, and she held him tight, knowing that this would be as far as he would be willing
to go with her … until Lord Bloody Voldemort was back in his special chamber of hell’s
half-acre.

She looked at him and saw his wounded, aching eyes on her … and she heard Ron’ voice as he
repeated something he’d learned from Bill’s diary: “Follow your heart, Hermione …” and with a
strength that surprised her, she grabbed him by his messy, silky hair and pressed her lips on
his.

She could feel him pulling back, but she wouldn’t let go and followed … Harry threw out an arm
to stop himself from landing on his back, and pushed back, but Hermione kept up with him, pressing
their lips together … and for the next few moments, there was no one in the world except themselves
… toothbrush, flossing, or morning breath be dammed.

That first real kiss was awkward, laced as it was with too much passion and emotion, but it was
the sharing that mattered, it was the affirmation of their mutual feelings that counted. In the
years to come, the memory of that kiss would follow, but imbued with a singular character and
beauty all its own.

The clumsy, uncoordinated first pressing of their lips together soon gave way to an intimate
exploration of each other’s mouths; lips and tongues gently traveling the ridges and planes of the
other. Tongues gently reached out and met, tasted each other and explored … and Harry would forever
be thankful that Hermione was not a telepath, for the image of the basilisk in the Chamber of
Secrets, tongue flicking out to sense his prey, came to his mind – unaware that Hermione had the
same mental image from a documentary film passing through her mind.

The thought made them both draw back for a bit, their lips the only ones doing the exploration …
but the brief memory of their gliding tongues made them want more, and their explorations
continued, both of them unconsciously blocking air passages as their kiss deepened.

Too soon, however, the need for air became overwhelming and they broke apart, drawing deep
breaths of each other’s bodies into their lungs … hands entwined in the other’s hair, eyes locked
on each other in wonder at what had just happened.

They leaned in again to each other but their higher brain functions took over and instead of the
scorching kiss they exchanged earlier, this was softer, more intimate … a gentler exploration of
each other’s lips.

By mutual consent, they broke off and leaned against each other, Hermione’s head snuggled in
Harry’s chest, Harry’s face buried in her hair, arms around each other in an embrace that was both
intimate and reserved …

* * * *

After a while, she felt Harry kiss her forehead and she looked up to see his eyes on her.

“We’ve got to go, Hermione,” Harry said softly. “They’ll be worrying … they’ll probably be
calling the Ministry to send out search parties by now …”

She gave a sigh, and nodded, standing up with him – and nearly stumbling as she remembered that
she was lacking a slipper. Harry caught her arm and steadied her, and they both began looking
around the clearing but couldn’t see it.

She felt Harry slapping his head and saw him raise his wand, saying “*Accio,* Hermione’s
slipper!”

They waited … and waited … and finally, Harry put down his wand, as puzzled as she was – neither
aware that the slipper was already enjoying life as a full-fledged bunny, and having the first real
meal of its life. He looked at her, unsure of what to do … and suddenly smiled, extending his wand
to her.

She took it from him, confused.

“You can always transfigure something into a slipper, Hermione.”

Her confusion cleared, and she opened her mouth … and shut it. “One problem with that, Mr.
Potter … I don’t know how to do that particular charm.”

“What? I thought you knew everything!”

“Apparently not, Harry.”

She saw him staring intently at her, but decided to hold her ground and the white lie, adding
for good measure, “I know it’s on the schedule for this year … but I haven’t got around to studying
it yet.”

He continued staring at her, and she grew distinctly uncomfortable under his gaze. She was about
to ask him what was wrong when he suddenly answered her: “I just want to fix this moment in my
memory … for once, Hermione Granger does not have an answer to a question from Harry Potter.”

She was about to swat him when she realized what she had in hand, and gave him an evil smirk,
“Who’s holding the wand, Mr. Potter?”

“Well, I still have another wand, Miss Granger.”

“What … Oh,” she replied, suddenly blushing at his insinuation, but determined not to let him
have the final word, and answered in her best earnest-Hermione-the-teacher’s-pet tone: “But is it
any *good*, Mr. Potter? Are you sure it will fit me? Didn’t you say that the wand chooses the
witch? Can you use it to *levitate* me?”

They stared at each other, and burst out laughing, which ended with both of them down on the
ground, rolling around and laughing like banshees. Soon enough, they were wiping their eyes of the
tears they’d shed, and stood, with Hermione handing Harry’s wand to him.

To her surprise, he ignored it … and before she could say a word, he had swept her into his arms
to carry her. Automatically, she placed her arms around his neck and snuggled into the comfort of
his shoulder, murmuring at the same time, “My hero!”

He smiled and kissed her forehead; she tightened her arms around him as a shiver passed through
her. She knew that there were a dozen levitating charms that he could have used, but she
appreciated what he was trying to do (which was in fact, what she wanted him to do), and kissed him
on the cheek.

He gave her another warm, patented Harry smile and started walking towards the Burrow.

Neither one noticed a small brown bunny by the side of the path, busily chewing on some greens
that it found, staring in curiosity at the sight of the boy carrying the girl in his arms. If it
were human, it would have given a shrug … as it was a mere bunny, it continued chewing on the
greens with a happy, contented expression on its face.

* * * *

Molly Weasley glanced up from the teapot she had prepared for her guests and saw Harry and
Hermione returning to The Burrow. She smiled at the sight of a struggling Harry Potter doing his
best not to drop the Hermione he carried in his arms, while the latter kept her arms around his
neck although, even at this distance, Molly could see her hands were playing with his hair.

Her smile grew broader as she remembered the near-kiss that she’d seen yesterday in Diagon
Alley, and wondered whether they had finally consummated the moment that had been building up for
some time. She glanced at the rising sun and was startled … it had been a little more than
twenty-four hours since she’d sat at her window and seen the two of them on the bench outside the
Burrow … and her happy mood turned somber as she remembered her thoughts of the night before – and
what she knew would happen today.

“They’re coming,” she said to Arthur and her guests, as she started to prepare breakfast for the
two teenagers.

“Took them long enough,” Arthur said in a voice where Molly detected just the slightest hint of
a false joviality. “I do hope they haven’t done anything … inappropriate.”

“Arthur!” Molly exclaimed in a reproachful voice, at which he blushed and stammered
apologetically, “I’m sorry … just trying to lighten the mood.”

“They’re *children*, for crying out loud!” Molly continued, using the *faux pas* to
release the tension she felt -- and grateful to Arthur for the opportunity, badly chosen as it
was.

“Who have been through so much more than most wizards or witches their age have any right to
expect,” responded Albus Dumbledore from his chair. He looked down at his teacup beside which
rested two shiny, although slightly dented Prefect’s badges. “Not even James and Lily had to go
through what they have done in the past five years.”

“I’m sure we can trust Miss Granger’s sense of decorum,” Professor McGonagall said in her usual,
severe tone. “She has far more of that than Mr. Potter – father or son – ever had. Or even Lily
Evans,” she added, after a pause.

“Indeed, Minerva,” the Headmaster said, eyes twinkling. “Which is why they work so well
together.”

Professor McGonagall didn’t reply to that; merely stood up and brought her teacup and saucer to
the sink … and looked out the window at the approaching pair. The sight that met her eyes caused
her to blink as she remembered one of her earliest memories of Harry and Hermione together: the
night that Filch had caught the two sneaking down from the Astronomy Tower at one o’clock in the
morning.

“I think I’ve got a good idea of what’s been going on,” she’d said at the time – and had
immediately stopped herself when she realized that she was talking to an eleven-year old boy and
girl. She had immediately leaped on Neville Longbottom’s story to connect the midnight excursion of
the two to an effort to get Draco Malfoy in trouble … simply because she did not want to think of
the *other* thing they could have been doing there at that time.

Albus Dumbledore’s voice broke into her consciousness: “What are you thinking about, Minerva?”
and she could feel a faint blush rising in her face at the question. She turned back to the
Headmaster and met his twinkling eyes – and again wondered whether her old friend was
telepathic.

There was no need to respond as, with a clatter, the door opened and she turned around to see
Harry with Hermione still in his arms, entering the kitchen as if he were a bridegroom bringing in
his bride. She stopped herself from collapsing in laughter at the shocked looks of the two,
mentally giving Harry twenty points for not dropping Hermione in his surprise … and made a promise
to herself to use her Pensieve at the earliest possible opportunity: the looks on the faces of her
favorite students were just too precious to leave to the vagaries of memory.

The heat emanating from the faces of the two teenagers as they faced the four adults would have
been enough to heat the Burrow in the dead of winter, with one mind, both thought that it was
extremely lucky that the younger Weasleys had not seen them – unaware that the Twins were still
rolling around on the floor of their room, laughing at the success of their latest ploy … Ron was
in the living room with his nose buried once again in Bill’s diary … and Ginny was in her room,
furiously brushing her long, flowing hair as tears of mingled sadness and happiness streamed down
her face.

All four of the younger Weasleys had been at various windows of the house, and the sights they
had seen that day would be something that would remain in their memories for a long time.

In the kitchen, Harry slowly put Hermione down (the four adults noting with mingled amusement
and nostalgia the gentle, almost reverent manner with which Harry did so) and asked, “Professor
Dumbledore! Professor McGonagall! What are you doing here? Is this because …”

He stopped at the Headmaster’s upraised hand and soothing voice: “All in good time, my dear boy!
All in good time …”

Molly Weasley bustled up then, asking the two whether they would like to have their breakfast
now or if they would prefer that she made them tea for the moment. They glanced at each other, both
unaware that they had suddenly bitten their lower lips (a fact noticed with keen interest by their
teachers), as they slowly shook their heads. None of the adults knew that the quick glance was of a
shared memory of Ron in Hagrid’s cabin, saying, “Er -- shall I make a cup of tea?” in response to
Hagrid’s blubbering about Buckbeak, and his muttered explanation of his offer: “It’s what my mum
does whenever someone’s upset,”.

The quick glance had also exchanged the same thought in their minds: who’s upset? And about
*what*?

They quickly turned back as Professor Dumbledore gave a small cough.

“Let’s settle school affairs first, shall we?” He pulled out a Hogwarts letter from his robe and
proffered it to Harry, who accepted it with a blank expression on his face. “The school governors
decided last night, after some prompting from Mrs. Longbottom, to name you as Gryffindor Prefect.
Congratulations, Harry.”

Harry’s response was drowned out Hermione’s whispered, “Good for you, Harry!”, followed by a
rib-breaking hug from Molly and a bone-crushing handshake from Arthur. He adjusted his disheveled
glasses in time to see Professor Dumbledore reaching for something glinting on the table.

“These were your parents’ Prefect badges, Harry. I think it’s time that I gave them back to
you.” He handed them over to Harry, who accepted them without a word, and held them for a moment in
his palm before looking at them through suddenly teary eyes. He held them up; noticing some
engraving on the back, he peered at them closely and saw “James Potter” written on one, and “Lily
Evans” on the other.

“Oh, Harry …” he heard Hermione’s voice beside him and he knew that she had seen the same thing
that he had. Silently, he handed his mother’s badge to her and they locked eyes for a long moment
before she reached out and accepted it, whispering “Thank you” at the same time. It was a gesture
not lost on the four adults in the room, and they all turned away simultaneously to wipe their eyes
and, in the case of Molly Weasley, surreptitiously blow her nose on her handkerchief.

“I understand you wanted to take up additional subjects this year, Harry? May I ask if you have
reached a decision yet?”

“Yes, Professor. I … uh, have decided to take Ancient Runes this coming year.” He heard a gasp
of surprise and realized that he hadn’t told Hermione of his decision yet, and wondered how Ginny
would react to this. “Uh … Arithmancy is too close to Divination for me (he made a placating
gesture at the suddenly bristling Hermione who visibly calmed down – a gesture not lost on
Professor McGonagall, who hid her smile behind a handkerchief she conjured) and I don’t think I
have a head for numbers that the course will require, so …”

“All right,” Dumbledore replied. His eyes twinkled as he continued, “I assume that Miss Granger
has given you the references and study materials that you will need, including her notes?”

“Of course, Professor,” Hermione replied. With a glance at Harry, she continued, “Can I borrow
Hedwig later, Harry? I can ask my Mum to pack up my notes and send them to us.”

“Can Hedwig carry four volumes of notes, Hermione – ow!” as Hermione gave him an elbow in the
ribs. Before he could say anything, Arthur Weasley stepped in.

“We can always pass by your house tomorrow, Hermione,” he said. “You still have a few days
before September 1st, I can drive you two over there tomorrow.”

The two teenagers looked at him with gratitude, but turned back as Dumbledore gave a small
cough.

“You may wish to borrow one of the Ministry’s cars, Arthur. I am sure that Cornelius will be
more than happy to lend you one.” For a split second, Harry caught a look being exchanged between
the two men – and felt a shiver down his spine at the thought that certain arrangements were being
made, and that his visit to Hermione’s house would be covered by teams of Aurors and hit-wizards …
and he wondered if there were plans being made for the Grangers at the same time.

“If there is nothing else …” Professor Dumbledore began, but Harry interrupted him.

“Professor … I have to ask, but what is this all about? I mean … why did they have to attack Mr.
Diggle? He was a harmless old wizard … surely he meant nothing to Voldemort.”

To his surprise, the Headmaster didn’t reply at once … and Harry watched as Dumbledore’s long,
thin fingers covered his face and gently began massaging his eyes, as if he had been hit by a
sudden, blinding headache.

He could feel the tension ramping up in the small room, felt the anxiety and strain emanating
from Arthur, Molly and Professor McGonagall in waves thick enough to be cut with a knife, and began
to feel the same oppressive weight on his shoulders. He felt a cool hand on his suddenly sweaty
palms, and he entwined his fingers with Hermione’s – a move that was not lost on three of the four
adults present.

Dumbledore lowered his hands and surveyed Harry through his half-moon glasses.

“It is time,” he said, “for me to tell you what I should have told you five years ago,
Harry.

“Please sit down. I am going to tell you everything.”

The End