4. Unexpected

I want to thank everyone for the reviews (some of which have been very insightful and I really enjoy reading those)! I've added a scene in this chapter that was not part of the original. I hope it meets with your approval.

However, I need to give credit where credit is due here. Many of you have commented on Remus Lupin in this fic. I have essentially aged the “Remus Lupin” from Phoenix_ Song's Marauder Era fics (Lily's Story, Year 1 and Lily's Story, year 2) on the Snitch. I am an ardent supporter of her work and the second I read her Remus, I've never been able to visualize him any other way. She's allowed me to age her Remus for my fic and is planning to incorporate the “cold cliff” location from The Power He Knows Not into hers. I can't wait to read about it!

For those of you who wondered where I was going with Petunia…here you go!

VLeigh

Chapter 4 - Unexpected

“Get up.” Petunia walked into Harry's small bedroom and flicked on the light.

“What time is it?” Harry said incredulously as he blindly slapped the dresser in search of his glasses. A quick glance to the sky outside the window let him know dawn only begun to break on the horizon. Petunia was never up before the sun rose. She claimed it negated the entire point of “beauty rest” to wake before the dawn.

“Never mind the time, just get dressed and meet me in the kitchen,” she said quietly and turned to leave the room.

Harry was not known to be a morning person, but Petunia's markedly uncharacteristic behavior peaked his interest. He swung his legs out of bed and rubbed his eyes before putting his glasses on. He stood up and looked to the top of the wardrobe as he stretched. Hedwig had not returned yet. He slipped on a pair of jeans and a jumper and headed for the kitchen.

“What's going on Aunt Petunia?” Harry said as he walked into the dimly lit kitchen. He didn't try to hide the consternation in his voice. Harry did not like to be woken early, and certainly not without good reason.

“Don't take that tone with me Harry. Here's your coat. Now let's go before Vernon realizes we're gone,” she tossed his coat to him and headed for the front door with the car keys clutched in her hand.

Harry stopped for a second to wonder if he was dreaming. Petunia had never acted so strange and usually made it habit to avoid being seen with him in public. Vernon's snores, audible through the kitchen ceiling from their bedroom above, seemed to indicate that Harry was, in fact, conscious. However at the moment, he felt like he landed the starring role in Dudley's favorite television show; “The Twilight Zone.” He slung his coat over his left shoulder and followed Petunia to the front drive.

They got into the car silently and Petunia said nothing while starting the engine other than an admonition for Harry to buckle his safety belt. They backed away from the house, and after watching Privet Drive fade quietly into the distance, Harry posed a variation of the same question he'd not gotten an answer to ten minutes ago.

“Are you going to tell me what's going on or do I just have to guess?” Harry said quietly but with purpose.

“I have a birthday gift for you.” Petunia did not look at him; rather she continued to look in the rear view mirror as if expecting Vernon to chase after the car as they drove. Harry, noticing her behavior, shifted in his seat and glanced over his shoulder as well.

“As you so clearly pointed out yesterday, my birthday has already passed,” he said with a bit more indignation than he intended. Everything about this morning had been strange, but he didn't want to set off his Aunt right after she indicated she'd had a gift for him; something she'd never truly done before.

However, at the same time, Harry recognized his chance here was golden. When would he have a better opportunity to ask Petunia for the truth? They were alone, she seemed in a decent mood, and there was no chance of being interrupted by either Dudley or Vernon. When she didn't reply to his last comment he decided to break the silence with the question that had (really) been plaguing him since last summer.

“Aunt Petunia,” he began. “I want to ask you something,” he paused to look at her. She seemed to grimace and her shoulders fell as if she knew what was coming.

“I want to know the truth,” Harry said pleadingly. “I know there's more to my story than I've been told. I think you have some of those answers,” he finished quietly. She sat in silence, driving to some unknown destination, not answering her nephew for what seemed like an eternity.

Finally, she discontinued whatever musings she had been engaged in and answered Harry quite sarcastically, “You didn't say the magic word.”

Harry narrowed his eyes and connected with hers. “Please,” he said in the most calm voice he could muster for being spoken to like a child.

Petunia drew a deep breath and mustered the courage to tell a story she'd kept concealed for the entirety of Harry's life. “What do you want to know?”

Harry had a million questions, but one loomed grander than the rest. “Are you a witch?”

Petunia laughed heartily. That was as good of an answer as Harry needed, but she embellished anyway. “If I were a witch I would've gone to Hogwarts with Lily.” Harry was clearly startled at the candor with which she made this statement. He also felt a strange weight grow in his chest upon hearing Petunia speak his mother's name, quite possibly for the first time, without the word “freak” appearing in the same sentence.

The next question was the only other question Harry wanted an answer to, “What do you know?”

“I know everything.”

The answer was so quick Harry ran through it again and again to ensure he'd actually heard her say it. He was at a total loss for words. When someone tells you they know everything, exactly where do you start? It felt the same as Professor Sinestra asking him to simply name all the stars in the universe. Harry merely sat, frozen in his seat, mouth agape.

“You're an adult in your world now Harry. I feel as though it's time to tell you what you no doubt want to hear. However, there's something I'd like to show you first as a matter of apology.”

“Apology?”

“For fifteen and a half years of treatment that you didn't deserve. I'm not the same person my sister was, in nearly every way. But it has never escaped me that you are her son, and it was my responsibility to look after you,” she added as she pulled the car to the side of a quiet residential street. Harry didn't bother to determine where they were, he was far more interested, for the first time in his life, in speaking with his mother's sister.

“Well, if the way you treated me is any indication of how you felt about her…” he stopped before finishing the rest of what was about to become a scathing remark with several references to the cupboard under the stairs. He stopped because he couldn't do it, Petunia was already crying.

“Harry, I don't expect you to understand, or to forgive me for anything I've done over the years. But, I acted as I did as much to protect you while you from threats within my home. What I'm going to tell you, Vernon doesn't know. You will not tell him any of it. He is equally as discriminatory against witches and wizards as some pure bloods are against muggle-borns,” she added now turning to face Harry.

“Pure bloods…muggle-borns?” Harry's mouth was agape once more. His mouth continued to open and close but he couldn't formulate the words required to understand the terminology coming from his “muggle” Aunt.

“Oh, for heaven's sake Harry, close your mouth. I had to treat you just as Vernon would expect me to. I married him out of spite; spite against my family, spite against her. They knew who he was, what he was, and I did it anyway. I was so angry, so jealous of everything she was,” she added quietly.

“What do you mean, who he was? Who is he?” Harry asked.

“He's no one magical, just the opposite actually. Vernon is the most direct descendant of Cotton Mather.” Petunia didn't think the name would mean anything to Harry, but that was one lesson in Professor Binns' class that he actually remembered.

“The same Cotton Mather from the Salem Witch Trials in America?” he asked unable to keep the horror from his voice.

“The very same. His great grandfather, obviously several times removed, was arguably the person most responsible for the deaths of 19 people convicted of practicing witchcraft and wizardry. He even convinced the crowds, gathered to watch George Burroughs, an ex-minister himself be hanged, that his perfect recitation of the Lord's Prayer still did not absolve him from guilt.”

“Wow,” Harry muttered unable to believe what he was hearing.

“Well, you can imagine my parents had more to say than just, `wow' when I decided to marry Vernon. Our engagement came fast on the heels of theirs. Mostly because I was jealous,” she added at a whisper.

“Jealous of what?” Harry asked, drawing his eyes back to Petunia's.

“I was jealous of Lily. I was jealous that she had the gift and I didn't. I was jealous that she was so celebrated in our family for it. I was jealous of those damn green eyes everyone complemented so. The same green eyes, I might add are staring at me now.”

There was so much about this story that confused Harry. As a muggle family, it seemed odd to him that anyone would celebrate the discovery of a witch in their midst. It also struck him as incredibly odd that Petunia would've wanted to be a witch after all the times he'd heard her talk so derisively about them. He was bursting with questions and opened his mouth to ask any number of them. However, she stopped him before he got the chance.

“Harry, I'm not prepared to tell you the whole story. Frankly, that would involve far more alcohol than I'm capable of handling. I will tell you this, even though I was jealous of her, I loved her dearly. I have begged her forgiveness for your treatment more times than I care to remember. It's not easy living with Vernon, and it was certainly not easy keeping everything from him; especially the gift I'm about to give you.” For the first time, Petunia broke into a smile and her eyes seemed to light up.

“What gift? The truth?” Harry asked trying his best to not sound ungrateful for what he'd been told thus far.

“No, Harry. You are an adult now. Although I don't know when, I'm sure you'll be leaving us shortly, and I have no doubt you will never wish to grace our doorstep again. That being said, I wasn't sure when, or if, I'd ever see you again. Hence the reason I took you out this morning to present to you the gift I have worked on for nearly sixteen years.” Petunia finished with a smile. Although Harry was the one being given a gift, Petunia seemed to resemble a small child on Christmas morning.

“So…what is it?” Harry asked, a bit of the excitement beginning to show on his face. Petunia slipped her hand into her pocket and pulled out a key. She cupped his hand in hers and placed it in his palm.

“I doubt you'll really need to use this, but it is the traditional way to open a door.” She chuckled. Harry was sure he'd never seen her do that. Before he could ask, she motioned her hand over his right shoulder and out of the passenger window behind him. Harry turned in his seat and his eyes fell upon a quiet abode set among some large trees. It was a quaint brick home with a picket fence running around the outskirts of the property. The entrance door had a gleaming brass handle and a vertical etched glass window. The front windows had operable wooden shutters painted in a hunter green that nearly matched the eyes she described earlier. Most remarkable was the pewter placard next to the front porch, it had only one word inscribed on it: “Potter.”

He turned quickly to face his Aunt. “I don't understand. You're giving me a house?” Harry said, nearly unable to form the words.

“Not just any house Harry, this was their house.”

“It can't be. It was destroyed in the attack.”

“Very nearly destroyed; I have spent the last fifteen years scrimping money away here and there to have it rebuilt. It took that long because I could only use money Vernon wouldn't notice was gone.” Harry had been listening to her, but had turned to stare at the house while she was speaking.

“I don't know what to say.” He was absolutely correct in this assessment. Words failed him. He turned back to see his Aunt misting over and the next words she spoke hung in the air between them, but ultimately answered another long unasked question.

`What more can you expect from your godmother?” She smiled sweetly, for what Harry thought was the first time in his memory, and continued on. “I have one more place I'd like to take you, if you're up for it.”

“Where's that?” Harry asked, not quite prepared to leave Godric's Hollow yet.

“I thought you might like to visit your parents.”

***

“I'm afraid we haven't much time.” Harry heard Petunia's words softly in his ear, but his eyes were fixed squarely to the ornate marble sculpture before him. He felt his head rocking forward in affirmation as Petunia quietly stepped away. Remembering his manners, he thought to thank her. He looked in the direction of her footsteps, but she had moved quite a distance across the cemetery.

Harry looked around the grounds. It seemed nearly incredible to him, such lavish gardens would exist in this area. Great Britain was certainly not known for its wide-open spaces. Privet Drive was a rather typical example of an endless row of smallish homes piled on top of each other in the name of space. Real estate was at a premium, given the per capita population per square mile.

You'd never know that standing here.

He watched as Petunia walked quietly along the gravesites. She stopped here and there pulling up an errant weed or brushing a dead leaf from a headstone. Seeming to feel his eyes upon her, she stopped and looked in his direction. After a fleeting glace she resumed her meanderings among the graves.

Harry noticed the character of the many headstones. Some were adorned with angels, others with animals. It didn't escape his attention that many of the sculptures depicted lions in varying stances and demeanors. That brought his attention back to the graves before him

“James Potter, 1960-1981” Harry's eyes landed here before moving to the left.

“Lily Evans Potter, 1960-1981” Feeling his legs turn to gelatin; Harry knelt down at the foot of the gravesite. His hand brushed absently over the well groomed grass as he continued to stare at the sculpture between his parent's headstones.

It was a massive lion. It stood tall and proud, its chest pushed out with pride, and eyes lowered maliciously at those who would fail to notice its presence. Suddenly, it made sense to Harry that this graveyard must've been more than just a muggle cemetery. What more fitting sculpture to protect the final resting place of the Potters, but a “Gryffindor” Lion. Without casting his glance back to their neighbors, he assumed the presence of ravens, badgers, and perhaps a snake or two.

For as much as he tried, he couldn't cry. This was all so incredible. He had woken only hours before as the Harry he'd been when he fell asleep. The world had been no different. Now, the façade of Petunia had shattered markedly, he'd seen, and been given the house in Godric's Hollow, and now…now, he was kneeling at the graves of his mother and father.

His hand continued to graze along the blades of grass. He dropped his eyes to follow its path. He was mere feet from his parents. Granted, that distance had several feet of earth between them, but still. His mind could not avoid the obvious facts of the situation. If he could just reach down, just reach through, he could feel their caskets, feel their touch, something he'd dreamed of for as long as he could remember.

He could not remember being held by his mother. He could not remember the true sound of her voice as anything other than screams. He never knew the strong embrace of his father or the warmth of his touch. He had lived a life alone, unloved, unwanted, and resigned to imaginative musings of the kind of life he could have had.

Still he couldn't cry. It was sculptured marble with in scripted names. They were names he knew of academically, but not names he really felt he “knew” in the truest sense of the word. He had visions of his parents, but they were manufactured images. They were pieced together from wizard photos, the Mirror of Erised, and the ghostly echoes from Voldemort's wand. He had no personal recollection to hold onto.

That was part of the reason he couldn't mourn. He'd been doing that for over fifteen years. But, those are the things he wished for more than anything. He desperately wanted to see his parents; he wanted to hear their voices. He would've given everything he had, for just one embrace from mother to son. He wished for his own memories of his family, not retold stories of humor and heroism.

It wasn't long before his eyes found their way back to the lion. It was at that time he realized Petunia had also returned. He looked up to see her unreadable expression and glistening eyes. She was looking at the grand protector as well. Suddenly, her lips pursed familiarly.

She turned to look at him. “Get up.” Harry nearly thought to protest, but her expression was not one of indignation. His curiosity got the best of him and he rose to his feet. Petunia took his hand and walked toward the massive lion.

“As I am a muggle, I've never understood this. But I've noticed rather a few witches and wizards doing the same.” She raised Harry's hand in hers and guided it so it rested peacefully over the lion's chest. “Lily once mentioned something about the heart of the lion when she did this to our father's sculpture. I'll give you five more minutes.” Harry nearly removed his hand, feeling a bit silly, as Petunia moved toward the car. That was until…

“I can only hope that I've fulfilled my destiny as it was to be. I love my family, my husband, and my son as only his mother can. I know not of the future - only the past. I understand the destiny before him as I understand that which lies behind. I ask you not to stand at our graves and mourn our passing, only to look to the future and the hope that lies in the hands of our son Harry. He will prevail over the dark forces of our world. It is his destiny.”

Harry snapped his hand from the cold stone as though it contained the heat of fire. He stared incredulously at the lion before him. It was his mother's voice. It was unobscured as an echo, and free of the terror he'd remembered in her screams. It was calm, quiet, and resolute. She believed Harry would triumph over Voldemort. Driven by compulsion, he drew his hand back to the lion's chest.

“…destiny before him as I understand that which lies behind. I ask you not to stand at our graves and mourn our passing, only to look to the future and the hope that lies in the hands…”

He pulled it away again. In a distant recess of his mind he understood that the lion was charmed to repeat this message for those who would visit their grave. That same distant consciousness wondered why his father's voice was not present as well. He continued to place and remove his hand over the lion's heart, and listened to the same voice echoing in his head; the same message broadcast to the wizarding world.

“It is his destiny.”

Harry nearly felt as though he'd pass out. He stood rooted to the spot, staring blankly at the statue before him, his mind devoid of all rational thought. It wasn't long before a honking horn snapped him to reality.

It was time to go.

He stepped backwards, allowing his eyes to rest another moment on the names of his parents. He studied the grass covering their final resting place and raised his eyes for one last look at the proud lion that stood so protectively over them. It took a moment to realize the person who had spoken in whispered tones, was himself. He hadn't said much before he turned to leave, although it was fitting for the moment, it was also something he'd always wanted to say.

“Good bye.”

With that he walked to the car with only the sound of his footsteps to keep him company.

***

“So, it's all set for tonight then?” Tonks whispered to Remus Lupin. Although they were alone in the garden, their plan was certainly not one to be spoken of in bright voices.

“Yes,” Lupin replied quietly. He noticed the look of concern imprinted on Tonks' face but didn't need to ask where her concerns lay.

“Dumbledore is going to flip when he finds out,” she added softly while casting a backwards glance at the door to the kitchen. The Order had just concluded a midday meeting at the Burrow and most of the remaining members were inside taking liberty of the meal Molly Weasley had prepared.

“You can still back out if you want to. No one is forcing you to do this with me,” Lupin declared with a bit more spice in his voice then he intended.

“What? Miss all the fun? Certainly you're not serious Remus,” she added fluttering her eyebrows mischievously. “Besides, you need me and you know it.”

“That's the only thing I've heard today that I totally agree with.”

***

If she was even slightly concerned with the repercussions of her actions, Petunia Dursley did not show a hint of it on her face. She pulled the car up to the house and turned it off without uttering a word. As a matter of fact, neither Petunia nor Harry had said much of anything on the seemingly endless drive home. The entire experience today had been utterly surreal to Harry and, truth be told, he was still trying to process it in his own head.

They sat in the car together for only a moment before Petunia pulled the keys from the ignition and opened the door. The heavy sigh that escaped her lungs before getting out of the car was the only expression of concern she gave.

She was in trouble and she knew it.

She straightened her skirt and held her head high as she sauntered into the lion's den. Harry had already seen Vernon's puce complexion peering from the kitchen window. Harry broke only the smallest of grins as Petunia opened the front door.

She would've made one hell of a Gryffindor.

“Petunia Evans Dursley! Where in blazes have you been?” Vernon bellowed before he even caught sight of her.

“Oh, dear! Did I forget to mention it to you darling?” Petunia let out with gasp. She covered her mouth with her hand and rushed over to Vernon, guiding him toward a chair. “Let me make you some dinner Vernon.”

Nice plan Petunia, calm the savage beast with food!

“I don't want dinner Petunia! I want to know where you've been with…with,” he began pointing toward Harry, “with…”

“Ha-rry,” Harry scoffed while sounding his name out to Vernon as if he were a child. In retrospect, that course of action was not going to make this any easier for his aunt. Petunia obviously shared that assessment as she shot Harry a scathing glare and tried her best to stem the explosion that was growing in the pit of Vernon's stomach.

“Darling, I went to my dear friend Margaret's home. She's just moved into a lovely flat and needed someone to help her move her belongings,” she answered his next question before he could ask it. “That's why I brought him. He's good for nothing if not moving heavy objects.”

Ouch, Petunia.

Had Harry not been utterly impressed with the forethought she'd put into this story he might have had reason to feel angry at the latest volley of insults thrown his way. However, now that he and Petunia had spoken, if only a little, it was clear to him that this was all an act. All be it a very well rehearsed act, and an award-winning performance, but Petunia was an act nonetheless.

“Oh, so that's it, is it?” Vernon calmed slightly. He furrowed his brow and cast a look toward Harry. Apparently, pleased with any amount of manual labor Harry was subjected to an indeterminate look crossed his face.

“That's it darling,” Petunia said with finality and turned to the cupboard to begin gathering the necessities for supper. She didn't get far.

“Lies!” Vernon was steaming. He was likely angrier than Harry had ever seen him. Instead of shouting, he spoke at a near whisper, seeming to be imploding on himself.

“What was that dear?” Petunia said, turning to him, the smile completely vanishing from her face.

“I called your dear friend Margaret. She hasn't spoken to you in days and has seen you even less!” Vernon was shaking with anger. It was clear to Harry that Petunia hadn't thought of a contingent plan to her story. Her mouth was bobbing open and closed as she searched for any plausible story that would extract her from this situation. After a few excruciating moments of silence, Harry spoke.

“I forced her to go,” he said quickly turning his glance from Petunia and stepping between his aunt and uncle.

“You...you forced her? Forced her to go where boy?” Vernon's quiet rage had subsided and he returned to his typical ear-shattering decibel.

“That's none of your business,” Harry said coolly. Honestly, he hadn't thought about where he would've forced her to take him, but didn't feel he needed to manufacture any more lies for the sake of his Uncle. Knowing that answer wouldn't satisfy him for long he added, “I needed to go somewhere, she had the car keys, and I had this,” Harry said as he pulled his wand from his pocket and brandished it before his uncle's eyes.

“Petunia? Is this true? Did…did he try to use that against you?” he stammered. For as sad it seemed, that was as much loving concern as Vernon had ever been able to muster toward his wife. Silently, following Harry's lead out of her own bungled lie, Petunia stepped around Harry and buried her head in her husband's beefy shoulder. “How dare you! I've warned you never to use that thing in my house and now you've used it against my own wife!”

“I was so scared Vernon,” Petunia's muffled voice squeaked from his shoulder.

Oh! now THAT was uncalled for Petunia! I had the whole thing under control and you had to throw that log on the fire! Fine, Rome wasn't built in a day, and old habits obviously die hard…two can play that game.

“Oh, Please,” Harry said, dropping his wand to his side. “As if I'd really need to use this at all,” he said lazily while catching the cast-iron skillet, that unbeknownst to the Dursley's had flown from the rack and careened across the kitchen, in his left hand. “I believe you needed this skillet to make supper,” he said acidly as he thrust the pan into his aunt's empty hand. “You'll let me know when you've finished preparing the meal.” It wasn't a request. Harry slid his wand back into his front pocket and turned on his heel. As he passed by a deathly silent Dudley, who had obviously been eavesdropping from the stairs, he thought there might possibly be nothing better in the world than officially being an adult in the magical world.

6. Reunions

Honestly, this story has practically no cliffhangers at all, far less than Power…I had no intention of keeping you there long, but I did want to use the one I had.

I know you're probably interested to read…Please see the A/N at the end where I answer some questions for you….

Chapter 6-Reunions

“Have you gone stark raving mad?” Tonks shouted while pushing Ron off of her.

“We told you to stay home,” Lupin added hotly.

“I beg to differ. You told me I didn't need to concern myself with this. I disagree,” Ron retorted calmly.

“Do you have any idea what could've happened to us? You just don't jump on someone while they're apparating! I couldn't splinched us both into a tree for the love of Merlin!” Tonks roared on while turning away from them both.

The sheer implications of what Tonks said began to weigh on Ron. He actually hadn't thought of that at all. He had hidden himself in the bushes just beyond the patio and waited for what he knew would come. He knew where they were going and he knew he couldn't get to Privet Drive himself. His apparition tests weren't for two more weeks. It's not like he could just floo to the Dursley's house. He was just beginning to enter into some semblance of an apology when a sharp gasp interrupted his thoughts.

“Remus, look at the door! We're too late!” Tonks hissed as she bolted off for what was left of the Dursley's front door.

“Tonks! Wait!” Remus called after her.

He had no idea what happened, how many they were up against, or if the perpetrators were still in the house. But reason and logic was of no use to Tonks right now and he knew it. Aside from having grown somewhat attached to the Boy Who Lived, Tonks was one of the best Aurors the Ministry had to offer. If she sensed the presence of a dark wizard within fifty kilometers, it was on. There was no stopping her. The best he could do was try to keep up.

Ron was following Lupin so closely he nearly tripped over the hem of his robes twice. When they reached the front entrance, they found Tonks, flattened against the exterior side wall, finger to her lips, motioning Lupin to take his place on the opposite wall. The silent look Remus shot Ron was impossible to misunderstand.

Stay here or else!

With a silent nod, Ron crouched behind a meticulously groomed boxwood and pulled out his wand.

Tonks motioned toward the kitchen at the end of the open hallway silently asking if Lupin heard the same muffled voices. She could make out Harry's tone of voice, although it seemed labored. It wasn't audible enough to make out the words. She could also hear low sobbing coming from an adult woman, no doubt that woman was Petunia Dursley.

Before Tonks or Lupin could formulate a plan of attack, it happened.

And it happened fast.

The sobbing intensified and Tonks clearly heard the two most chilling words in the wizarding language begin to spill from an adult male's mouth. Her eyes widened and connected with Remus Lupin and the two bolted for the kitchen. Ron sat, frozen, in the hedgerows not believing what he was hearing and unable to will his legs to move. He watched Tonks and Lupin run down the hallway only to stop abruptly as a quiet popping noise heralded the arrival of another person.

It was Hermione.

“No!” she shrieked. The hallway had filled with a painfully blinding bright green luminescence and the kitchen dissolved into a cacophony of screams. He saw Hermione's hands fly over her mouth and her knees buckle as she slumped to the floor. Tonks and Remus leapt past her through the doorway and Ron finally awakened the synapses between his mind and his legs.

He jumped from the bushes and ran into the house toward Hermione. He had no idea what matter of dark wizard was only feet away but he didn't care. He had only one sickening thought. His stomach twisted.

I just lost one best friend. I will NOT lose the other one.

He fell to his knees beside her and grabbed her by the shoulders.

“Get up, Hermione! Move!” he tugged her up to a standing position. She fought to pull her eyes from the kitchen floor and looked up at him with a tear-stained and stricken expression. She was speechless, but the look in her eyes spoke volumes to Ron. In a millisecond, he understood what she had seen. He understood what it meant. He understood the grim realization that was threatening to consume them both. She had just watched Harry Potter die. With that, she fainted in his arms.

***

This was one of the moments when Tonks really hoped the Auror training had done what it claimed. The responses of well-trained Aurors were supposed to be so mechanical, so ingrained, that the training took over in times of emotional distress. This was the textbook definition of that time. One look into Remus Lupin's face and she felt her heart break. She knew exactly what he was thinking.

It wasn't just that there was a body lying lifeless on the floor. It was James and Lily's son. It was the boy who so hauntingly resembled his father, Remus often forgot he wasn't addressing Prongs himself. It was the son Remus swore to protect in the wake of Sirius' death. To Lupin, it was tantamount to finding James and Lily dead all over again. It was equal to watching Sirius die again, it was the same as seeing Scabbers transfigure back into a traitorous friend that was just as lost to him as the rest of the Marauders. It was all-consuming, unadulterated grief that he knew he could not bear another time.

Tonks chanced a glance toward the figure crumpled on the floor. He wasn't just anyone. He was Harry Potter. He was the Boy Who Lived. He was the child who was supposed to bring down Voldemort. If he was gone, what did that mean? What did his death mean? He didn't die saving the wizarding world the way everyone expected, if he had to go, he would. He died protecting a muggle. What's more he died to protect a muggle who tortured and tormented him as a matter of practice for the majority of his life. He fought and died to save a family that, while related to him by blood, had never treated him with one iota of respect offered to a typical house elf. So much hope, so much promise, and it was all extinguished.

And he was laughing.

Tonks drew her eyes to the dark figure leaning casually against the counter at the far end of the kitchen. Aside from his piercing gray eyes, everything about him was dark; everything but an electrifying white smile that seemed to glow from across the room. It had the effect of boiling the blood within her veins.

He killed Harry and he was gloating.

Remus and Tonks both snapped their wands to him and shouted their curses of choice as their wands erupted in streams of color and light. As their hexes careened through the kitchen, their target, their nemesis, their new archenemy, swirled his robes in a dashing display of gray smoke and blue light and disappeared as the cabinets behind him exploded from the impact of the curses intended to inflict the kind of pain they were feeling.

All that remained of Harry's murderer was the echo of his laughter in a hollow and now silent kitchen.

***

The room was quiet. He was lying on the floor. He wasn't sure what had happened, but was clearly aware of one thing. The pain was gone. He blinked open his eyes to see a blinding white light. It was everywhere.

He was nowhere.

He looked around to see nothing. Nothing but white emptiness as far as the eye could see. He scrambled to his feet and looked around, hearing nothing but the echo of his own footsteps. Only, he wasn't moving. The footsteps were coming from behind him. He spun on his heel, still fearing the menace he'd just encountered and thoroughly confused about where he was.

In a rush of emotions, he laid eyes on the figure approaching him, and found his answer.

“Sirius?” he asked incredulously.

“None other! Merlin Harry, I wondered how long it would be before I saw you again!” he said brightly as he pulled Harry into a near bone-crushing embrace. “You know watching over you is just not the same as being able to talk to you. I'd ask you how you've been but I know the answer to that already.”

“Sirius, what's going on? Where am I? What happened to me?” Harry began to ask in rapid succession, panic rising.

“Whoa, hold on there Harry. The answers are coming,” he smiled warmly and embraced him again.

“Oh, my God,” Harry said quietly. “I'm dead.”

“Let's sit down and talk Harry, you've got a lot on your mind,” Sirius said calmly, walking him over to a pair of squashy chairs that looked incredibly like those in the Gryffindor common room. The longer Harry's eyes focused in this space, the more things seemed to come into view. The light was dimming, chairs, and walls were appearing, a roaring fireplace came into view and this space took on a cozy, protected, quality that relaxed him.

“I believe we have some unfinished business,” Sirius said softly. “You've been angry with me for a long time.”

Harry looked away. Sirius was right. He had been angry with him, but at the moment none of that seemed to matter anymore. Oddly enough, Sirius gave the impression he'd read his thoughts.

“It does matter Harry, even now. That's what this place is all about. It took me a long time to figure that out. But this is where you come to terms with the things in your mind, in your heart, you've never had the courage to face,” his warm smile was the only thing keeping Harry calm at the moment.

“It was my fault,” Harry said quietly, already fighting back the tears.

“No it wasn't!” Sirius said sternly, gliding off the chair and taking Harry's hands in his. “I don't ever want to hear you say that again. I'm not here because of you. I didn't die because of you. I was a grown man. I made my own decisions. Dumbledore ordered me to stay at Grimmauld Place and I refused. My own recklessness landed me here. My arrogance to think I knew better than Dumbledore. My own willingness to die led me here.”

It was the last part that caught Harry's attention. He gave a quizzical look to his godfather and Sirius prodded on.

“Harry, when I lost your parents, I lost most of myself. Twelve years in Azkaban didn't help that. I defined myself by my relationship with them. When they were gone, I didn't know who I was. I died still feeling as though their fate was my fault. That's why I came here as well; unfinished business I suppose.”

“So what is this place then?”

“I think this place is what you make of it. I think it's a place you come to make peace with yourself before you can move on,” the tears were welling in Sirius' eyes now. “Harry, our time together was so short. I was never quite sure how to act around you. Just when we started falling into comfortable relationship, it all vanished. It vanished before I ever got to tell you the things I really should have.”

“Like what?”

“Like the fact I love you with all my heart. I love you like you're my own son. I went to the Ministry because I couldn't watch you die. I gladly gave my life you for and I'd do it again. Understand me when I say my fate was MY choice, not yours.”

Harry was speechless. He couldn't muster the energy to speak. He looked at his godfather, kneeling on the floor before him; hands still clasped firmly around his, and did the one thing he'd always prided himself on never having done. He burst into tears.

He was quickly enveloped by a firm embrace that warmed every part of his body. Sirius' chest hitched as he quietly joined Harry in a release of emotion that was long overdue. Harry relished the moment, a loving embrace such that he'd never truly experienced, that he didn't even notice the two other people standing before him quietly wiping the tears from their eyes.

After a few minutes, Sirius pulled back and looked into Harry's puffy red eyes, “Harry, there's some people I'd like to introduce you to.”

That was all the more that was said for the next several minutes. Harry looked up from his chair into the faces of the two most familiar “strangers” he'd never met. He clamored to his feet, unable to take his eyes off his parents. They stood there for what seemed like an eternity, in awkward silence, unsure of how to address each other. It didn't take long before the motherly instinct inherent in Lily took control of the situation.

“Oh, Harry!” was all she could squeak out as she burst into tears, crossed the room and pulled him into a hug not even Molly Weasley could rival. Harry crumbled into sobs again. He finally had the one thing he had longed for on so many occasions. When he was locked in the cupboard, when he fell off his bike, when Dudley broke one of his ribs, when Lockhart vanished the bones in his arm, when he was recuperating from the triwizard tournament; all he wanted was one hug from a mother…his mother. It was nearly more than he could take. She held him so tight it seemed like she was trying to recapture years of stolen affection in one embrace.

“Careful Lils, you'll kill him twice,” a voice chuckled that was eerily like his own. Harry opened his eyes to see a near mirror reflection looking back at him. It was his father. It was Prongs.

He reached out for him and the three of them stood there, Sirius looking on with a beaming smile and glistening eyes. His father said only one thing to Harry, and it made his heart swell like no other comment could. “I'm so proud of you Harry. I'm so proud of everything you've done and who you've become. You're everything your mother and I could've ever hoped for.”

More tears.

After Harry had cried every tear he was sure his body could produce, he followed the lead of his mother and sat down on the large couch. Lily and James clasped their hands together, and with her free arm, Lily curled Harry into her. She played with his hair in much the same way she had done so with his father and Harry sighed a breath of contentment.

“So this is heaven,” Harry said smiling.

“Not exactly,” Lily said, her voice quaking. It was enough to make Harry raise his emerald eyes to his mother's.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, Harry darling, you can't stay here with us. It's not your time,” Lily said with as much composure as she could muster. It clearly did her heart as much good to hold her son as it did his to hold his mother.

“But, I don't want to leave,” Harry said, desperately not wanting to let go of what he'd been given.

“Harry,” James spoke again. “There's never been a time in your life when we weren't right next to you. Just because you haven't seen us, doesn't mean you haven't felt our presence. We're always with you, and we will always be with you,” he gave a nod to Sirius. “All of us.”

“Harry, we love you so much, and nothing can stop that. Nothing can stand in the way of that love, not even death,” Lily said smiling, clearly trying to fight back more tears. “But it's not your time, there are others that need you desperately,” she strengthened her grasp around his shoulders. “It's time to return to them. We'll be right here waiting when your time comes.”

“Go back to them Harry,” Lily said softly. “Wake up.”

“Go back to them Harry, wake up.”

“Come back to me Harry, wake up.”

Harry's eyes fluttered open and he found himself staring into the depths of the glimmering mocha irises he had missed so much. With two words, she burst into tears and dropped her head to his chest.

“Hi, Hermione.”

He struggled to sit up and Hermione lifted her head from his chest. Even in Harry's incredibly biased opinion, she didn't look good. Her hair was disheveled and had fallen out of the clip she'd pulled it back with. Her clothes looked like she'd slept in them for days and her eyes were puffy and bloodshot. He couldn't decide if her appearance broke his heart or warmed it. He'd never had anyone care for him so much, no one else who would've looked a complete wreck in the face of his death like Hermione did right now.

He reached up to brush the tears away from her cheeks and his heart broke. The pain in her eyes was unmistakable. She clearly couldn't believe he was alive. He could only hold that gaze for mere seconds before he reached out to draw her into his arms.

Not requiring any more invitation than the slightest of his movements, Hermione thrust her arms around Harry's shoulders and buried her face in his chest. She couldn't seem to stop the deluge of tears and Harry didn't try to stop her. He knew what her summer had been like. He knew what she had gone through every night. And, he knew what it was like to watch someone die. Even though he sat there, holding and rocking her gently, very much alive, he knew the image of what occurred in the kitchen was now as much a part of her soul as the visions of Cedric and Sirius' death were a part of Harry's. It didn't matter that he didn't die. In her heart, she believed he had.

He remembered wanting to cry in someone's arms like this when Cedric died. He remembered the same feeling when Sirius died. He never allowed anyone to be there for him and it was a mistake. He wasn't going to allow Hermione to make the same one.

“It's okay, Hermione,” he whispered in her ear. “Let it out, love.”

She clutched him tighter and didn't fight the emotions that overwhelmed her. He stifled a quiet groan as she continued to bury her head in his exceptionally sore chest. He wrapped one arm around her securely and let his left hand run aimlessly through her hair. He quietly swayed back and forth with her locked in his arms until the hitching in her chest subsided and her breathing began to even. He was not sure how long the scene lasted; he wasn't watching the clock. It had seemed like ages since he had her in his arms at King's Cross.

Letters are all well and good, but nothing can replace the sensation of holding onto the one you love for dear life.

He didn't realize how much his chest hurt until she finally lifted her head to look at him. He winced audibly and she realized where her head had rested. Before she got the opportunity to explode with apologies, Harry seized the moment.

He lowered his head and used the hand, still playing with her hair, to pull her toward him. This was not a kiss shared by two best friends. This was not a kiss shared between a boyfriend and girlfriend. This was an all-consuming expression of a love that failed description; shared by two people who'd been apart too long and witnessed too much. A whispered moan escaped Hermione's throat and Harry took that as an invitation to prove to her, once and for all, how alive he truly was. He drew her tight to his chest and let his tongue dance across her lips, respectfully requesting entrance. She obliged willingly and Harry heard her gasp as their embrace crossed the divide between a chaste re-acquaintance between the closest of friends, and an enrapturing passionate welcome of two souls destined for eternity.

Merlin, I've missed you, Hermione.

Can we stay like this forever?

Why not? How important is eating anyway?

Not as important as you.

Hermione pulled her hands through his raven hair and melted against him.

“Careful Hermione, you'll kill him twice,” Ron's voice floated through the doorway. The two broke apart quickly, seeming embarrassed to be caught in such an intimate moment. Harry snapped his gaze to Ron.

“What did you say?”

Shocked by the expression that was crossing Harry's face, Ron was taken aback, “Er, I'm sorry…I didn't mean anything by it Harry…really.”

“Harry, what's the matter?” Hermione asked, drawing back with concern.

“Er, nothing. It's just…you just reminded me of someone,” Harry said to Ron, grinning inwardly. He wasn't sure what had really happened tonight. Did he die and miraculously come back? Had he actually talked to, and embraced, Sirius and his parents? Was the whole experience of the white room just the unconscious imagination of someone in a near-death encounter? What did it all mean? Did any of it really happen?

It certainly felt real enough. Maybe that's all that matters.

Ron was still standing, motionless, at the door to his room. Harry drew a contented breath and smiled at his best friend. He knew they had a lot to talk about. He knew that conversation might not be comfortable. He also knew, right now, that none of that mattered. He was here, he was alive, and he was surrounded by the two most important people in his life. He picked up Hermione's hand in his own and held his other hand up toward Ron. Ron crossed the room instantly and sat down on the bed, taking his Harry's hand in his.

The three of them sat together without speaking. Each musing in his or her own mind, what did happen, what could've happened, and what may happen still. One thing was clear from this silent exchange between friends, whatever was coming, they would face it together.

This moment did not pass unnoticed.

“I hope that I am not interrupting.” A serene but distinguished voice broke the silence.

“Professor Dumbledore,” Harry acknowledged, looking up into the kind eyes of the headmaster he'd come to know quite well. Dumbledore, as always, looked impeccable. He was dressed in royal purple robes with silver threading and seemed to glide into the room. He smiled warmly at the trio gathered on the bed together and conjured a simple upholstered chair for himself.

“Hello Harry,” Dumbledore returned the acknowledgement then smiled and greeted Ron and Hermione in turn. “I should think you have a number of questions. I thought I might be able to offer some assistance.” Dumbledore sat back in his chair and waited for the barrage of voices. It didn't come.

Truthfully, Harry had so many questions he didn't know where to begin. There was one question however that stuck in his brain. It burst into his mind the second he woke from Hermione's dream and chanted in his head throughout the entire violent encounter. Apparently, it was ringing in Hermione's head as well.

“We're you wrong Professor?” Hermione asked flatly, not failing to notice Ron's jaw audibly hit the floor.

“Wrong?” Dumbledore looked between Harry and Hermione quizzically. Harry's jaw was set and his eyes never faltered from the Headmaster's. He knew exactly what Hermione was asking and wondered if she had come up with the question on her own or merely heard it screaming in Harry's mind.

“About this house being a safe place for Harry; about the ancient charm that's supposed to protect him.”

“Oh.” Dumbledore replied, realizing Hermione's point. “Yes and no.”

“Yes?” Harry hadn't heard the entire explanation, but the mere fact he might have been subjected to years of the Dursley's for no good reason was enough to make him speak out of turn. “But, you said I was safe as long as Aunt Petunia was around.”

“Not precisely, Harry. The charm is effective if you make your home where your mother's blood resides. That has always been here at Privet Drive.”

“But this place is still my home Professor! Only now the doors are getting blown off the hinges, I lost count of the number of times I took the cruciatus curse down there and the last thing I remember is getting hit with the AK square in the chest. If this is protection, I `d surely like to see what you define as `danger,'” Harry said, temper rising. Hermione was squeezing his hand firmly in a silent effort to tame his tone of voice.

“Harry, all those things would've happened long ago had the charm not been effective,” Dumbledore replied, voice steady.

Harry caught a breath in his chest and before he could expel it in a heated temper, Hermione interrupted him.

“Then why now? Why isn't the charm working now?” she asked concernedly.

“You already know the answer to that question Ms Granger. You've felt it in every ounce of your being all summer.”

Hermione furrowed her brow and Harry watched her mouth twitch in that same endearing manner it always did when she was trying to sort out some grand question in her mind.

Gods, I love her.

As if hearing him speak the words aloud, Hermione snapped her shocked eyes to his and then back to Dumbledore's contented grin. He nodded, silently confirming whatever solution had just formulated in her mind.

“What?” Ron said confounded.

“Me,” Hermione said so softly it was nearly inaudible.

“You,” Dumbledore confirmed.

“What?” Ron and Harry now said in harmony.

“Listen, Professor,” Harry started with exasperation. “For as much as I would've loved to move in with Hermione this summer, I still live with the Dursley's…nothing has changed!”

“Oh, I beg to differ Harry,” Dumbledore replied. “Everything has changed. Forgive me if I sound cliché, but home is where the heart is.” He glanced from Harry to Hermione. “I dare say you've made your home with someone else for quite a few months now.”

Harry looked down at his hand, still enveloping Hermione's. She was trying to slide it out to cover the tears erupting from her eyes. Before he could ask the question, she answered it.

“I'm the reason you almost died,” she croaked, wiping her eyes on her sleeve.

“Quite the contrary Ms Granger,” Dumbledore replied, offering her a handkerchief. “You are the reason Harry is alive.” At this revelation, every eye in the room snapped quickly to Dumbledore's kind expression.

“What?” Hermione squeaked disbelievingly.

“Harry was unprotected, as evidenced by the string of atrocities he listed a few minutes ago. However, your arrival renewed the charm. His home was again found in the presence of his mother's blood when you arrived in the Dursley's hallway. I don't need to tell you the fortuitousness of your timing Hermione. You saved Harry's life.”

The three of them sat silently, staring at Dumbledore and trying to understand the explanation he had offered for the living and breathing Harry Potter sandwiched between them.

Ron in all his eloquence summarized the trio's collective thoughts.

“Whoa.”

But Harry still had one pressing question, one piece of this puzzle that didn't make sense. “Professor, How did Hermione get here?”

“Ms. Granger? Do you know how you came to be here?” Dumbledore asked gently.

“I don't know. I woke up from that dream. I had seen the address placard and knew Harry was in trouble. I was pacing in my room, trying to think of anything that could help him. It was weird. I could feel it when Harry was in pain,” she fought to keep the tears from coming again. “I couldn't think. I just knew I had to be there with him, in that house, by his side. I closed my eyes, wishing desperately that I would think of some way to get to Privet Drive-feeling hope slip away, and when I opened my eyes again…I was there.”

“Just like magic,” Ron said with muffled sarcasm.

Hermione shot him a reproving look and returned her glance to Dumbledore's face. She was about to ask the obvious question, when he answered it for her.

“Well, not surprisingly for you Ms Granger, you've managed to get ahead of your classmates, no doubt through an insufferable amount of reading. I shall inform the Ministry of Magic that conducting your apparition test will be a monumental waste of time.”

In all honesty, this story has practically no cliffs at all, much less than its predecessor. In retrospect I think I've spent a lot more time on the story than in writing for “shock-value.” A few comments…

First off-50 points to reimanr06 for figuring out the chapter title (I conquered death)!! I specifically entitled this chapter so that the overly analytical types-like myself, wouldn't see this as a cliffhanger at all. The first two words of the update told you that he lived through it.

Second, I want to mention a few things about Dumbledore. I've had a lot of reviews and comments that question where I'm going with Dumbledore. I think you saw a bit more of who you remember in this post. I'm operating as Dumbledore still being overly protective of Harry…he has learned from

His experience in the OotP. However, he's got a few other things going on in the background here-that I've either not addressed or have buried it rather deep.

For fear of spoiling my own work… Have you ever had SO much to tell someone, you don't have the first darn clue where to start? Or not enough hours in the day to get the story told? Or you're scared to death of how they'll react to the information when they hear it…especially when they already have the “I must save the world from Voldie” weighing on them. Sometimes, we have to be a bit calculated in what we tell and when we tell it---Dumbledore is no different. He's coming around.

Again, I thank you for your comments throughout the story, and for those of you who have kept with it as it goes along. I understand its complexity might drove off some of the readers…so it warms my heart to see those of you who've stuck with it.

When it comes down to it, like all writers, I'm writing this story for myself, I'm just glad you all are enjoying the ride!

Thanks again!

VLeigh

7. A Stroll Down Memory Lane

This officially gets you about halfway caught up with the story...I'll warn you, updates will be MUCH slower when I get you up to date- but for now…enjoy!

Chapter 7 - A Stroll Down Memory Lane

Remus Lupin stalked about the front hallway of the Dursley's residence putting things back in the pristine order they had been, quite literally, shattered from only an hour ago. He jabbed his wand in the direction of several broken vases that were strewn about the floor.

“Reparo.” As the vases flew back together he set them on the hall table that he had repaired earlier. He picked up the assortment of flowers from the floor and stuffed them back into the vase. It was only after he inadvertently snapped the head off one of the flowers that he stopped long enough to notice the irony staring him in the face.

The flowers were a beautiful selection of Asiatic lilies. Not just any Asiatic lilies, but the brilliant copper colored ones that James used to leave in the common room for Lily Evans to find in the months before he found the courage to admit he'd left them at all. Remus hadn't remembered seeing this variety of flower in nearly eighteen years.

It was dark, it was quiet, and it was typical. The entire count of Gryffindor seemed to be sleeping peacefully above Remus Lupin. The sound of silence was nearly as deafening as it was annoying. Not even his faithful Marauders had managed to stay awake with him. While Peter had lasted the longest, even he turned in more than an hour ago and Remus was left to finish his History essay in near silence. Aside from the crackling common room fire, the scratching of his quill was his only company.

It was the spring of their sixth year at Hogwarts, and the full moon had only just abated. While he was happy to be back in the company of the student body, he hated the full moon for more reasons than the obvious. It always put him behind in his studies. Of course, it put Prongs, Padfoot, and Wormtail behind as well, yet they had chosen to turn in rather than finish the backlog of assignments.

“Typical,” Remus scoffed, thinking of the peaceful sleep his friends were flaunting in his face.

“Yeah, it is typical Moony.” A voice issued from the staircase to the boys dormitory. “It's Friday night!” James Potter said disbelievingly. “I take that back, it's Saturday morning. None of those assignments are due until Monday Remus. Put them away.”

“Listen, just because the three of you are the Kings of Procrastination, don't expect me to do the same,” Remus said quietly, still attempting to work on the same sentence he'd been stuck on for the better part of an hour.

“Ah, the ickle prefect speaks,” James chided. Remus shot him a look, that had he not been so tired, would've been seething with malice. “Come on, Moony,” James softened and sat next to him at the table. “There are far more important things to be done at this time of night than work on History. It's a wonder you haven't bored yourself into a coma.”

“I'm quite sure that's exactly what I've done.”

“Perfect,” James exclaimed, slapping the books shut on the table. “I need your help.” James pulled out an exquisite copper-orange blossom from the inside pocket of his robes.

“Oh, for the love of Merlin Prongs,” Remus mumbled, dropping his head onto his crossed arms. “What does that make, like the sixty-fifth one of those lilies you've scattered about this common room?” his muffled voice floated from under his arms.

“No!” James retorted. “This makes twelve,” he muttered quietly.

“Why don't you just tell her how you feel?” Remus said, picking his head up and resting it on his hand.

“Are you mad? The girl would rather transfigure me into a bullfrog than spend more than five minutes in my presence!” James scoffed.

“That might be because you transfigured her into a bullfrog Potter!”

“I really didn't mean to do that. That was a classic case of mistaken identity.”

“The day you can successfully convince me that Lily Evans bears even the slightest resemblance to Severus Snape, I will personally banter about in a g-string and bowtie atop the teachers table and top it all off with a lap dance for McGonagall.”

“I thought only girls did lap dances,” James inquired thoughtfully.

“Fine, I'll do the whole thing in drag,” Remus added sleepily.

“You're missing the point Remmy. I need you to help me figure out how to charm this one for her,” James added, shaking Remus awake.

“I helped you with the last eleven. Why can't Sirius help? He's pretty good at charms.”

“He's also good at never letting me live down the fact I like Evans. If he knew I was the one giving her these he'd have a field day and you know it,” James said absentmindedly, while he walked around the common room, placing the flower in several places before deciding none was exactly what he wanted.

“I'm aware of that, but you haven't hexed each other in at least a week, and frankly I'm getting a bit bored with nothing entertaining to watch,” Remus said bluntly. James snapped his gaze to Remus and gave him a reproving glare. “All right, all right, bring that thing over here.”

“You know I'm not the best at charm work. That would be Lily's forte,” Remus said, flipping a book open on the table.

“I know that Moony, but that doesn't help me right now does it?”

“Okay, here's one. It's significantly sappy enough to make Alice burst into tears again,” Remus said smiling. When he caught James's eye he answered his inquisitive look without further prompting, “Listen, if I have to do this with you I can at least make Frank's life as dreadfully painful as mine. Alice berated him for a week last time that he never did anything so romantic for her. ”

James and Remus smiled broadly at each other and set to work.

“Wow, a smile. There's something I've not seen in a while.” Lupin looked up to see Tonks walking over the remains of the shattered front door, looking at the flower still grasped in his hand.

The smile faded with the memory of his best friend. He stuffed the flower into the vase with the others, completing the dozen that comprised the arrangement. Without speaking he continued his task of cleaning the front hallway.

“Between your slamming things about out here and Mad-Eye's subtle verbal assault in the kitchen I'm not sure which one of you should win the award for Mr. Congeniality right now,” she added only half-smiling.

“Tonks, I'm really not in the mood for witty repartee at the moment,” he said flatly, still averting his eyes from hers. He knew she was here to help, but he honestly didn't feel like being helped at the moment. He was sad, he was scared, but most of all he was angry. He was angry with Dumbledore for not allowing him to get Harry earlier. He was angry with Damien for daring to show his face in this house. He was angry with Harry for choosing Dudley's life over his own. More so than anything else, he was angry with himself for a promise he failed to keep.

Tonks didn't need him to explain any of this. She merely stepped out of the way as the pieces of the front door leapt off the floor, reassembled themselves, and slammed shut, securely in the doorjamb that only seconds before had been splintered and broken.

Having finished the task of cleaning up the foyer, Lupin was suddenly left with nothing to distract his attention. Tonks seized the opportunity. She holstered her wand and walked toward him purposefully.

“Remus, he's okay,” she said softly. He shifted uncomfortably as she grasped his shoulders firmly.

He was speechless. He didn't know what to say. He wanted to argue with her. He wanted to explain to her that it's a pure miracle that Harry survived. He had not arrived in time to save him. He wanted to explain that Harry was the last thing in this world he had that connected him to a life and a self that had died repeatedly each time one of his friends did. He wanted to tell her that had Harry died, he was certain the last remnants of himself would've been lost with him. For a few awful moments, that's exactly what he believed had happened.

He wanted to tell her all of that. He wanted to make her understand the failure he felt to himself and to the memory of his best friends. He just couldn't figure out how to do it.

Then he found the courage to look into her eyes. As her eyes met his, he realized he didn't need to tell her any of it. She already knew. Silently, she pulled him into a strong embrace and he fought back the tears with every ounce of strength he had left.

***

Harry, Ron and Hermione descended the stairs together. Dumbledore followed a few steps behind. As Harry neared the landing he laid eyes on the scene in the foyer and felt horribly intrusive. He stopped suddenly, wanting to quietly climb the stairs and leave Tonks and Lupin in peace but the creak issuing from beneath Ron's shoe alerted the couple to the audience above. Lupin opened the eyes he had squeezed shut and looked up.

“Harry, thank God,” he said, relieved and quickly separated from Tonks embrace. He headed straight for the stairs and Harry traversed the final few to meet him. Lupin pulled him into a firm hug and Harry breathed a sigh of contentment.

“Thanks for coming,” Harry said sincerely.

“Harry, I'd do anything for you,” Lupin replied, pulling back to look at him. “Are you alright?”

“I'm a bit sore, but nothing a bit of your Negrulean potion won't take care of,” he smiled glancing up the stairs where Hermione stood. “Besides, I had my guardian angel looking out for me.” Hermione blushed and Ron did his best to stave off a rather obvious eye roll. Hearing the chatter emanating from the kitchen Harry looked at Lupin quizzically. “Did they all come?”

“You expected something less?” Lupin said smiling broader than he had all summer. With that, Harry and his entourage made for the kitchen.

It was a scene unlike any that had taken place in the Dursley's house. Under normal circumstances, Vernon would've spontaneously combusted by now. However, these circumstances were far from normal.

Mad-Eye Moody was sneaking about the kitchen making the final repairs from the battle that had recently been fought there. He muttered relentlessly under his breath. Although Harry couldn't discern the entirety of his tirade, he did hear the word “vigilant” more often than any other.

Arthur Weasley was completely engrossed in the Dursley's kitchen appliances. He had, no doubt, decided to use Harry's rather brief recovery period as an opportunity for hands-on muggle research. He was comparing the electrical plug to the toaster with the telephone jack attached to the base of the cordless phone.

Fred and George were sitting in the living room in rather close proximity to Dudley. Dudley was curled, as best as someone Dudley's size could curl, on the couch watching the scene from behind a chenille throw that managed to cover only half his body. For the most fleeting of moments, Harry thought the twins were attempting to console Dudley in the wake of what was clearly the most terrifying event in his short life. They weren't. They were indulging in a large bowl of rich chocolate candy they had undoubtedly placed on the table within Dudley's reach. Harry heard George's voice as Fred picked over the bowl under Dudley's watchful eye.

“Not that one Fred, you know what it does!”

“Yes, I do George, thank you for reminding me. Perhaps I'll try one a little less incendiary,” Fred smiled digging his hand into the bowl for another piece, while Dudley's eyes grew large as saucers. Harry was sure that was the same candy he'd seen Aunt Petunia set out earlier in the day, but knew the memory of the ton-tongue toffee would ensure none of it ever passed Dudley's lips.

Speaking of Aunt Petunia, she seemed to be carrying on quite a pleasant conversation with Molly Weasley. Ever the entertainer, Aunt Petunia was near the stove preparing tea for her “guests.” Molly was looking at the teabags and thoroughly engaged in some quiet conversation that seemed entirely lost on everyone else in the kitchen. Oddly enough, for Ms. Weasley never having been to Privet Drive, she seemed very comfortable with Harry's Aunt.

He could hear additional voices coming from the dining room. He made out at least the most pronounced of them as Kinglsey Shacklebolt and Mundugus Fletcher. The cat streaming across the living room was also a good indication that Ms. Figg had put in an appearance as well.

The house had never been so full in all Harry's years of living there. It had certainly never been this full of witches and wizards. As they made their way fully into the kitchen, he couldn't help but notice Ron's eyes float to the door still demarking the infamous cupboard under the stairs. Ron's attention was quickly redirected as he heard the sound of his own mother's voice.

“Harry dear!” Molly Weasley exclaimed, cutting Petunia's conversation off in mid sentence and rushing over to hug him tightly. “Oh, thank Merlin you are all right,” she added voice shuddering.

“I'm okay,” Harry replied, a bit embarrassed that the kitchen had fallen dead silent upon his entrance. “Thanks.” As he pulled away from Ms. Weasley and gave a weak smile, it seemed to indicate open season for back slapping embraces. Harry felt as though he were at the center of some muggle mosh pit. People just seemed to keep coming, grabbing him, hugging him, crying, laughing, smiling, frowning, each seeming to want to prove to their own eyes that he was actually alive.

As the crowd around him lessened he felt a stern approach he'd not had the “pleasure” of enduring since last year. Severus Snape strode toward him with his hand extended. Harry gave it a cautious shake and was moderately surprised when Snape muttered his congratulations to Harry for having averted death. Just when Harry thought he'd keel over from shock, Snape waltzed off muttering something about being forced to continue grading substandard potions essays. Harry smiled in spite of it.

The only people obviously absent from this grand reunion were the Dursley's. Not surprisingly they huddled near Dudley on the couch and looked on suspiciously.

As the exchange came to an end, the mood in the house lightened significantly. As Harry had only made it to the kitchen doorway before being spotted by Ms. Weasley, he moved aside to allow the others to enter the room. Lupin and Tonks crossed the kitchen and took seats at the table, while Ron filed in toward his brothers. Dumbledore glided in through the doorway leaving only Hermione in the hall.

She was nervous and Harry knew it. She always chewed her lip and refused to look at anyone when she was nervous or embarrassed. She had assumed, and rightly so, since the house was so obviously aware of Harry's survival that they likely knew the reason for it. For some reason she seemed wholly terrified to enter the kitchen. Harry extended his hand in a gesture of support. Without looking at him, she took his hand in hers and took a deep breath. He walked into the kitchen and was promptly greeted by a similar foray of enthusiastic embraces. He noticed her smile as those holding her smiled. Her face fell in the presence of those who frowned. She reacted to every one of them individually, seeming to give each her full attention.

That's my Hermione, she's nothing if not considerate of other's feelings.

Harry smiled as his thoughts wandered back to the now-defunct S.P.E.W. initiative. His smile became a hearty laugh as Fred and George “greeted” Hermione.

“Look George! It's Hermione!” Fred exalted.

“Hermione? The Hermione?” George said incredulously. “Where?”

“Over here!” CRACK! Fred suddenly appeared next to Hermione, sending Dudley's head diving under the safety of the chenille throw.

CRACK! “Here?” George bellowed from somewhere upstairs.

CRACK! “No, in the kitchen!” Fred scoffed from the foyer.

CRACK! “Oh, you mean right here!” George said triumphantly as he appeared next to Hermione, whose face had reddened significantly.

CRACK! “Yes! Right here!” Fred said playfully. “Do you know how she got here?”

“I believe she apparated!”

“I believe you're right!”

As the twins started into a chant of “she don't need no stinkin' test,” they began to flash around the room in rapid succession. The cracking noise they made with each appearance nearly set the beat to their chanting. It was all Molly Weasley could stand.

“Fred! George!” she snapped acidly. Her stern glance in the direction of the Dursley's, now rivaling Sir Nicholas' rosy complexion, put a quick end to their playful mood. Smile fading, Harry's thoughts returned to Hermione.

Her face was still reddened but her eyes were gleaming with pride. Sure, Fred and George were having a go at her, but it was their way of expressing how impressed they were, and Hermione knew it. While she seemed perfectly well, something about Hermione persisted to concern Harry. He just wasn't sure what it was. Perhaps this whole ordeal had been more troubling for her than even he realized. Something was still awry with her, something he'd felt all summer. He made a mental note to talk to her about it when they had the opportunity to be alone.

Dumbledore's dignified voice drew Harry from his thoughts.

“Well, now that we have restored the Dursley's home to order. I think it's time we leave them in peace.”

Harry felt sick. If everyone was leaving he was coming with them. There was no way he'd be left here again, not after tonight. These very words were on the tip of his tongue when two voices answered his concern in harmony.

“We'll get Hedwig and his trunk!” Fred said as he and George dashed up the stairs toward Harry's room. The lack of protest on anyone's part reassured Harry that he would be leaving with them.

“Albus,” Arthur Weasley said quietly. “I think with the commotion caused on this street already tonight, it would be better just to apparate straight away rather than risk more muggles being alerted to our presence. I'm sure the Ministry has already cast quite a few memory charms on Privet Drive tonight.” Dumbledore nodded in agreement.

“We need to return to headquarters and debrief properly,” Moody growled, obviously frustrated by the seeming lack of concern for the events that had occurred.

“But Harry and I can't apparate yet,” Ron added concernedly.

“It's all right Ron, Just come over here and hold onto me,” Ms. Weasley said, extending her arm toward Ron. With a sidelong glance at Harry, he headed for his mother.

“See you in a minute,” he said to Harry and Hermione as they disapparated with a crack.

The room filled with the sounds of witches and wizards taking their leave of Privet Drive. Fred and George let Hedwig out of her cage so she could fly back to headquarters and stretch her wings. Ms. Figg gave Harry one last squeeze and left for her home via the repaired front door. Soon all that remained, aside from the Dursley's, was Harry, Hermione, and Professor Dumbledore.

Professor Dumbledore had walked over to Petunia in the commotion of the Order's departure and was clearly finishing conversing with her. He held her hand in his and gave her a warm smile. Harry felt quite certain Dumbledore was offering some modicum of gratitude for having ensured Harry's safety, no matter how basic, in the years that had passed since he acquired that famous scar. As he turned to Harry and Hermione, his eyes glimmered brightly.

“Ms. Granger, I imagine you can get Harry to headquarters quite efficiently,” he winked at Harry. “I'll see you then.” With a crack, he was gone, leaving Harry and Hermione alone with the Dursley's. An awkward silence ensued and Hermione was clearly trying to focus her thoughts on the task at hand. She took Harry's hand in hers only to be stopped abruptly.

“Hang on, Hermione,” Harry said quietly. He slipped his hand from hers and walked over to the Dursley's.

This was it. This was the moment he had spent the majority of his life awaiting. He was leaving, and he was leaving for good. He never had to return to this house or these people again. Surprisingly, he wasn't as elated as he thought he would be.

He wasn't interested in Uncle Vernon or Dudley, but Aunt Petunia carried a look in her eyes that he recognized. He had only gotten a bit of her story. He only knew slightly more now that he had before. But what he knew was earth shattering. He would never forget what Petunia had done for him. The house in Godric's Hollow aside, he felt thoroughly grateful for the trip they took together, the opportunity to pay a visit to his parents, and the information that she freely, and finally, gave up. Although it was a new respect, he had developed one for Petunia and honestly, felt a bit cheated to not have more time with her; the new her. He sincerely hoped what he was thinking was coming across in his eyes. He knew he couldn't speak of it in front of Vernon.

She apparently understood. She stepped out from behind Dudley and pulled Harry into a quick, and somewhat awkward hug. She glanced at Dudley's shocked face and back to Harry and said the one thing Harry had not heard in all his years at Privet Drive.

“Thank you, Harry.”

To which he replied quietly, “No, thank you Aunt Petunia.” With that said, he returned to Hermione. Her eyes were filling with tears and she quickly brushed one off her cheek as Harry slid his arm around her waist and turned her to face him.

“Shall we go to headquarters then?” he asked with a grin. Hermione nodded and Harry took one last glance toward his Aunt before Privet Drive disappeared from his field of vision.

When the scene blurred into view, Harry was shocked to see what was standing before him.

“Hermione,” Harry said tentatively.

“Yes?” she inquired concernedly

“You do know they moved the headquarters to the Burrow, right?”

Hermione gasped.

She apparently didn't know that.

“Oh! I'm so sorry Harry! Hang on and we'll go right now.”

“No, wait,” he said dropping his arms from her waist. “I'd like to look around.”

Hermione joined him as the two walked together to the doorway emblazoned with a number “12.”

***

Harry wasn't quite sure what to expect when he opened the door. Frankly, he wasn't sure the door would open at all. Surely it would be locked. If it wasn't locked, they never would have moved the Order's headquarters to the Burrow. With Sirius gone, Kreacher would hardly be chomping at the bit to let the “blood traitors” into the house of his mistress. Still, an unknown compulsion moved Harry forward. He reached for the door knob and Hermione tugged gently on his sleeve.

“Harry, are you sure you want to do this?”

“I just want to look around a bit.”

“But Harry, are you sure its not going to be too painf…”

“Hermione,” he turned to look at her. “I'm fine. I really am.”

She begrudgingly released his arm and gave a defeated glance toward the front door. Harry reached for the knob and was shocked as he pushed the door open with no resistance.

The wooden door opened with an ominous creak. The front hallway was dark and still. No one seemed alerted to their presence and for all Harry could tell, the house was deserted. He gave a quick glance over his shoulder and felt Hermione clinging to him as they walked into the foyer.

He hadn't spent much time here but the house held memories for him nonetheless. He looked up the dark staircase and remembered the times they'd traversed the passage in silence, attempting not to wake Mrs. Black's portrait. He thought of Fred and George lowering the extendable ears to eavesdrop on members of the Order after a closed door meeting. He smiled inwardly at the sound of Sirius singing “God rest ye Merrye hippogriffs!”

Hippogriffs!

Harry gasped and set off at a run. Harry wasn't sure if Hermione knew why he was running, or merely followed him out of curiosity. Either way, she was close upon his heels. He trampled up the staircase, fearing the worst.

Sirius had been dead for over a year. For some reason, the Order had not been able to access the house. Sirius had but one charge, and that was the hippogriff that helped save his life. Harry's stomach flopped over as he thought of the scene he was bound to find beyond the bedroom door. He stopped momentarily to ready himself and pushed the door open to Mrs. Black's former bedroom.

The smell was the first thing to hit both Harry and Hermione. Harry closed his eyes as Hermione threw her sleeve over her mouth and nose. It smelled like rancid meat. The weight of Hermione's head, thrust into Harry's shoulder, let him know she had not summoned the stomach to look in the room. Steeling himself once more, Harry opened his eyes and chanced a glance into the bedroom.

He smiled more broadly than he had in weeks.

“Hermione, its okay. Look!”

With obvious trepidation, Hermione raised her head from Harry's shoulder and peered into the room. Buckbeak was nowhere to be found. However, the hippogriff-sized hole in the wall seemed to indicate that Buckbeak had made do on his own. If that wasn't evidence enough, it became quite apparent that the smell of rancid meat merely denoted the year's worth of leftover dinner that Buckbeak had strewn about the floor. Harry and Hermione both released the breath they had undoubtedly been holding since arriving at Grimmauld place and dissolved into a fit of laughter.

Their Gryffindor tenacity restored, it was time to set out exploring.

As a precaution, they both brandished their wands, remembering the veritable menagerie of infestations they had worked to clean up two summers ago. They retreated back down the hallway in silence. They peered into one door and through another. They examined some of the portraits, conspicuously unattended, as they walked toward the stairs. Hermione raised a defeated glance to the “house elf wall of fame” and remained fixated on the mounted heads of the Black's many former house elves.

It was her scream that pulled Harry's musings away from the room he'd once occupied.

Hermione had thrown herself against the wall with enough force to dislodge a mounted house elf head. It bounced down the staircase, bumping and crashing into nearly everything it could along the way. Harry reached Hermione and threw his arms around her, covering her mouth with his hand, just as the head shattered a large vase at the bottom of the stairs.

Just below Mrs. Black's portrait.

Rooted to the spot, unable to breathe, and with wide eyes staring…they waited for it.

Quiet.

They exchanged a confounded look. Two summers ago a mere ring of the doorbell would've sent Sirius' mother into earsplitting fits not even Mrs. Weasley's howlers could rival. Hermione had just sent a decapitated house elf head careening down the stairs with a racket tantamount to one of Hagrid's Care of Magical Creatures lessons. Yet his mother's portrait did not awaken. Harry was about to make this point to Hermione when he realized her eyes were still screwed up tight. It didn't take him long to realize what had frightened her.

In the absence of any master left to take orders from, Kreacher appeared to have made the decision he'd sought for ages. At Hermione's feet lay an empty wooden plaque with the name “Kreacher” scrawled in nearly illegible handwriting. A knife, strapped to a fireplace stone, lay to the left side, while the house elf's head lay to the right. The bloodstained carpet, turned brown from age, indicated the deed had been done some months earlier. Hermione seemed horrorstruck by what lay on the floor before her, Harry, on the other hand, felt no such remorse.

While he was sure the vestiges of S.P.E.W. still lingered in Hermione's heart, Harry was not in the least bit saddened to see the end of this house elf. His mind drifted back to that fateful night he snuck into Umbridge's office and took Kreacher at his word that Sirius had left Grimmauld Place. Had Kreacher been present when Harry learned it was all a lie, he likely would've taken the liberty of decapitating the elf post haste. However, as Kreacher seemed to have done the job himself, Harry merely ushered Hermione down the stairs and resolved to clean up the mess later.

Harry put an arm around Hermione's shoulder as they descended the staircase together. Both sets of eyes were clearly fixed on the shrouded portrait at the bottom of the stairs. Why had she not shrieked about “accursed mudbloods” and “children of filth?” By the time he was level with the portrait his curiosity consumed him.

“Harry!” Hermione quietly hissed as he reached up to tug at the drapery over the portrait.

“It's okay,” he whispered absentmindedly, still reaching to pull back the coverings ever so slightly. She tugged on his sleeve as he pulled back part of the drapery exposing the portrait underneath. The farther he exposed the portrait, the more flustered Hermione became, until she realized exactly what Harry did.

Mrs. Black had left her portrait.

Confounded, Harry and Hermione studied the empty portrait, wondering where its mistress had gone.

“Well, at least it will be quieter around here,” Harry said sheepishly.

Forgetting they could speak in audible voices, Hermione continued to whisper to Harry. `Everyone has got to be wondering where we are.”

“Hmm?” Harry mumbled, still examining the empty frame.

“Ron…the Order…Hello! Earth to Harry! Fred and George have probably convinced everyone I've splinched us into an unsuspecting herd of mad cattle!” Hermione said with growing frustration.

“Oh, right!” Harry replied, prying his eyes from the portrait. “I've got an idea.” With that he took her hand and went down the hallway toward the kitchen.

Harry half expected to see something indicative of Sirius' last meal lying around the kitchen. A hastily left bowl of soup, a half-consumed glass of butterbeer, anything to indicate the alacrity with which he left this house; of course, there was no evidence to be found. Kreacher had undoubtedly cleaned the kitchen after Sirius had gone and it remained clean even now. Oddly enough, the fire was burning as vigorously as ever.

Harry walked to the fireplace and pulled a ceramic pot from the mantle. Just as he'd assumed it was filled with floo powder and he took a pinch and tossed it into the fire. The kitchen sprung to life with a roaring green flame and Hermione heard Harry say “the Burrow” before placing his head squarely in the flames.

***

“Harry!” Ron shouted before Harry's eyes could even focus on the Weasley's bustling living room. Before he could speak, Ron's voice was joined by several others. Although he couldn't make out one voice among the din of the others he was quite assured he knew what each was getting at.

“Everything's fine! Hermione and I are okay. We just took a bit of a wrong turn, that's all,” Harry said, doing his best to assuage the worried faces staring at him.

“Where are you?” Ron asked concernedly.

“We're at Grimmauld Place. Hermione didn't realize the headquarters had been moved and she apparated us here. We just thought we'd take a bit of a look around before joining you.” Harry did not miss the significant glances that encircled the room as he spoke.

“Grimmauld Place?” Tonks said incredulously. “You're inside?”

“Obviously,” Mad-Eye growled. Tonks shot him an acid glare which seemed to effect Moody not in the least.

“Yes,” Harry said quietly, trying to calm the obvious tension.

Tonks returned her attention to Harry's head, floating about in the fireplace, and asked another, seemingly obvious, question. “How did you get in?”

“I, er-I just opened the door. It wasn't locked,” Harry answered honestly.

He couldn't help but notice the contented glance that passed between Remus Lupin and Albus Dumbledore before Molly Weasley's voice caught his attention. “No matter Harry, we know you're safe. Why don't you and Hermione just floo over and we can settle in for a spot of supper.”

Harry was about to give a begrudging reply in the affirmative when he noticed Remus Lupin advance from the back of the room and put a hand on Molly's shoulder. “Molly, I think we have some of our own debriefing to do yet.” He looked at Harry. “I would say you both should give us about an hour before you come over if that's alright with you.” Lupin shot Harry a look that could only mean get-out-while-you-can, before Molly rounded on him with eyes flashing.

“Okay. We'll see you in an hour or so.” Not needing to be told twice, Harry pulled his head from the fireplace to the faint echo of what sounded oddly like a howler Ron had once received during their second year.

“Is everything okay?” Hermione asked as Harry got to his feet.

“It is now,” Harry said with a smile. Given the expression crossing Hermione's face, he felt it necessary to expound. “We've got an hour or so before we need to floo to the Burrow. If you don't mind, there are a few other places I'd like to have a look at.”

Hermione flopped onto the bench in the kitchen. “I've seen all I care to see for right now. I'll stay here,” she said flatly. Harry nodded and moved toward the door, stopping to give Hermione a short kiss on the forehead as he left. He hadn't cleared the doorway before that same forehead flopped onto her crossed arms, exhausted.

A/N: I think I need to clear up a bit of confusion over the whole “home” protection charm thing. There are two essential elements for the ancient charm to protect Harry away from Hogwarts. He must make his “home” in the presence of his mother's blood. The only one with his mother's blood is Petunia, so his home would still have to be with her. The other key is that he has to “feel” like it's home - which he doesn't. So honestly, at this point the only way to keep that protection is to have Hermione at Privet Drive.

Second-I feel the need to make an apology of sorts. The original website I wrote this on (or more to the point-am writing it on) cliffhangers are sort of the order of the day. I got away from using them when I wrote this story and you've seen only one I really have. I am also reminded that for those of you who don't know me-which is practically everyone-my dry sense of humor and sarcasm doesn't translate well on the screen. I'll keep that in mind.

I've gotten some rather nasty insults via email, PM, reviews, and otherwise, and didn't realize-from the stories I've read here-that cliffies are so taboo on Portkey. I likely would've changed the chapter break had I known that. That's part of the reason I posted the next chapter so quickly. I'll take more care to ensure I don't have any more for the readers here.

I would hope, in return, those readers who have felt the need to send me some of those messages might choose otherwise in the future.

VLeigh

8. Inevitable

A/N: Thanks for all the support. I feel much better about everything having gotten such great feedback from everyone.

This chapter was a little slower in coming because you are the first to read the “enhanced” version. I added a scene in here-a fluffy one-although this chapter had a good bit of fluff already-I thought I'd give you a bit more. This story is so plot driven I tend to forget that part from time to time. It's fluffy enough I've changed ToR's rating to “R' because of it…enjoy!

Also, I wanted to plug another story. If you haven't seen it yet I went in on a joint venture in comedy with the ever-fantastic Cheering Charm. It's our first comedy but it went over well, it's now complete on PK….If you haven't checked out A Slip of the Tongue please give it a thought.

If you haven't had the pleasure of happening upon CC's Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered, you're missing out. It's a post-Hogwarts H/H that is a must read for anyone sailing that ship!! I highly recommend it, and I don't follow a whole lot of stories.

If you have checked out “Slip” and are one of those begging us to write another joint venture - you got your wish. Our comedic muse has reappeared and we have a fantastic idea for a parody. Like “Slip” I'm sure we'll write the whole thing before posting any of it. We'll let you know when to expect it!

Once again, thanks for the reviews! I hope you enjoy the latest installment of The Triumvirate of Resolve!

Chapter 8 - Inevitable

It seemed every room in the house was exactly the same as it had been the last time Harry saw it. It was still dark and musty. However, it was now eerily quiet, as all the Black family portraits seemed to be without their subjects. The cleaning efforts they had expended two summers ago even seemed to hold up. The curtains were not brimming with doxies and writing desks were free of boggarts. That's probably what disturbed Harry the most as he walked about from room to room. The house was completely silent. It was worse than silent.

It was lifeless.

He stood before the one door he'd avoided thus far. He gathered his courage and remembered the “vision” of Sirius and his parents. Harry snorted.

It wasn't a vision. It was merely a dream. Albeit a convincing one at the time, it was just a dream while I was knocked out. It was what I wished they could say to me. What they can't say. Nothing more.

Harry let out a deep breath as vague remembrances of the Mirror of Erised flashed through his mind.

I would've stayed in that dream for as long as I would've sat in front of that mirror.

Another voice interrupted his thoughts.

It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live.

With an inward smile, Harry reflected on the words of Albus Dumbledore and opened the door to his godfather's bedroom. Unlike the kitchen, he nearly expected Sirius to come walking out of the large closet to greet him. A wool cloak was thrown over a large wingback chair. There was a stack of jumpers set by the closet, clearly intended to be put away upon his return. A desk in the corner was littered with several old copies of the Daily Prophet. And the part that struck him closest to the heart, Sirius' mirror, the one to match Harry's father's, was set upon the top of the chest of drawers next to an old Gryffindor scarf.

If I'd only used this mirror I wouldn't have gotten him killed.

Harry felt a lump rising in his throat and guilt, familiar as an old friend, settling in his chest as he examined the mirror. He picked up the cardinal and gold striped scarf and closed his watering eyes while taking in the scent of it. Did he hope to discover some sensory reminder of his godfather? He didn't know. He wasn't sure why he'd been so compelled to take the scarf from the chest, but he wasn't returning it. He draped the scarf around his neck and turned to leave the room when he noticed his name on a piece of parchment the scarf had obscured. Compelled, he reached for the parchment and unrolled it. Realizing what it was, he sat down on the edge of the bed before his legs gave out.

Sirius had left Harry a letter.

It was dated the day he died.

My dearest Godson,

Forgive me for being a bit sentimental, it sneaks up on me. We've not had much time together Harry, more than anything I've bemoaned in my life, I've regretted that that above all. There are so many things I'd like to tell you, so many things I'd love to share, but again, regretfully, my time here is short as well. I know you are in trouble and I'm coming for you. But before I do, I wanted to leave you this, in case…well, in case it's the last thing I get to say to you.

Harry, your parents were the most precious people in my life. I would never have become who I am, nor survived what I did, without their influence. Your father was my best friend, he was my rock, my confidant, and he was the better part of me. Your mother was everything I could've wanted for him. She was beautiful, she was intelligent, she was a bit unnerving at times, but she had more love and compassion in her heart than any woman I've ever known. You are the best possible result of their relationship. They shared an all-consuming love that defies definition. None of it compares to how much they loved you.

I know you never truly knew them Harry, but look inside yourself and you'll meet them yet. You are everything they were and everything they hoped to be. And because I knew them better than I knew myself, I know what you're thinking now.

If you're reading this letter, I've undoubtedly joined Lily and James. I can only say I will regret seeing you grow into the man you will be. I will regret not being there to watch you realize the power of true love (although I believe I've already met her). I regret that I will not see your children born. But I do not regret the choice I'm making now.

I made a solemn promise to your parents. I promised with all that I am that I would protect and care for the most precious possession they had…you. Just as you would gladly go into battle for Ron or Hermione, I do that for Lily and James now. Before I go, I want to assure that you never forget this one thing. This is my choice to make. This is not your choice. This is not your doing. And if you're reading this letter now, my death was NOT your fault.

I never had occasion to feel the sort of love for another that your parents felt for each other. But, in the short time I've filled the role as your godfather; I believe I've come to understand what a powerful emotion love is.

I love you, Harry. I love you as your parents did. I love you as your parents still do. And understand this, if you understand nothing more; my death cannot stop my love for you. And if I died protecting you from those who stole your parents from me, my life will finally be worth something.

I will always be with you.

Your Loving Godfather,

Sirius

“Harry,” a soft voice issued from behind him. He looked over his shoulder, letter in hand, to see Hermione standing in the doorway. The expression on his face broke her heart. Tears welling in her eyes, she walked to the bed and sat down next to him. Feeling this moment was over a year past due, she held him as he crumbled into her arms and finally lost the battle he'd fought so valiantly against.

He finally mourned for Sirius.

***

Harry and Hermione remained locked in an emotional embrace for what seemed like an eternity. Although the logical Hermione demanded Harry have this moment or release alone, the emotional Hermione did not comply. She had never seen Harry cry, certainly not the unrestrained tears that she witnessed here, and it broke her heart.

She held him close, unconsciously rocking back and forth as he clearly said goodbye to his godfather for the first time. It was more than she could take. She cried with him, grasping him around the shoulders, willing herself to hold him tighter. She honestly felt as though she was trying to hold him together both emotionally and physically. It drained her as clearly as it drained him.

Eventually his sobs subsided and they gave in to their exhaustion. Perhaps it was because she knew they were alone and would not be disturbed. Perhaps it was because she was so suddenly tired. She, for once, did not analyze her actions. She didn't think about how the scene would look to others. She didn't think about what Harry would think. She only thought about him. She needed to hold him, and she was too tired to remain sitting up.

She pulled him down with her as they softly collapsed onto the bed. They never broke their embrace, merely adjusted the positions to gain a comfortable spot. Harry's head was resting gently on her chest, her arms wrapped securely around his shoulders. His arms were tight around her waist and their legs tangled with each other.

Perhaps her lack of analysis explained her surprise at what happened next. Harry pulled his head from her chest and pulled her to him so they were both lying on their sides, facing each other. While his mouth searched for the words, his eyes broadcast his sentiment. Without requiring his spoken gratitude, Hermione merely smiled and replied to the statement he'd intended to make.

“You're welcome, Harry.” She intended to add to that statement, but as she opened her mouth to continue, she quickly found her voice muffled as his lips met hers. He pulled her tightly to his chest as he deepened the kiss, nearly usurping the breath from her lungs. Hermione was hard-pressed to describe the scene and the analytical part of her brain was screaming for an explanation, not that the emotional half cared.

This was clearly as passionate as Harry had ever been. He rolled up so that Hermione was pressed against the mattress and he, propped on his left elbow, covered the right side of her body. He broke from the kiss as the necessity of respiration would demand and trailed kisses along the smooth skin of her neck.

They were all alone, lying on a bed, with no chance of being happened upon, and had time to spend before they were expected at the Burrow. For a moment, the logical part of her began to protest. She had never had this discussion with Harry. She'd never told him, that while perhaps conservative and old-fashioned, she did not wish to consummate their relationship until they were married. She opened her mouth to state these concerns when he began sucking the place where her neck and shoulder joined. All that escaped her lips was a quiet moan as her eyelids fluttered closed at his touch.

Her hands played in his raven hair as he continued to explore the parts of her neck and shoulders exposed by the boat neck jumper she was wearing. She finally found her voice as she felt his right hand slide up under her shirt.

“Harry?” she whispered quietly.

“Hmmm?” he answered, his hand still working ever farther up her chest.

“I don't….know,” she drew a short breath as his fingers found the front closure of her bra. “I, um…” His hand came to a pause and he pulled his head up to look at her properly.

“Hermione,” his voice was deeper than she'd ever heard it. “We can stop anytime you'd like.” A faint blush broke his features and he smiled dimly. “I guess we haven't talked about this have we?”

“No,” she replied quietly still feeling the searing heat from his hand on her lacy bra.

“I…um…” He cleared his throat. “I don't know how to say this.” He shifted on the bed, his hand falling back upon her bare stomach. “I don't want to…um…you know,” he stammered. Her eyebrows constricted with the obvious question. “Not yet anyway. You're going to think I'm prudish or old-fashioned, but I think some things are better left for a honeymoon.”

Hermione smiled broadly, feeling the relief wash over her. “I feel the same way.” Logic leaving her senses once again, she heard herself continue, “but that doesn't mean we can't enjoy each other in the meanwhile.” Inexplicably to her, and most obviously to Harry, she popped the clasp on her bra with one hand and danced her fingers across his forearm expectantly.

It was a message not lost on Harry. He crushed his lips to hers as his hand made its way along her skin to gently cup her breast. She moaned audibly as his fingers dragged along her skin, having never been touched by anyone in this way. Her hands slid under his shirt and roamed along his back reciprocally.

They continued, somewhat tenuously, exploring each other in the same manner until their allotted time expired. Later, Hermione would often wonder what triggered their first quasi-intimate experience. While they'd certainly had their fair share of kissing, he'd never touched her in any other way before this evening. She reasoned that Harry's emotional release simply triggered a more physical one. He obviously trusted her implicitly as he let her see him in a new light. That, in and of itself, cast their relationship in a new perspective and perhaps drove it to another plateau.

While she was relieved that he felt the same way about their relationship as she did, she felt a moderate concern over her own willpower. He felt so right. She felt so uninhibited with him. His touch nearly set her aflame - and they'd never even discussed setting a date. Her mind was incapable of thinking about anything other than his hands upon her skin, which left her with only one thought.

This is going to be harder than I thought.

***

It was inevitable. It had to happen sooner or later.

Ron, Harry and Hermione had reached some peaceable détente in the days following the attack at Privet Drive, but the emotions, misconceptions, and insecurities ran too deep to keep the conversation at bay for long. The trio went about their normal routine quietly attempting to return their friendship to what it had been in the years prior. While they laughed, talked, and played chess and Quidditch as frequently as ever, the tension of a conversation conspicuously unspoken, plagued their interactions.

Perhaps they were waiting. Maybe they understood that the warm familiarity of the Hogwarts Express, where they began this odyssey together, would be the most comforting place to tackle the latest troll threatening their relationship. The journey to Hogwarts took several hours. It would certainly be a logical place to sit down with each other and talk.

It's disappointing that emotions can so quickly overtake logic, especially in those whose name seems synonymous with the concept.

“Why can't I move the queen there?” Hermione blustered, trying rather unsuccessfully, to look angry with Harry.

“Because you can't! It's illegal!” He chortled. The sun had broken through the last vestiges of the inky darkness and morning had erupted in a blaze of fiery radiance. While everyone had peaceably tucked into bed the evening before it had been short-lived for Hermione.

“It's good to see you laughing,” Harry said with a contented smile. Hermione looked at him for the briefest of moments and returned her gaze to the chessboard. “Are you sure you're alright?”

“I'd be better if you'd stop asking me that question, Harry.”

“Hermione, I'm worried about you. Call it pure masculine egotism, but I thought your nightmares would stop after we were together again,” he added somberly.

“Harry, I appreciate your concern,” she said drawing her eyes to his face. “But, I honestly don't want to think about it right now.” Harry was amazed at how quickly she seemed to revert her attention back to the chessboard. He wished he could be as accommodating, but all he could think about was last night.

Harry startled awake. He'd been sleeping rather well and for a moment forgot his surroundings. He glanced at the Chudley Cannon chaser zipping around the frame of the poster and relaxed. He was in Ron's room. Everything was fine. He flopped backward onto the pillows and stared at the shadows dancing along the wall, cast by the trees waving in the gentle breeze outside. The smooth, rhythmic motion was comforting. Even Ron's snoring, blissfully muffled by the pillow his face was buried in, seemed to reiterate the peace he usually felt at the Burrow.

But something was still awry.

He thought back to the dream that so effectively roused him from the depths of his slumber. There was chilling laughter, piercing screams, and a blinding flash of green light. Harry's brain finally seemed to engage.

Hermione!

He took a brief glance at Ron and quietly made his way out of the room. She was dreaming again. This, like the last, had been a recurring dream. But unlike the last, did not seem to show events to come, but those past. While Hermione had exhausted quite a lot of effort convincing anyone who would listen that she had come to terms with the attack at Privet Drive, Harry knew better. She put up a convincing façade during the waking hours, but at night her subconscious replayed the scene incessantly.

He padded down the stairs and headed toward Ginny's room. As Ginny was finishing up the final few hours of her internship with Witch Weekly, Hermione had been sleeping in her bedroom alone. He silently pushed the door open and nearly felt his heart shatter.

Hermione was tangled in the fluffy down comforter covering the bed. Her brow was glistening as she methodically rocked her head from left to right. She was moaning largely incoherent words, but three were clearly audible to him.

“No…please…Harry!”

He rushed to the bedside and dropped next to her. He thought to grab her and shake her awake, but worried such a start might do more harm than good. He gently brushed the side of her face with his hand. “Hermione, wake up.” She didn't respond.

“Hermione, please wake up,” he said more sternly, dropping his head towards hers. She drew in a gasp and her eyes snapped open. She jumped backward, away from him, as her eyes darted around the room. “It's okay! It's okay,” he said quickly throwing his hands in the air. “It was just a bad dream.”

She let out the breath she'd involuntarily strangled in her chest and her shoulders sagged with relief. Her tired eyes looked down at the bed linens, clearly trying to avoid his.

“Come here,” he said quietly, extending his arms toward her. She hesitated for a moment, knowing what would happen if she allowed herself to be held. The argument in her head didn't last long. Gryffindor courage or not, sometimes you just need to cry; where better than in the arms of the man you love?

He wrapped her firmly in his embrace and held her close. He fought valiantly against the tears that threatened to erupt from his eyes. He wasn't even sure why he suddenly felt like joining her in the release. Maybe it was because his heart crumbled to see her cry. Maybe it was because he knew these tears were shed for him. Maybe it was because he loved her so much. He wasn't exactly sure, but refused to allow the tears to fall. This was her time to cry.

After a while her chest stopped hitching and her breathing returned to normal. She looked completely worn out, but refused to return to sleep. Harry even offered to sleep on the floor next to her bed, but Hermione flat refused.

“Harry! How would that look if Ms. Weasley walked in?”

He wanted to argue with her, but she had a point .He was less worried about what Ms. Weasley would think than what Ron would surmise. He'd noticed a stark awkwardness about him since returning from Grimmauld Place on Hermione's arm.

“Then how about some tea and a game of chess?”

“Checkmate!” she said triumphantly. Harry, whose thoughts had been elsewhere for the last several moves, looked at the chessboard in disbelief.

“Wha..how?” he stammered. He wasn't hurt to be beaten by Hermione, but he was surprised. He generally held fast to the belief that at least she was someone he could beat. It was all but impossible for either of them to vanquish Ron.

“That's what you get for being distracted. You forget the most important rule Potter,” she said chuckling.

“What's that?”

“Constant vigilance!” she barked, in the best impression of Alastor Moody she could manage.

“Better wizards than you have lost buttocks!” Harry growled. They laughed together, for a few minutes, playfully volleying what they'd come to refer to as “Moody-isms” back and forth.

“Seriously Harry,” Hermione asked wiping a tear from her eye. “What were you thinking about?”

Harry raised his eyes to hers and without hesitation answered, “you.” Hermione blushed and looked toward the window.

“I can think of better uses for your time,” she scoffed.

“I can't.” He refused to take his eyes off her and she felt the heat rise to her face.

“Harry,” she began, only to stop as she realized he was leaning across the chessboard, moving closer to her. Astonished, she chastised him, hissing, “anyone could walk in here, Harry!”

“No one is awake yet.” He was still moving closer.

“But,” she fumbled.

“Shut up and kiss me, Granger,” he said quietly.

Oh, he's right. No one is awake yet and it's only a little kiss!

She gave into his advances and suddenly forgot the world. She also failed to notice Ron coming into the room behind Harry.

“Well. There you are Harry.” Harry and Hermione snapped apart at the rather indignant sound of their best friend's voice. “No! Please,” Ron added sarcastically. “Don't stop because of me. Perhaps I should give you an hour or so alone.” With that he stalked into the kitchen, clearly having arisen on the wrong side of the bed.

Ron's mood did not improve as the day progressed. He appeared to be holding his temper in check by sheer force of will. However, his resolve was faltering after hours of inquiries about what was bothering him. Harry and Hermione never asked that question. They were smart enough to know what the matter was. While they kept at a minimum safe distance, Ron's mother was less accommodating.

“Ronald?” she asked while preparing the last meal they would eat together until Christmas. “What is the matter with you? You've been skulking around this house snapping at everyone like a Venus Fly Trap with an attitude problem.”

“Nothing. I'm fine.” Ron said a bit too quickly, and certainly too forcefully, to have anyone believe him.

“Right. I'll believe that as soon as Alastor Moody wins `Most Charming Personality' in Witch Weekly.”

“Leave me alone, mum.” He apparently didn't find his mother's attempt at levity endearing in the least.

“Ron, I'm just worr...” she began.

“Shut it!” he snapped as he slammed a plate on the table and stormed from the room. Molly Weasley looked simply dumbfounded. She stood rooted to the spot, not even noticing the water boiling over onto the stove. Hermione, however, had determined this latest outburst to be the quintessential “last straw” and followed him into the back garden. Logic quickly fell victim to emotion.

“What in the name of Merlin has gotten into you Ron?” Hermione shouted as she shut the door behind her.

“Nothing. Why don't you go back to your boyfriend and leave me alone,” he snapped.

“Ronald Weasley, you are acting like a child!”

“Am I?”

“Yes, you are! Frankly, I'm tired of tiptoeing around you. I'm sick of all this tension between everyone.” She was yelling loudly enough to not notice Harry stepping out of the house. He resigned to himself that this argument was undoubtedly shaping up to be another signature Weasley-Granger row.

He didn't figure it would turn on him as quickly as it did.

“Maybe he should've thought of that sooner!” Rod snapped his glare toward Harry and walked out onto the back lawn.

“What's wrong with you Ron?” Harry said as calmly as he could manage.

Ron rounded on him, eyes blazing. “What do you care? When have you ever cared about me?” Harry was flabbergasted. He stood there for a second trying to understand where such animosity was coming from. In truth, he already knew. It didn't take long for Ron to remind him. Whether arguing or not, he still knew him better than anyone else. “So, did you wait until you knew I liked Hermione, or were you just content to leave me another hand-me-down if it didn't work out?” Hermione's eyes flashed.

That got Harry's attention. He certainly hadn't thought of Ron when he fell in love with Hermione, but he also didn't feel he needed his permission. The sheer audacity of Ron's assumption infuriated him. “Maybe if you'd had the guts to ask her out first…”

“Right! Like anyone would go out with the faithful sidekick to Captain Fantastic!”

“That's your issue Ron! I've never been anything but a friend to you.”

“Some friend!” This argument was careening out of control.

“Stop it! Both of you,” Hermione screamed. She physically placed herself exactly where she felt emotionally, between her two best friends. She turned on Harry. “I'm not the snitch! You can't win me just because you got there first!” She heard Ron snort, and turned to face him. Her eyes were blurring and her entire body trembled with anger. “And you! How dare you! I am not some old jumper to be passed from one person to the next! I'm not that kind of girl!”

Surprisingly for Harry, rather than presenting a united front before Ron, all three seemed to have retreated to separate, yet equally hostile, corners. Before he could determine what he'd need to say to bring Hermione to his side, Ron said it for him.

For the first time since stepping outside, Ron's voice was quiet. But it was also colder than they'd ever heard it. “Not that kind of girl? Really, so what did you do for the hour Lupin gave you at Grimmauld Place?”

Harry and Hermione were dumbstruck. Both of their jaws were firmly planted on the floor. Harry had only begun to process the insinuation Ron had made before Hermione quietly stepped forward to respond. With a resounding crack, she slapped Ron clear across the face.

“Go to hell, Ron.” She turned to run back into the house, already dissolving into tears, and was abruptly stopped at the door.

“What in Merlin's name is going on between you three?” Ginny stood blocking the door, eyes flashing, and hands firmly planted on her hips.

***

Remus Lupin stood at the window with one his arms crossed in front of him. His right hand was pinching the bridge of his nose and his eyes were shut tight. There was nothing about this situation that was good. While he stood, quietly contemplating his response, he never realized Tonks had entered the room behind him.

“Hi.” She placed her hands on Lupin's shoulder blades and began kneading his knotted muscles. He let out a groan and dropped his face into his hand.

“Ugh. That's it. No more discussion. I'm ready to bear your children,” Remus' muffled voice escaped from behind his hand. Tonks giggled quietly and continued working her hands down his back.

“What are we going to do?” she sobered.

“I don't know. We've got to talk some sense into them. This is the worst time for them to fall apart.” He returned his gaze through the window to the scene in the back garden.

“Oh! Did that just happen?” Tonks exclaimed.

“Wow. That's going to leave a mark. Remind me not to piss off Hermione.” He looked at Tonks and cast his eyes to the door with a sigh. It was time to step in.

***

“Get out of my way, Ginny!” Hermione's voice was trembling with anger.

“I will not!” she replied. “Just what in the world is going on out here?”

“None of your business, Ginny. Stay out of it.” Ron retorted. He stood exactly where Hermione had left him, refusing to flinch over the cheek that was undoubtedly pounding beneath his eye.

“Well, some welcome home I'm having. Harry, would you care to comment?” Ginny asked, looking over toward the only voice she'd not heard through the window.

“No.”

“Fine, then you won't mind if I talk for a minute. It seems like you all have had plenty enough to say to each other and it's only too obvious what it's all about.” She grabbed Hermione's arm and led her back to the chaise lounger outside, depositing her with a stern glance. Hermione opened her mouth to release a scathing retort but was silenced rather abruptly. “Don't say it Granger! You're going to sit there and listen, or you're going to experience a trademark Ginny bat bogey hex and still sit there and listen!” A satisfied smirk crossed Ron's expression. “Hang it, Ron! She's right, you are being childish.” Ron's smirk vanished. Ginny spun her attention to Harry and glared at him as if to tempt his daring.

“Good. Now that I have your attention,” she began, in a significantly calmer voice. She turned to Hermione and asked, “this is about you and Harry isn't it?” Hermione nodded. “And I'm assuming my big brother, and I use the term loosely, has finally spoken up about how he feels about it.” Ron's brow furrowed. “Oh, please Ron. Aged Russian vodka is not as transparent as you are!” She turned on Harry. “And you, as always, are feeling guilty over the whole damn thing. Have I covered everything?” Harry didn't respond. “I'll take that as a `yes.'”

“No! You missed the part where your brother considers me to be nothing more than a common strumpet!” Hermione hissed as she fought back the angry tears prickling her eyes. Ginny rounded on Ron.

“What? Well, that explains why I can make out every imperfection in your palm on the side of his face. Honestly, Ron! I should make it a matched set! You think of no one but yourself!”

“What?” Ron was stunned.

“You heard me! You're supposed to be their best friend. Yet the only person you can think of is yourself and how you feel because they got together. You're not acting the slightest bit interested in whether or not they're happy. You probably can't even articulate why you're angry about the whole thing!” Ron's mouth was bobbing open, searching for words befitting of a reply. Hermione couldn't help but feel victorious. That was until Ginny turned to face her.

“And you, Ms. Hermione-smartest-witch-in-a-millenia-Granger. You should've seen this coming. Had you been thinking of anyone other than Harry, you could've sensed the same pain in Ron that I've felt for months. I'm purely amazed you never cottoned on to how Ron felt about this.” Knowing his time was next; Harry hung his head and waited. It didn't take long.

“And, Harry. You might give Voldemort a run for his money, but he's got nothing on me. You've been entirely too quiet through this entire episode. That leads me to one conclusion. Ron already told you how he felt about this, didn't he?” Harry's head snapped up. “That's what I thought.” The trio remained entirely silent, save the shooting glare Hermione cast toward Harry. The look was not lost on Ginny.

“Well, it appears one thing hasn't changed. Ron and Harry are still trying to protect you from everything.” She drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly, seeming to have expended herself as mediator. “All three of you have to talk. Not scream, not insult, but sincerely talk about that thing Gryffindors like to hide best…fear.”

Ron, Harry, and Hermione suddenly took great interest in their shoelaces.

“Ron, sit down.” Ginny's voice was as passive as it had been all afternoon. Looking exhausted, Ron did not argue but did as requested. “I know your fear. You're scared you lost her before you ever got her.” Ron's buried his reddening face in his hands. “But you and I also know that's not true.” She was kneeling down in front of her brother now. “Ron, you aren't in love with Hermione and I can prove it.” Everyone took great interest in the quiet conversation now.

“Look at her, Ron.” He wouldn't pull his head up. “Look at Hermione.” Ginny gently raised his head from his hands and turned it to Hermione. “What do you see?”

For a moment, Ron was silent. The glistening tear in his eyes matched hers, and it was Hermione that could no longer hold the gaze. Ron cleared his throat and summoned the courage to talk. “I see.” He cleared his throat again. “I see my best friend. I see someone who is more clever than I'll ever be. I see someone who cares more for others than she does for herself. I don't know how I would've made it this far in school if not for her notes.” He smiled weakly.

“Exactly,” Ginny said quietly. “You do love her Ron, but there's a difference between that and being in love.” Ron looked at her, puzzled. “Let me tell you how someone in love answers that question.” She began to pull a roll of parchment from her robes.

“Ginny,” Harry cautioned.

“Harry, I have to.” Hermione looked curiously from Harry to Ginny. Ginny unrolled the parchment, scanned down the page, and began to read it aloud.

First, let me say I'm only answering this question because I know you're Hermione's friend and you're concerned for her well-being. Second, I'll warn you that I've hexed the parchment so you'll never think to tell her what I'm going to tell you. Strangely, it's easier to talk to you about how I feel than it is to talk to her. So here goes, if I haven't shattered your preconceived opinion of the Boy-Who-Lived, I probably will by the time you're done reading this.

I don't know what I see when I look at Hermione. I see so much. Physically, I see the most beautiful girl I've ever laid eyes on. I don't know if she got prettier, or I just stopped being blind. Her hair is the perfect color of dark chocolate. Not the kind you buy from a market, but the kind of chocolate that's been stirred by hand in the humble cottage of some Swiss villager. Her eyes actually seem to swirl with cinnamon and gold. They're unlike anything I've ever seen. I could get lost in them for hours, if she wouldn't think I was mental. But I see more than that.

I see hope. I see love. I see fear. I see the sum of a life filled with wonder and happiness in every smile she gives me. To see her is to want nothing more than to be near her. We don't have to speak; we don't even have to touch. Just to be in her presence in sometimes all the peace I need. She has this amazing way of calming me with one word, or one stroke of her hand upon mine. I've spent a lifetime not knowing what it feels like to be loved. But every hour under in that cupboard, every scathing insult leveled upon me as I grew up, has faded in my memory.

I look at her and I hurt, physically hurt. My heart doesn't know whether to leap or break. Every minute of every day, I thank whatever superior being there is in the universe that I could be this lucky. I purely cannot believe how lucky I am. Maybe it's destiny. Maybe it's fate. But whatever atrocities lie in my past, or my future, every one of them was worth it. The life that lies behind me brought me to her, and that's worth everything to me.

Ginny wiped a stray tear from her cheek and looked at her brother. “That's how someone in love answers that question. Can you honestly look her in the eyes and say the same thing?” Ron was silent.

“I thought you said you didn't hear from Ginny over the summer?” Hermione asked with an unreadable look on her face.

“No. I said I was surprised you hadn't heard from her. We only wrote to each other once. For lack of a better term, she wanted to know what my intentions were.” Harry bobbed back and forth on his heels, obviously embarrassed to hear his own words read aloud.

“Well, I thought those were obvious,” Ron said flatly. “You might not put a lot of stock in my powers of perception, but if I didn't know what that ring changing hands on the Hogwart's Express meant before, I surely knew it when you dodged the point in my letter.”

Harry and Hermione exchanged a brief, but shocked, glance. They were clearly not willing to begin screaming at each other again.

“Listen, Ron,” Harry began. “I..I don't know…” Harry stammered.

Completely ignoring Harry's attempt at a conversation, Ginny put a hand on Ron's knee and said, “that's what you're really afraid of isn't it?”

Ron nodded.

Harry and Hermione exchanged puzzled stares. “Afraid of what?” Hermione asked, clearly frustrated to not know the answer herself.

“Afraid of being left out.” Another voice issued from the doorway behind them. They all turned to see Lupin and Tonks sitting quietly in the doorway. From their demeanor, they had been there a while.

“Left out?” Harry said incredulously.

Remus laughed. “You really are eerily like James sometimes Harry. I know exactly how Ron feels. I felt the same way. You are as much a part of a legendary trio as I was a part of the Marauders. But odd numbers are always hard. It leaves someone relegated to the position of `third wheel,' if only in their head,” he finished dejectedly.

“Odd numbers? There were four of you,” Ron corrected.

“Having kept our fourth member in such hospitable company for so many years I would think you would understand he was never really part of the group. He was in name, but he didn't share the same spirit. He obviously didn't share the same soul. He still doesn't. That left James, Sirius, and myself. Not that they didn't love me of course, but James and Sirius were the male equivalents of soul mates. They included me in everything, but I was different than they were. I was the studious one. I was the responsible one. I was the one completely lacking in self-confidence.” He scoffed as he glanced up at the waxing moon that had begun to rise. “They never intended for me to feel like a third wheel, but my own insecurities got the better of me; like they're getting the better of you, Ron.” Ron's eyes met Lupin's and their expression contained an entire conversation in one glance.

“If it's now `Harry and Hermione,' what does that leave for me?” Ron was so quiet in his question he wasn't sure anyone had actually heard it.

She did.

Hermione left the chair she was sitting in and crossed the patio to where Ron was slumped. Ginny moved aside silently, and Hermione knelt down in front of Ron. “Ron. Just because I'm in love with Harry, doesn't mean I don't love you. What would my life be if I didn't have someone to nag about homework? You're frustrating sometimes, but that's because were so much alike. You bring laughter to my life, Ron. I need that. I need you. Please don't ever feel as though you are less important to me than Harry is. You both occupy different parts of my life, but they are both vital to who I am.” Ron hadn't looked up yet, but Hermione could feel Harry approaching behind her. “Ron, please look at me.”

After what seemed an eternity, he finally lifted his head to hers. As soon as their eyes met, he could hold on no longer.

“Hermione,” he cried. “I am so sorry for what I said. I didn't mean it, any of it!” She grabbed him around the shoulders and pulled him into a warm embrace. “Please, forgive me,” he muttered.

“There's nothing to forgive. You are my best friend.” He raised his eyes to Harry's, now standing directly behind Hermione. He didn't get the chance to reiterate his request. Harry took Ron's hand in his and said,

“You are my best friend too.” They all seemed to collapse in a pile of sobs right there in the rear garden. There was no embarrassment. There was no judgment. There was a beginning. Hermione eventually turned to Ginny.

“When did you get so smart?”

“It happens when you assist the relationship columnist for an entire summer. But don't fool yourselves into thinking one night on this patio will right the world. You all still have a lot of talking to do, but at least you're headed in the right direction.”

“Must have been some internship, Ginny.” Harry said smiling

“You have no idea, Harry. By the way…I knew you were bluffing.”

9. Detente

First off - A GIANT sized cookie to SoulShine who might have been the only person to catch my reference to the “bluffing” thing. Not only did you hit that spot-on, you also figured out exactly HOW Ginny KNEW Harry was bluffing! I am duly impressed SS – You are a force to be reckoned with…I wonder how many more of my plot lines you have figured out already (Here I thought I hid them so well!)

For the many others who seem confused by this last sentence, it came as reference to the letter Ginny read that Harry had written her. In the letter he was very clear that he’d hexed the parchment so Ginny couldn’t tell Hermione what he’d said…she obviously knew he was bluffing-or was willing to risk it-to help the trio on the back patio.

Second – As far as Harry and Hermione’s plan to keep certain “pleasantries” for the honeymoon, you must remember that an author must pour themselves into a story in order to make it viable. I am a 29 (at least until Wednesday) year old mother of 2 and have a very difficult time writing a steamy scene between two seventeen year olds who aren’t married. I’m not naïve enough to know that it doesn’t happen-I’m not even going to say I haven’t partaken in the same, but I also remember being that age. I remember wanting desperately to be the “good girl” who “does everything right” and failing miserably in the heat of the moment. One reviewer though it was OOC for Hermione to NOT want to shag Harry right away. I have issue with that…I think just the opposite. That’s probably evident from the way I’ve written it I suppose.

However, if you just saw through my lines there (and likely the last internal dialogue comment of that scene) their intentions – while perfectly acceptable and well-mannered are going to be very difficult to keep.

Third-I’m glad you all liked the argument between the trio – it’s obviously been building since H/H both got together-if re-reading Power check Ron’s reactions anytime they’re together after Christmas, and certainly I specifically built it since the beginning of this story. I’m also glad you responded so well to the emotional scene at Grimmauld Place. Harry has done “well” throughout all of Power-and through too this point, at repressing his feelings over Sirius’ death…I’ve built that to this point as well – but everyone needs to move one eventually-Harry is no different. That was an important first step for him.

Last-I mentioned that there are other ships associated with this fic. In final count there will be at least 4. H/H goes without saying. However, I think you’ve got to be blind at this point to have not picked up on the second…I think everyone has so I have no issue in “spoiling” it here. Remus and Tonks will be a couple in this. Long before I posted Power I asked the mods here if that would be acceptable within the constructs of the site. They assured me it was okay. After getting their green light I began posting Power-knowing where the sequel was going.

All that being said-here is your latest installment! I hope it is to your satisfaction!

Vleigh!

Chapter 9 – Détente

Harry heard footsteps crossing the floor. He was vaguely aware someone was in the bedroom. Just as he opened his eyes to search for the intruder, she squeezed them shut again and buried his head in his pillow.

Molly Weasley snapped the drapes open allowing a blazing beam of warm sunlight to pierce Harry’s tired eyes.

“Mum!” Ron growled form the neighboring bed.

“Oh, don’t ‘Mum’ me, Ronald. I’ve been calling for the both of you to wake up for fifteen minutes. If I don’t take some drastic measures you’ll never wake up in time for the train.” She picked a few scattered pieces of laundry and headed for the door. “And frankly, we have no more cars to donate to your efforts in creative transportation!” She trotted out of the room and her footsteps carried her back down the stairs.

“Will she ever let that go?” Harry muttered.

“Ha! You’re an optimist. She’s still sore about the time I set her crocheted table cloth on fire.” Ron scoffed.

“I don’t remember that. When did that happen?”

“When I was three.”

Harry and Ron’s eyes met and both of their weak smiles faltered. After their catharsis on the back patio, everyone had decided it was time to turn in. They had all hugged, said goodnight, and wearily made their way to their beds. Now, in the bright light of a new day, it was clear Ron and Harry didn’t quite know how to behave. They screamed, they insulted, they had been emotionally exposed, and most importantly, they cried in front of each other for the first time in memory. It was the last part that got Harry. No matter what the circumstances, even in Cedric’s death, he had not let Ron see him cry. He was acutely concerned with it.

Last night they both cried. They didn’t cry quiet, sheepish, considerate tears. They cried like a two year old child who just watched their red balloon float into the heavens and dropped their ice cream cone all at once. In retrospect, Harry wasn’t quite sure why he had become so emotional.

Maybe it was the relief of knowing he hadn’t driven his best friend away forever. Perhaps it was the joy of having the “trio” back together again. It might’ve been the stress of knowing this issue was not over. More than likely, it was just the ability to be in the presence of the two people he loved the most and be able to show such raw emotion with no fear of judgment. He had never had that kind of love in his life before now, and quite frankly, at times, it scared him more than Voldemort did.

“Er, so…Harry,” Ron stuttered. “About Hermione.”

“No, please,” Harry interrupted. “We’ve got all the time in the world to talk about that. I really just want to spend some time with us; the three of us. I’ve missed you.”

Ron’s broad smile shone brighter than the morning sunlight. “I’ve missed you too. Let’s get something to eat. I’m famished!” With that, Harry and Ron climbed out of their beds and made for the kitchen. They thundered down the stairs, chuckling like first years, and bounded into the breakfast room with beaming smiles.

Hermione and Ginny were already dressed and seated at the table. They had been hunched over the latest Daily Prophet but looked up as the boys burst into the room. Normally, a scathing remark would’ve been opportune at this moment, but as it was, the entire room merely fell silent, in hushed thanksgiving at the sight before them. The silence didn’t last for long.

Pop!

QUACK!

“Blimey! That wasn’t supposed to happen for another ten minutes!” Fred exclaimed.

QUACK! QUACK!

A rather oversized Welsh Harlequin duck flopped off the dining chair and began chasing Fred around the table. “George! It’s not my fault!”

QUAAAACK!

“Don’t talk to me like that! You mixed the potion!” Fred said, throwing his arms in the air.

“Do you actually know what he’s saying?” Hermione asked, astounded.

“Hermione, I don’t have to speak duck to understand that my brother just called me a… OUCH! Don’t bite George!” Fred squeaked. He grabbed his knee cap and hobbled out of the room, George flapping his wings and quacking wildly behind him. The room burst into a fit of laughter. Even Molly Weasley couldn’t contain her giggling as she looked upon her family; all of her family. She smiled warmly at Hermione, winked at Harry and returned to the bacon sizzling on the pan before her.

As usual, Fred and George were exactly what the house needed. Fred’s bleeding knees were a small price to pay for the tension breaker they provided. Everyone quickly gathered around the table and Ms. Weasley brought several bowls and plates, brimming with food, to the table.

“Tuck in!” she beamed.

“Cor, Mum. Look at all this food.” Ron shot a glance to Harry and nodded his head in Hermione’s direction. “When did we get a house elf?” Hermione stopped spooning her porridge and looked at her plate for a fleeting second. Realizing the Weasley’s didn’t have the income to support a house elf, comprehension dawned and she pursed her lips at Ron. He elbowed Harry in the ribs and continued loading his plate with bacon, smiling the entire time. Harry sighed contentedly.

It’s a promising start.

They continued eating breakfast and regaling each other with stories, new and old, that families often told. Their Hogwart’s letters had come to the Burrow in the frightful weeks that proceeded September the first. Mrs. Weasley ensured each student had the appropriate supplies and neatly bound them all together. She purchased their textbooks, quills, ink, parchment, potions supplies, and even gone all out for Hermione.

Sometimes having six male children was a bit trying for Molly. She relished at having a girl to dote upon when Ginny finally came. In Hermione, she felt like she’d gained another daughter, and she treated her accordingly. Traditionally, Hogwarts hosts a rather grand ball for their outgoing seventh year students. While the gala was not to be held until the spring, Molly simply couldn’t resist purchasing a beautiful crème gown for Hermione. She hadn’t expected to do so, but saw it sparkling in the window of Madam Malkin’s and simply couldn’t resist. It was rather expensive, but Hermione’s parents had sent Muggle money that Molly easily exchanged to cover the cost of her supplies. The gown was wrapped neatly in simple brown paper and tied with a raffia bow. It had been placed with great care on the top of Hermione’s stack of textbooks. Besides, it was the least she could do for her “adopted” daughter. She was so proud of her accomplishments.

“Might I join you?’ The unmistakable, distinguished, voice of Albus Dumbledore effectively brought the conversation to a standstill.

“Albus, what a pleasant surprise!’ Arthur Weasley chimed as he conjured another chair for the headmaster.

“Oh, I don’t know that it was all that unexpected.” The trio looked at each other. No one else in the room seemed surprised to see the Hogwarts Headmaster casually saunter in for a spot of breakfast. Lupin and Tonks, who had arrived earlier and were playing chess in the next room, didn’t look up from their game. A cacophony of waterfowl calls in the backyard led the house to believe there were, in fact, two Welsh Harlequins flapping about the back garden now. Molly merely gathered some empty plates from the table and cast the self-washing spells at the sink.

“I thought, perhaps, I might have a word with Ron, Harry, and Hermione.”

Gulp.

Ron and Harry exchanged nervous glances. Usually, if they were in the presence of the headmaster together, they were about to be handed detention or the threat of expulsion in the next sentence.

The term hasn’t even started? What could we have done?

Ron must’ve had similar thoughts. As Harry looked his way, Ron merely shrugged his shoulders and rose from the table with Harry and Hermione. They entered the small parlor where Tonks and Lupin had been engaged in a rather vicious game of chess. Without comment, they both rose from their seats and left the room for the patio, chess board floating along behind them.

Moving as though they were one, Harry, Hermione, and Ron quietly perched themselves on the edge of the couch and waited for Dumbledore to start talking.

“First, let me say this. I am proud of the efforts you have made in your friendship. Friendships are of significant importance, especially a bond as strong as that which you three share. That bond will be the most important thing you share this year. Preserve it at all costs.” Harry, Ron and Hermione exchanged sheepish, but rather alarmed looks. Dumbledore was being rather philosophical. That was never a good sign. “I did not wish to deride your friendship further and thought my presence might be more settling than an owl. I need to announce the new Head Boy and Head Girl before the train departs this morning.”

Hermione clasped a hand to her mouth and gasped. Her reaction told Harry that she had done the same thing he had…completely forgotten about the Head student assignments.

“I can, of course, only choose one boy and one girl. That leaves me in a bit of a predicament this year. Ms. Granger, I have chosen you for Hogwarts Head Girl position.” Hermione’s eyes welled up and both Ron and Harry gave her congratulatory hugs while awaiting the bad news. It really didn’t matter who it was, it was bad for at least one person in the room. Suddenly, Lupin’s assertion that odd numbers always produce a “third wheel” came rushing back to Harry. Either Ron or he was going to be left out of this.

If Harry was made Head Boy, it would likely exacerbate the feelings Ron already harbored. Given the unsteady ground of their current relationship, that was a result Harry did not desire. If Ron was named Head Boy, which made a bit of sense to Harry given the fact he was a Prefect during fifth year, then Harry would be left out. Ron would have time with Hermione that Harry would be excluded from. Not that he minded her spending time with Ron, he thought, but any time with someone else was time away from him.

Way to go Potter, I think you’ve officially crossed the line to obsessive now.

I’m not obsessed.

No, just jealous.

Harry was pulled from his thoughts as Dumbledore began to speak. While he secretly begged to be named Head Boy, if only to share the role with Hermione, he didn’t want Ron to know. He suddenly felt like a pageant contestant about to hear which was named ‘runner-up.’ Would he smile meekly and offer condolences? Would he hug Ron and cry?

Isn’t that what those women do?

But, what if he was the one being consoled? Suddenly, the moment was upon him. “Harry, this may be a bit of a surprise,” Dumbledore began.

Oh, gods.

“I’d like you to be Hogwarts Head Boy this year.” If he tried to hide it, Ron’s slumping shoulders indicated how crestfallen he really was. Hermione looked from one to the other, not knowing how to respond. If she congratulated Harry, what did that mean for Ron? As they both sat, perched on the edge of the sofa, clamoring to devise an appropriate response, Ron took the initiative.

“Congratulations, Harry.” He extended his hand with a warm, although reserved smile, and shook his best friend’s hand. Then he left the room. Hermione and Harry watched him go, not knowing what to say. Harry returned his gaze to Dumbledore.

“I don’t understand, sir. Ron was the Prefect. The responsibilities you told me about then, haven’t changed. Why me?” Harry was sincere in his question. Before the announcement came, he had wanted the position for the mere fact of being near Hermione. But after seeing Ron’s face he wasn’t sure if irreparable damage had befallen their détente.

“No, Harry. Your responsibilities have changed. They’ve changed drastically. As Head Boy I expect I’ll see some of your innate leadership abilities. You both had the leadership and determination to begin a secret defense group under Professor Umbridge’s nose. It’s daring, cunning, and leadership of that caliber that I require now. That is why I chose you, Harry. We’ll discuss it in more detail after your return. For now,’ he looked toward the vacated spot on the sofa, “I think you have more pressing matters to attend to.”

For the number of lingering questions Harry wanted to ask, Dumbledore rose to his feet as he spoke the last sentence. Harry had seen that look before. The conversation was over. Dumbledore smiled warmly at Harry and Hermione and pulled two badges from his robes. He handed the appropriate badge to each one and bade them farewell.

***

Platform 9 ¾ was bustling like never before. Given how late they had slept in, Harry felt they would be running through the barrier at 10:58, much as they had for the past seven years. It didn’t happen though. Molly Weasley had done such a wonderful job of packing and preparing the “troops” this was likely the earliest they had ever gotten to King’s Cross. Students were streaming around the Weasley clan, pushing trolleys, shushing a menagerie of animals, and shouting excitedly to friends they had not seen in two months.

Harry felt the same ache in his heart he experienced last year at this time. Last year he left this platform still repressing an emotional response to the loss of his godfather. He’d managed to successfully keep that wellspring of emotion contained until facing the void in his heart at Grimmauld Place. Although he was not the poster child for emotional understanding, he saw the same desperate fight to maintain composure being waged by someone else.

He strode over to Remus Lupin, who was quietly standing against the brick wall.

“Alright Harry?” Lupin asked.

“I’m fine. I just wanted to say goodbye, and…thanks.”

“For what?”

“For being there for me this summer. For dropping everything to get me when you knew I was in trouble; for listening to me ramble on.” Harry smiled up at him.

“Harry,” Remus sobered. “I’ll always be there for you.” Remus pulled him into a warm embrace and ruffled his raven hair with his hand. “Impossible. Just like your father’s.” They laughed together.

After a few parting words, Lupin insisted Harry contact him anytime for any reason. Tonks, who was standing nearby, needlessly hugged Harry as well. She retained her position as the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher and would be following Harry to Hogwarts that evening anyway. Before setting off to find Ron and Hermione, Harry gave a look to the two of them.

I have a feeling I’ll be seeing a bit more of Lupin around Hogwarts this year.

He smiled warmly, said good bye and scanned the throng of students for Ron and Hermione. Ron was not hard to find. His flame red hair would draw attention even if he wasn’t a foot taller than practically everyone there. He was standing near the door to the train, appearing to be cornered by Luna Lovegood. Harry began walking toward him. Hermione couldn’t be too far away.

He saw her just beyond where Ron was standing. She was standing in a group of girls animatedly chatting between the three. Two of the girls he knew immediately as Pavarti Patil and Lavender Brown. He didn’t recognize the other student. She was relatively nondescript; long, brown hair and a moderately athletic build. The best he could surmise about her was her house placement. She was wearing Ravenclaw robes, which explained why he didn’t know her. No matter, really, this platform was filled with people that he didn’t know.

He caught Ron’s eyes towering above the bustling students and they exchanged a brief smile. Encouraged, Harry set off to join him, paying little attention to the people he was moving through. That was unfortunate for at least one small boy, obviously a first year. Harry, looking straight over his head, walked into him, sending his packages spilling to the brick platform.

“I’m sorry!” Harry exclaimed, helping the boy to his feet. Not unlike every other star-struck first year he’d met in his years at Hogwarts the boy’s eyes trailed from his Head Boy badge, directly to his forehead. They locked eyes for a moment. There was something eerily familiar about this boy. He was a little taller than most of the first-year students and they had certainly never met. But Harry, knew he’d seen this boy somewhere. As the boy stumbled away, smiling haphazardly over his collision with The–Boy-Who-Lived, Harry knew his identity would plague him until he placed him in some pre-existing frame of reference. He watched him trot away, alone, until a familiar voice at his shoulder shook him from his trance.

“It’s time to go home Harry.” Hermione snaked her arm through his and smiled warmly as he turned to meet her eyes. He took the bag off her shoulder and slung it over his own as they walked to the train.

“Yes, it is. Let’s find Ron and get a compartment.”

***

Harry and Hermione quickly determined the finer points to being named Hogwart’s Head students. First and foremost among the advantages was a separate car on the Hogwart’s Express. The compartment was situated at the front of the train and was easily twice as large as the other compartments. Rather than the rather stiff bench seating to be found elsewhere, the Head Student’s compartment had a soft squashy couch and chair not unlike the ones to be found in the House common rooms. It also had a table surrounded by a few comfortable chairs and a large picture window. It did not pass without notice that this particular car was decorated in Gryffindor colors.

“Well, this is certainly something,” Hermione said as she pushed the door open.

“Er, yeah.” Harry echoed her thoughts as he stared into the sea of scarlet and gold.

“I wonder what they do when the head boy and girl are from different houses?”

“I don’t know.” The whistle sounded and Harry looked at his watch. It indicated the time as 10:58 and the train was preparing to get underway. He nodded his head toward the compartment as silent encouragement for Hermione to enter. They flopped onto the large couch and their astonishment quickly dissolved into laughter. Harry wrapped his arm around her and pulled her in, finally relaxing.

“Did you find Ron?” she asked, voice muffled in his shirt.

“Yeah, he was taking his luggage to the baggage car. I told him where to find us.” As if on cue there was a knock at the door. Hermione pulled her head up and called, “Ron, it’s us, it’s not like you have to knock for heaven’s sake!”

The door slid open and Ron poked his head in. “Wow, this is something!” Harry laughed at the near exact statement that echoed Hermione’s. He stepped in, slid the door closed behind him, and settled into am inviting squashy chair. It was clear Ron wouldn’t be impressed for long. That changed about thirty minutes after the train pulled out of King’s Cross.

Regardless of the cabin assignment, the scene inside played out as it had nearly every year before. Harry and Ron were hunched over the mahogany table, scrutinizing a rather temperamental chessboard and Hermione was stretched out on the couch feasting on her latest assemblage of textbooks.

“Give him the chair! Give him the chair!” Ron directed his bishop who was walking ominously toward Harry’s pawn. Following orders, the bishop sat up from his chair, swung it from behind his back and it connected with Harry’s pawn with a sickening “crack.” They both chuckled together as the pawn’s head careened across the room and landed on Hermione’s leg. Hermione lowered her book, so only her scathing glare appeared above the pages. Harry and Ron quickly returned to the game as if nothing happened, but failed miserably at erasing the smiles from their faces. The boys locked eyes for a moment and both visibly relaxed. Ron nodded his head, in silent agreement with Harry’s state of mind and decided it was time to engage in his favorite pastime.

“What kind of Head student compartment is this if you still have to wait on the snack trolley?” He smiled broadly at Harry as Hermione scoffed from behind her book. It was a full hour before they’d ever seen the trolley witch in previous years so Ron hadn’t expected what happened next.

“Did someone call for the snack trolley?” the kind witch said brightly as she slid the door open slightly. Ron’s mouth fell open, as did Harry and Hermione’s, as they looked out to a fully stocked trolley. It was not only clear that the Head student’s got their snacks early, they obviously got them before anyone else had picked through the selection.

Harry treated the trio, as was his custom over the years, and they sat down together for a meal between friends. They were so interested in assuaging the growls from their stomachs, they failed to close the door to the compartment and soon found themselves among guests, some invited, and some not.

Ginny, Luna, and Neville were the first to happen upon the compartment. Ginny flopped on the couch next to Hermione and Neville and Luna sat down nearly bursting for a blow-by-blow account of what had happened at Privet Drive. One thing about the wizarding world, it didn’t take long for news to travel.

“Everyone is talking about it Harry,” Neville said excitedly. “Did you really fight off four Death Eaters with only a tea kettle and a bottle of shampoo?” Harry nearly choked on his pumpkin juice.

“What?”

“Well, I thought that account might’ve been a little skewed. But honestly, how many were there?” Harry looked from Ron to Hermione with a clearly incredulous look on his face.

“There was only one guy Neville, and I’m not entirely sure he even was a Death Eater,” Harry said, inwardly dreading the multitude of rumors he was apparently going to fight as soon as the train steamed into Hogsmeade. He looked over at Hermione who was obviously not enjoying the conversation at hand. She was staring blankly out of the window, absently spinning the ring on her left hand.

He looked to Ron who apparently noticed the same thing. Ron nodded at Harry and quietly rose from his chair and knelt down between Hermione and the window. She drew her eyes away from the scenery and smiled warmly at him. He quickly kissed her on the head and returned to his chair. Harry gave Ron a grateful smile and returned his attention to Neville and the conversation he was hopelessly trapped within.

“Come on, Harry, give us just a few details. My summer consisted of hat shopping with my Gran and a rather depressing visit to St. Mungo’s,” Neville pleaded.

“All right,” Harry said dejectedly. He really didn’t want to go through this story, but felt if he shared just a few highlights Neville might leave him alone. He took a deep breath and began to talk. “Well, the guy’s name is…”

“Potter,” Minerva McGonagall interrupted from the open doorway. Everyone turned their attention to the rather imposing figure of the Gryffindor Head of House that stood ominously in the doorway. “You and Ms. Granger are needed in the prefect’s compartment. As Head Boy and Girl you’ll need to address our fifth year prefects regarding the responsibilities of their position.” Hermione rose from the couch, apparently relieved for a feasible escape plan. McGonagall turned and walked down the corridor. As her footsteps grew fainter, they heard her distanced voice addressing another well-known Hogwarts student. “Good afternoon Mr. Malfoy.”

Given the past association with the infamous Slytherin, the entire compartment tensed as Malfoy’s footsteps grew louder. Within seconds, he was standing in the doorway. Ron and Harry got to their feet, joining Hermione who stepped in front of Ginny.

“Well, well. I do believe congratulations are in order,” Malfoy said coolly.

“Congratulations for what?” Harry replied. He wasn’t entirely sure what to make of the situation. It was obvious the full count of D.A. inside the cabin were on heightened alert, but was any of it necessary? The last time he truly saw Malfoy, short of his snoring backside in the hospital wing, was shortly after he stood up to his father and fought alongside Ron and Harry at the Hog’s Head Tavern.

“Well, if you’re not bright enough to remember you’re Head Boy I should surely rescind my sentiments,” Malfoy drawled. Hermione was apparently not the only one to hear Ginny growl behind her. Malfoy lowered his eyes and glowered at her, drawing the attention of her consistently over-protective brother.

“If you’ve got nothing important to say Malfoy, I’d suggest you stop looking at my sister and start looking for those two overgrown warthogs you usually keep company with,” Ron said quietly.

“Well, as much as I hate to agree with Weasley on anything,” in deference to Ron he shot an obvious glare toward Ginny. “I’m at least comforted by the fact I knew this would be a gargantuan waste of time.” He looked back to Ron.

“Then get out,” Harry replied, spirits falling that Malfoy apparently hadn’t changed at all. Malfoy turned on his heel and swept from the compartment. Hermione, remembering McGonagall’s directive, grabbed Harry’s arm and pulled him out of the doorway with her. They looked at each other and chuckled as they heard Ginny admonish her brother that she, “didn’t need a protector,” and in frustrated shouting declare, “no one will ever see me as more than eleven years old!”

10. New Powers and Old Friends

Chapter10 – New Powers and Old Friends

Hermione never remembered this meeting taking so long during her fifth year. Perhaps it was because Harry and she didn’t meet with the prefects until later in the journey but, between her discussion and McGonagall’s they remained with the new prefects until the end of the trip. She also had the unfortunate displeasure of discovering how their belongings made their way from Hogsmeade to the House dormitories.

After the train cars cleared and the throng of travel-weary students made their way to the carriages Harry and Hermione completed the first responsibility of the Head students. They both made their way to the end of the train, giving a cursory glance to many of the compartments for misplaced student belongings. As they opened the door to the baggage car, Hermione couldn’t contain the gasp that escaped her throat.

She looked to Harry, who disbelievingly, stared at the same scene that drew her attention. Easily sixty house elves labored in and around the baggage car. Some were tossing trunks to others waiting below while still more pushed trolleys up a long and winding path toward the castle’s rear entrance. The pale light of the waxing moon shone on the tips of their ears, their bald, smooth heads, and the entire pathway looked similar to the ant farms she experimented with in her childhood muggle science lessons. As much as she knew it unnerved her best friends, she had the sudden and ardent desire, to knit a gross of elf hats on the spot. Just as she was contemplating the release of the magical creatures, one caught her eye.

“Oh! ‘tis the new head girl and head boy!” He bowed so low he nearly fell over from the weight of the carpet bag he had forgotten to pass to his awaiting compatriot.

“Oh, please don’t bow!” Hermione gasped as she moved to physically pull the elf to his feet. However, her sentiment accomplished exactly the opposite of her intent. Every elf within sight of the two of them began to bow repeatedly.

“She is so kind!” They bobbed up and down, going lower with each repetition.

“No!” Hermione protested as Harry pulled her back toward the doorway.

“Trust me when I say arguing with a house elf is an effort in futility, Hermione.”

“But,” she flung her hand toward the scene in exasperation.

“Let’s just get back to the castle. The feast has likely begun by now.” He smiled, wrapped his arm around her and forcibly removed her from the baggage car. Academically, she knew that Hogwarts had more house elves than nearly any other wizarding establishment, but she had never seen so many at one time.

Barbaric! Honestly! If we’re going to be civilized wizards we should at least PAY the poor creatures for their labor!

She noticed Harry looking at her, lopsided grin on his face, and exclaimed, “What?” As much as she would’ve liked for that word to have been accompanied by a scathing glare, she found herself smiling instead.

Must be that silly grin of his.

I prefer boyishly handsome.

She looked away quickly, not knowing why she was embarrassed. One thing was certain, she needed to work on Occlumency a bit more. There are some thoughts your fiancée just doesn’t need to hear.

***

Much to their relief they did not have to walk to the castle alone. A lone carriage awaited them. Hermione looked on, as Harry appeared to pat the air in front of the carriage. He muttered a few words, undoubtedly to the thestral hitched to the carriage, and turned to join her.

As they approached the Great Hall, they heard the last notes of the Sorting Hat’s new song and the students erupted into applause. As they reached the door, Hermione raised her hand to push it open, only to have that hand grabbed away by Harry. Shocked, she looked to him and saw the intent in those eyes she’d come to adore.

He pulled her to the side of the corridor and quickly pressed her to the chilled stone wall. Not that the chill of the stones had much effect on her, his lips quickly warmed both her body and soul and they met for a brief, but meaningful kiss, before entering. She didn’t believe Harry had any intention of keeping her there any longer than possible, but he received some encouragement.

A blaring siren resounded in her ears, followed by the unmistakable voice of Hogwarts most obnoxious poltergeist. “Snog alert! Snog alert!” They ducked just in time to dodge the pail of cold water that splashed unceremoniously against the wall where Hermione had just been.

“Go away Peeves!” Harry hissed.

“Oooo, Head Boy Potty likes to give orders!” Peeves somersaulted down the corridor and out of view.

“We’d better get inside before he comes back,” Hermione said, looking skeptically down the hall after Peeves. She felt Harry’s hand take hers in silent agreement and they walked to the doorway. As she pushed open the door, Harry dropped her hand as they walked in together. Inwardly, she was glad he did it first. She was not one to engage in overt displays of public affection, and thought it less appropriate for the Head Boy and Head Girl to do so. There was also Ron to consider. While things seemed to be looking up, she was always cognizant of how she acted around Harry when he was within eyeshot.

I certainly hope that gets better.

As the students sat at their House tables, essentially, in order of age, the majority of seventh year students had “graduated” to the back of the room. It afforded, if nothing else, the ability to carry on muted conversations without disrupting much of the sorting process. Ron caught their attention and waved them to the open spots on the bench across from him. They quickly took their seats and exchanged greetings.

Hermione looked up to the front of the room and gaped at the assemblage of first-year students. They had the same look on their face as every other incoming group of students, including them, sported. They appeared relieved to not have to conjure beetles from water goblets to prove their mirth, and now looked with silent trepidation as each successive student donned the sorting hat and learned their placement. She couldn’t get past the fact these students looked so incredibly young.

“We can’t have been this young when we came here,” she muttered quietly. She felt Harry stir beside her as her voice drew him from the conversation he was having with Ron. He looked toward the front of the room and smiled in spite of himself.

“I think we were exactly that young,” he said.

“You think that now! I was ready to swing the first-years from the gallows as a prefect, I can’t wait to see what you’ll try and do to them,” Ron scoffed in disagreement. “I bet you anything I can point out the trouble-makers from here…take that tall, lanky one on the left.” Harry looked across the students to inspect the student Ron was talking about. Needless to say, it drew his attention.

It was the same boy from platform 9 ¾. Harry screwed up his eyes, trying with equal success, to place where he’d seen him.

“Alright, Harry?” Ron asked, looking at him quizzically.

“Fine. I just, I feel like I have met that boy somewhere, and I can’t place him for the life of me.” The trio looked at the tall boy as if to determine if they’d met him together.

“I don’t recognize him,” Ron said flatly.

“Nor do I,” Hermione added.

“It’s driving me crazy, I have been trying to place him since we left King’s Cross,” Harry said dejectedly.

“Well, that was a waste of time, wasn’t it?” Ron said chuckling. “Why don’t you just wait for McGonagall to read his…”

“Shush,” Harry interrupted. The boy began to fidget intensely as McGonagall raised the parchment and Helen Edwards took her seat at the Hufflepuff house table.

“Evans, Mark,” McGonagall called sternly. The boy made his way to the sorting hat as comprehension dawned on Harry.

“He’s the boy from the park,” he whispered so quietly he hadn’t realized he’d said anything at all.

“What park?” Hermione asked, still looking on as the sorting hat twitched on his head.

“The one at the end of Magnolia Crescent; Dudley used to beat that kid up after I got a bit too intimidating for him.”

“Gryffindor!” the hat shouted as Mark climbed off the stood and hopped to the Gryffindor table amidst a gracious applause from his housemates.

“It certainly is a small world, isn’t it?” Hermione said, as she returned to join the conversation she assumed would continue between Ron and Harry. However, Harry’s eyes were squarely focused down the table at their newest housemate. She glanced to the end of the table, and noticed a curious gaze on someone else’s part.

Albus Dumbledore’s chair at the head table was visible just beyond the figure of Mark Evans. As quickly as she noticed the headmaster’s attention focused on Harry, he blinked his eyes and returned his attention to the sorting ceremony. She looked across the table at Ron, who was quizzically staring at Harry as well. Ron and Hermione locked eyes and Ron shrugged his shoulders, appearing to have expended all the energy he intended on this subject.

“Harry?” Hermione asked quietly.

He shook his head and furrowed his brow. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“What doesn’t make sense?”

“Er, um-nothing,” Harry said, shaking the look from his face and turning back to Ron. Feeling there was a quandary she’d not been given access to, she fleetingly looked between Harry and the newest Gryffindor in some futile attempt to clear the question in her mind. It only grew more puzzling. It was now Mark Evans’ eyes that were fixed squarely on Harry Potter. As soon as he realized Hermione was staring at him, he turned away and engaged in an animated discussion among his fellow first years.

Hermione considered the situation as Ron and Harry discussed Quidditch ad nauseum. Having come to no great conclusions, she partook of the welcoming feast as the others did. It wasn’t long before she noticed the seventh years’ conversations all seemed to lack the quality she was used to. With a heavy heart, she looked among the friends she’d grown to know, and care for, over the last seven years. She wasn’t sure why she suddenly felt nostalgic, but it robbed her of her appetite completely.

Ron, who was eating a bit less than usual, looked around the table and back to Hermione. “What’s the matter, Hermione?”

“Nothing. I’m just being sentimental I suppose,” she looked back to her plate and lazily stabbed a potato with her fork.

“I know,” Ron said quietly.

“Me too,” Harry added.

She looked between both boys disbelievingly.

“Our last welcoming feast,” Ron whispered. Hermione was clearly impressed. That was what she was thinking, but never thought Ron, the self-proclaimed poster child for insensitivity, would have picked up on that.

She looked up to Harry who merely shrugged his shoulders and added, “I imagine we’ll have loads more moments like this one over the next year.”

“I guess so,” Hermione replied sullenly. She wasn’t sure why, but she wanted to hold onto the feast and their time together. She wanted to remember every minute, every conversation, every look and laugh that graced the table. She wanted to savor the time they had remaining at Hogwarts. Understanding, in her mind, that after the summer came, their lives would change drastically. Her life had been so totally interwoven with the lives of the two young men sitting with her, she couldn’t imagine a life outside of Hogwarts. She couldn’t imagine a life without the two of them.

Under the table, she absently played with the ring on her left hand. She would still have Harry of course, but that relationship was bound to change as well.

I’ll be his wife. Gods, what does that mean? I don’t know how to be a wife? I’ll only be seventeen? Will we have a house? What will he expect? When will we have children? Children!

Suddenly, Hermione felt her stomach flop. The air became thick and she felt queasy, even though she’d barely touched her dinner. She laid her head into the palm of her hand that was supported by the elbow she propped on the table.

This was not an usual feeling for Hermione. She’d experienced it nearly anytime she had a sudden thought regarding marriage, children, and the rest of her life with Harry. It’s not that she wasn’t thrilled at the prospect…scared to death was a better definition. It was also the reason why she had never been so giddy as to pick up a single “bridal” magazine or give thought to anything as concrete as gowns, flowers, or the like.

It purely scared the hell out of her.

She felt out-of-control and that was a position Hermione Granger avoided at all costs. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she wondered if that was the same reason why Harry had never mentioned the particulars of a wedding either. They asked and accepted the proposal, they referred to each other (privately of course) as each other’s betrothed, but the subject of wedding planning was a conspicuously avoided topic of discussion.

Maybe he changed his mind and he just doesn’t have the heart to tell me.

Hermione was so lost in thought she hadn’t noticed the students leaving the Great Hall to return to their House common rooms. A soft hand upon her shoulder roused her from her thoughts and she turned her face to its owner, fully expecting to see the caring green eyes of Harry Potter looking back.

“Professor Dumbledore!” she yelped, completely surprised she hadn’t noticed him approach. Harry was standing next to him, smiling contentedly at Hermione as if they’d just exchanged an entire conversation at her expense. Come to think of it, they probably had. Harry waved at Ron as he left the Great Hall and Dumbledore’s soothing voice addressed Hermione.

“As I was saying Ms Granger, I would like to meet with you and Harry in my office. I shall be with you momentarily.” Harry extended a hand to Hermione. She took it willingly, and he pulled her from the bench. Dumbledore swept back toward the head table as Harry and Hermione headed out of the Great Hall toward the headmaster’s office.

“Are you alright?” Harry asked quietly.

Hermione considered the question for the moment. She listened to the quiet echo of their harmonized footsteps as they traversed the corridor together. She didn’t know how to respond. She didn’t want to tell him the prospect of marrying him generally left her feeling nauseated. She wasn’t sure why it did. She loved him. She knew that. She wanted to be with him. She knew that too. But, she had felt bombarded by emotions she never knew she had after last year. She had been a mess throughout the entirety of the summer holiday, and much to her dismay, that didn’t seem to be improving upon their return to Hogwarts.

How do I tell him I’m an emotional basket case without sounding like some detestable half-wit protagonist from one of those cheesy muggle romance novels mom used to hide in her bedside table?

“I’d like to help,” Harry added quietly. Hermione wasn’t entirely sure if that would good timing on his part, or if he had “heard” her thoughts again and merely responded verbally. She looked at him quizzically as the great stone phoenix leapt to the side and they rose up the spiral staircase together. They were quite surprised to see Dumbledore seated before them as they entered his office.

“Please, sit down. Would you care for a confection or two?” Dumbledore said brightly as he pawed through a box of assorted candies. Harry recognized most of the contents as former passwords to his office.

“No, thank you,” they chimed together and took their seats across from the Headmaster.

“What did you want to see us for, sir?” Harry inquired.

“We need to discuss the special lessons you will require this year,” he answered without looking up from the box.

“Lessons?” Harry fidgeted in his chair. Hermione felt quite confident that after last year’s success with Occlumency he would not be subjected to it again. Honestly, she wasn’t sure how much good it would do him anyway. She was rather confident in his abilities as an Occlumens at this point. He appeared to be having the same thoughts and looked ready to put all of this into a rather malformed rebuttal when Dumbledore interrupted.

“Not for you Harry, for you,” he said as he placed the box on the side of his desk and looked at Hermione. Her stomach dropped to her knees. The prospect of Occlumency with Professor Snape was more than her frazzled nerves were willing to handle at this point.

“What kind of lessons,” she asked, dreading the answer that would undoubtedly come.

“Let me first put you at ease Ms. Granger. I understand that you and Harry have spent quite a lot of time working on Occlumency together. I have no intention of having you continue in that exercise.” She noticed Harry’s head jolt up. He appeared not only as confused by the statement, but as easily aware of the emphasis Dumbledore placed on the word “you.” She gave a hesitant glance and thought to ask the obvious question, but Harry jumped in before she could.

“Sir, don’t you think, given the connection Voldemort made with her last year, Occlumency would be necessary?”

“I don’t believe Voldemort made quite the connection you believe he did Harry. I wasn’t entirely sure of that until after the summer came.” They stared at him disbelievingly. “Your theory was that Voldemort was connected to you, you were connected to Hermione, and thus Voldemort to her.”

They both nodded in agreement.

“Logically, that theory seemed plausible to me as well. However, after coming to understand the connection between you both, I think that assessment may be slightly erroneous.”

“I don’t understand,” Hermione asked, her face ruffled in confusion.

“Ms. Granger, I won’t ask you to tell me about your summer. I have been in much greater contact with your parents than I think you realize. They kept me well-informed of your progress. I came to understand the connection between you from speaking with Remus Lupin among others. Although you’ve not mentioned it to anyone, I believe I am correct in assuming that you have forged some telepathic connection since the episode in the Hog’s Head last year.” Hermione shot Harry a concerned gaze. They hadn’t truly discussed their ability to communicate non-verbally with anyone.

“While that may be true Professor, I think that’s all the more reason for her to study Occlumency,” Harry said pointedly.

“Occlumency serves to shield the mind from others, I do not believe that’s what Ms Granger needs in this case,” Dumbledore continued.

“But, if I can get into her head using Legilimancy, how would Occlumency not help?” Harry was beginning to show some signs of frustration.

“Harry, I’m not sure how to say this gently. You’re not the Legilimens you believe yourself to be. Professor Snape explained early in your training, that Legilimancy is not so trite as to be considered ‘mind reading.’ A Legilimens can tell when people are being deceitful. They can catch glimpses of memories and emotions. Logically they can weave those into close approximations of what the other may be thinking or feeling. But they cannot, by virtue of Legilimancy, communicate with explicit telepathy. While your rudimentary abilities in Legilimancy are helpful to your cause, the ability for the two of you to communicate telepathically is not coming from your power, it’s coming from Ms.Granger’s.”

Hermione was floored. “Me? What are you talking about?” she demanded, all pretense of respecting authority flying out the window.

“It’s a power that rarely shows until late adolescence. Although you are a bit behind the curve there, it’s not uncommon for a Gryffindor. We see it in Slytherins first, Ravenclaws second, Hufflepuffs are usually third, and by matter of their personality, Gryffindor’s almost always manifest this power late in their adolescence.”

“What power?” Hermione’s heart was racing.

“You’re an empath, Ms. Granger,”

“What?!” Hermione shouted far louder than she intended.

“We weren’t entirely sure until after your experience last year. I dare say when Voldemort possessed you it was the first time you ever truly focused on yourself. You were entirely focused on your own body, your own emotions, and your own mind. I should say you had a difficult time, ‘turning it off’ after that.” Although it was phrased as a statement, Dumbledore seemed to be asking a question more than anything else.

Hermione, eyes still wide from shock, said sheepishly, “I’ve been completely out-of-control since then.” For the first time since entering the office, Harry physically tuned toward her and took her hand in his. She looked at him gratefully and saw that he had no intention of speaking. It was clear he was there for moral support. That was probably what Dumbledore intended the entire time.

“There is nothing to be ashamed of Ms. Granger. In fact, this is a rare, and special gift. If you learn to control it, it can be immensely useful. You’ve shown many of the qualities of an empath throughout your stay at Hogwarts. Correct me if I am mistaken, but among the three of you, you are always the one who notices when someone is upset, hurt, or deep in thought. You have always had the ability to empathize with your classmates and feel a bit of what they are feeling. I might add that’s one reason why your ‘disagreements’ with Mr. Weasley are as heated as they are. Knowing Molly so well, I’m quite certain her progeny are just as apt to throw every emotion they have into an argument. An empath, especially one who hasn’t learned to control such a bombardment of emotion is likely to manifest it herself. Think back to the summer, when others were happy, you became happy. When your father was furious, you actually shattered plates in the cupboard.” He smiled at her response. “Yes, your parents told me about that as well.”

Hermione looked lost. She thought back to the time after her possession and realized the multitude of times her mood mimicked those around her. In her heart she knew Dumbledore was right, but she also knew nothing of being an empath. She’d never read a book, she’d never studied about them, she had no knowledge of anything and that was a position she loathed more than anything.

Dumbledore looked to her kindly. He seemed to understand what she was thinking, if not feeling. His response served to help her more than anything she’d heard yet. “Ms. Granger, you will be taking special lessons with Madam Pomfrey. She, like many outstanding healers, is also an empath. You will meet with her every Monday at seven in the evening. She will teach you how to shield yourself from the emotions of others, as well as how to use your gift to your own benefit. I am quite certain we will need every power we can muster this year.”

Harry and Hermione both looked to the Headmaster with quizzical expressions. Before either could speak, he finished the conversation.

“I should expect you are both very tired. While the rumors persist among the lower classes that Head Students have their own tower and common rooms, I am rather sorry to inform you there is no such thing. I like for our head students to remain among their classmates so as to not distance themselves from those they would direct. I’m quite sure the house elves have prepared your beds for the evening.”

Silently, Harry and Hermione rose from their seats and bade the Headmaster good night. They walked in silence down the corridor that led away from the imposing stone phoenix for several minutes. She slowed her gate and finally stopped in front of an arched window that overlooked one of many interior gardens. She looked out, among the palette of color that signaled the changing season, and finally turned to Harry. It seemed obvious to Hermione, from Harry’s demeanor, that he had no idea what to do to help her. She didn’t feel the need to use words to explain it. She silently extended her arms in a pleading request. He complied immediately and held her until she stopped crying.

***

As if the exorbitant number of textbooks didn’t hint at the coming year, the first two weeks of classes certainly drove home the point. They had entered their last year at Hogwarts. An eerie familiarity accompanied every class they stepped into. Teachers began their mantras concerning the N.E.W.T. exams and piled on even more homework than they had faced two years previously. Harry had no excuse to fall miserably behind this year. Unlike his O.W.L. year, Umbridge was gone, and as Head Boy detentions were far less likely. But the sheer volume of assignments effectively buried the entire trio in an unending avalanche of studies. Even Hermione, with her stamina for notes, books, and essays, reacted to the pressure dissimilarly from years past. She began organizing her organizers, planning to plan for her studies, and making flowcharts to ensure study time proportionate to her abilities in each class.

Harry tried to force back the smile that erupted on his face as Hermione pulled out her latest homework planner and set forth an array of 12 varied highlighting quills to mark the pages. He noticed the color blue on that page far more often than not and deduced that she’d chosen that color to mark her empath lessons with Madam Pomfrey. He gave a quick glance to the page and noticed her first lesson was scheduled for this evening. In an effort to hide his own planner from view, he pulled it from his bag and glanced at the entries under the table. It only served to remind him of the question that plagued him since finding out he had been named Head Boy.

Quidditch practice.

That was a problem. He looked through the pages of his planner. He might’ve suspected that it was charmed to sparkle in brilliant colors but knew better. Hermione had “taken the liberty” of arranging his study schedule for him. As would be expected of Ms. Granger, it was perfect. Times and dates were spread out according to the course syllabi, study time reflected the adequate attention spans and learning curves typical to older adolescents. She varied the subjects enough to correlate with small study groups that formed in the realization of the daunting task before the seventh years. Everything was planned out as logically and you would imagine from someone as smart as Hermione Granger…and from someone so singularly focused on studies she completely forgot about Quidditch.

When he first laid eyes upon his study schedule he’d scarcely noticed that Quidditch was absent from the plan. It was only after a deluge of questions from the team that he realized the spot he was in. He was not only the Gryffindor seeker, he was the captain of the team! That responsibility was equally as daunting as his Head Boy responsibilities, which were far greater than he’d anticipated. There simply weren’t enough hours in the day to complete the tasks he had before him. Hermione’s planner demonstrated that fact in vivid, living, Technicolor. For as much as he tried, he couldn’t stop thinking about his predicament. What was worse, he couldn’t stop the overwhelming feeling of stress that rose in his chest every time he did.

“Harry?” Hermione asked from across the table. Harry looked up from his planner, still hidden safely on his lap, and met her eyes. “Is everything all right?”

“Yeah, everything’s fine,” he replied a bit too quickly for her to believe.

“You’re stressed out about something,” she said, squinting her eyes a bit a looking at him questioningly.

“How do you know that? Did you…you know…” Harry began.

“Hardly,” she interrupted. “I am using no power other than that of someone who has known you since you were eleven. You always get the same ruffled look on your face when you’re worried about something.” Harry looked thoughtfully for a moment, as if he were trying to examine his own expression from the inside out. Giving up the effort he looked at her and they both broke into reciprocating smiles.

“Sorry,” he replied. “You’re right though.” He rolled his eyes slightly. “Not like that would surprise you.” She harrumphed and pulled her potions book from under the stack of textbooks before her.

“So,” she began. “Are you going to tell me about it or do I have to guess?”

“Guess,” he said without looking up from the book he opened.

“I knew it,” she sighed. Harry looked up.

“Knew what?”

“Milicent Bulstrode. I always knew there was a special place in your heart for her Harry. I’m so sorry our relationship has to end over your sordid affair with her in the Slytherin laundry last week.” Harry’s eyes were wide and his mouth was hanging open. She looked up to his dumbfounded expression. “No, no. Don’t try to talk your way out of it. You were gone at least twenty minutes longer than usual on rounds and Bulstrode was wearing the same soiled robes I’d seen her carrying to the laundry earlier. Your hair was a wreck when you returned. I noticed it all.”

“Hermione, what are you talking about? A special place in my heart? Milicent Bulstrode has more facial hair than I do, she easily triples my weight and is likely to beat any of those muggle men in the Highland Games without use of magic! For the record, my hair is always a wreck and I…”

“Are you going to tell me or shall I continue guessing?”

“What?” Harry suddenly realized if Hermione had been serious about the entire conversation she certainly wouldn’t be fighting back laughter at the moment. “Oh.” She smiled, put her quill down, and folded her hands across her notes.

“Tell me.”

“Well, it’s just…I’ve got so much…I don’t know,” Harry stammered finally resting his head in his hand and putting his quill down as well.

“Feeling slightly overwhelmed?”

“Only if your definition of ‘slight’ classifies Hagrid as a smaller than average man with a moderate affinity for ill-tempered creatures.” Hermione laughed.

“It’s not funny, Hermione,” Harry retorted.

“Well, your stress may not be funny, but your choice of descriptors is certainly entertaining.” The smile faded from her face and she sobered. “This is about me not allotting time for Quidditch isn’t it?” Harry’s eyes snapped up. “Harry, just hear me out before you get angry with me.”

He hadn’t heard but one sentence, and already did not like the direction this conversation was going. “What?” he said skeptically.

“Well, it’s just that with being Head Boy and with all the homework we have this year, I’m just not sure that there’s a lot of room for play in your schedule is all.”

“Hermione! I’m the bloody Captain of the team!”

“Harry,” she leveled her eyes at him. “I know that. I also don’t think it’s necessary to talk to me like that.”

“You want me to quit playing Quidditch?” he said incredulously.

“I just think…”

“I know you don’t like coming to the games and you only do it out of obligation but telling me to quit playing is ridiculous!” he interrupted. Hermione got to her feet, mouth gaping wide.

“What do you mean, I only come out of obligation?” she yelled.

“I mean you’d much rather be in this tower reading your books than out there supporting me in what I love to do!” He knew he shouldn’t have said it. He wasn’t even sure he really meant it, but he couldn’t stop the words from leaping out of his mouth. If he could’ve snatched them out of the deathly silent air the still reverberated in, he would have. The look on Hermione’s face was one he’d not seen before. Come to think of it, he had no desire to ever see it again. He could see her eyes misting over, and could see equally as well her resolve to not let a single tear fall in his presence.

“Finally! Someone else gets the full impact of the Hermione Hurricane! I’ll tell you this much Harry, the basilisk has got nothing on Hermione. Welcome to the club!” Ron walked into the common room while Harry and Hermoine were otherwise occupied and finished his statement by slapping Harry on the back and settling down at the table. Being far more practiced in the art of verbal altercation with Hermione, he cut her off before she could turn her attention to her most trusted sparring partner. “By the way, that Ravenclaw girl you study with is outside the portrait hole for you Hermione. She says she needs to talk to you about Arithmancy.”

Hermione glanced toward the open portrait hole and looked back to Harry. “Good, I need some fresh air anyway.” She turned from the table and stalked out of the room.

“I don’t know who that poor unsuspecting soul is, but she’d better be able to bob and weave if she intends to have a conversation with her right now,” Ron said cheekily. “What were you too arguing about anyway?”

“Nothing,” Harry replied. Seeing the look on his face, he thought better to expound. “Really Ron, it’s nothing. I think its just stress from this workload. It will blow over.” He settled back down, not realizing he’d stood up somewhere in the middle of the argument and pulled his Defense Against the Dark Arts books out.

“Is it just me or has Tonks required a lot of practical applications books for Defense this year?” Harry commented while organizing them on the table.

***

Hermione stormed out of the portrait hole and nearly leveled the girl standing quietly in the hallway just beyond. Thankfully for her, she appeared to have quick reflexes and leapt out of the way as Hermione burst into the corridor. Nearly echoing the Fat Lady’s scathing remark she asked, “so, trouble in paradise?”

Hermione’s eyes flashed to the girl standing before her. She was taller than Hermione. She stood nearly five feet and nine inches tall. She had long flowing chestnut hair. Unlike Hermione’s, it was straight as an arrow and generally had little body whatsoever. Her skin was pale, but clear, and like the man she was fully prepared to hex right now, she had green eyes. They were certainly not the piercing emerald green she’d grown accustomed to, but were understated, not unlike their owner. She was in good shape and under her well-fitting robes stood an athletic frame that no-doubt ensured she was no stranger to the term “tomboy.” However, her school robes indicated something else. She was intelligent. She would have to be in order to wear the blue and white scarf signifying her place in the Ravenclaw House.

Hermione got all of this from a single glance toward her visitor, not that she needed a description. She was fully well acquainted with the girl standing before her. One twinkle of her eye and smirk of her lips did what it had always done to Hermione.

She burst into laughter.

“Paradise! That’s rich. Only if you consider him as appealing as the droppings of a trilobite that has been festering at the bottom of three million layers of rotting organic material in some distant haunted forest that’s since turned to crude oil that some ravenous dictator is now exploiting for profit on the world market!” She finished her tirade by screaming the last portion at he now closed portrait hole, thus encouraging the Fat Lady to wander into a nearby frame.

“You know that’s one thing I’ve always detested about you Hermione…your total inability to verbalize what you’re feeling.” Silence hung in the air for only a brief second before both girls dissolved into laughter and greeted each other with a warm embrace.

“It’s good to see you Merc!” Hermione sighed.

“I hate to point out the obvious, but it’s not like we’ve not seen each other already.” Merc smiled warmly. “So, what did the insufferable prat do now?”

“Which one?” Hermione rebuked. They separated from their welcoming embrace and meandered off down the corridor as Hermione recanted the story. They had walked for nearly ten minutes by the time Hermione stopped long enough for a response.

“Well, honestly Hermione, you can’t expect Harry Potter to forsake Quidditch for studies.”

“That’s not the point! He wouldn’t even listen to me. He said that I only come to the matches out of obligation anyway! Can you believe he’d say that?”

“What? The truth?”

“Merc!”

“Hermione,” Merc chuckled. “I don’t want to get dragged into the middle of this thing but as an objective third party can I tell you what I think?”

“I don’t think I’ll like it.”

“When have you ever liked my advice?” Hermione rolled her eyes and crossed her arms belligerently. “In the four years I’ve known you, I’ve never known you to like Quidditch. You do go to the matches out of sheer loyalty to Harry and Ron. There’s nothing wrong with that. Harry doesn’t think there is either; I guarantee it. He’s likely more flattered that you would sit through hours of an insufferably boring, I’m using your own words there, match just because he’s playing in it. What’s more, I think you’d love for him to stop playing.” Hermione scoffed. “Don’t give me that look! I saw what his accident did to you last year. If not for Ms. Weasley’s forcing you out of the hospital wing, and my copious notes in Arithmancy, your marks would’ve suffered tremendously. Quidditch is dangerous. I’m sure you’d rather not see another rendition of “Pitch-Hole Potter” anytime this year.” Hermione slumped into a window seat along the corridor. Merc sat down next to her.

“It doesn’t stop you from playing.”

“Well, I may be in Ravenclaw, but I still like a bit of adventure. Aside from the fact it’s one of the only things I can do without looking or feeling like a total idiot.” Hermione turned to retort but Merc interrupted.

“Listen, all I’m saying is this. Harry loves you, but he also loves Quidditch. I know he’s got a lot on his plate this year. You both do with being named Head Students. But, you can’t take away his release. Trust me when I say this. Harry needs Quidditch. He needs to fly; it’s how he clears his head. It’s how he organizes his thoughts. It’s how he alleviates the pressure when he feels like it will crush him. I know you love him and you want him to be physically, and academically well-protected, but you can’t take away his Firebolt.”

Hermione sighed heavily. She rested her head against the mullioned window and closed her eyes thoughtfully. “I hate it when you do that.”

Merc laughed. “That’s why I’m in Ravenclaw and not Gryffindor.”

“I hate that.” Hermione chuckled. “If you were in Gryffindor it certainly would’ve made Ron’s life easier. You’re my objective voice of reason. If you’d been around to explain why Ron was so incensed over the Yule Ball we wouldn’t have had such a shouting match in the common room that night.” She shook her head and smiled weakly. “Aside from Ginny Weasley, you’re the only female friend I’ve got,” Hermione said as she turned to her friend.

“You’re the only friend I have.” Merc said quietly.

“Bullocks, you have loads of friends!”

“I have acquaintances, Hermione. That’s not the same thing.”

They sat silently for a moment and Merc got to her feet. “Come on, let’s head back.” They walked in silence for a few moments. Nothing could be heard but the sounds of their quiet footsteps harmonizing with each other as the two friends made their way back from where they had come.

“Not that this would surprise you, but you were right about Ron,” Hermione said quietly.

“For once in my life, I hate that I was right.” Merc looked over to Hermione as they traversed the corridor. “Was it awful?”

“Worse than awful. He kept all of it bottled in and it finally exploded when we were at the Burrow just a few weeks ago. He went so far as to accuse Harry and I of sleeping together fast upon our reunion.”

“Not that such activity would be a bad thing.” She ducked out of the way to avoid the arm Hermione threw in her direction.

“Merc!”

“Sorry, sorry. Just trying to lighten the mood. Even you have to admit your Harry is quite dashing.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes and studied her friend for a moment before moving on. “Anyway, we all said some things we didn’t mean and screamed a lot.”

“How are things now?”

“Much better actually. Ginny arrived home from her internship at Witch Weekly with some new skills in counseling,” Hermione chuckled.

“Counseling?” Merc furrowed her brow.

“Yes, silly huh. Anyway, she sat all of us down and managed to talk some sense into us. It’s better, not great yet, but better.”

“That’s good to hear. I knew about the three of you before I ever met you, certainly before we became friends. The relationship you have is very special.” Merc sighed audibly. She glanced at the floor as they walked and returned the conversation to its original purpose. “Well, for as much as I love the practical interpretation of your interpersonal relationships,” she bumped Hermione in the shoulder playfully. “That’s not why I came by.”

“I know. We need to set up our study times for Arithmancy.”

“Do you want to just keep to our regular schedule. It hasn’t led us astray in the four years we’ve been doing it.”

“Yes. Same table in the library?” Hermione asked.

“Same days and times?” Merc replied.

The nodded together and smiled. They arrived back at the Gryffindor portrait hole and Hermione took a deep breath as the Fat Lady crossed her arms and tapped her foot impatiently.

“Are you or are you not a Gryffindor?” Merc teased. Hermione looked at her and narrowed her eyes scathingly.

“Bye!” Merc laughed as she waltzed down the corridor toward the Ravenclaw common room. “Don’t stare at her too long, she seems a bit tetchy that one!” her voice called as she rounded the corridor as swept out of sight. Hermione stood, looking at the spot where she had vanished, and harrumphed. With a deep breath she turned to face the portrait hole fully.

The irony was obviously not lost on Hermione. “Carpe diem.”

The portrait hole swung open.

11. Couch Time

A little nugget for you all-this has a flashback to The Power He Knows Not. I have no clue where it came from honestly, I never set out to write it that way-Hermione just took me there. I know there are a few reading Triumvirate that haven’t read Power – you’ll likely be confused by it if you fall in that category. As a matter of giving credit-there is one reference in there to “black flowers” I read that use of imagery in one of Lori’s *bows* stories and simply cannot think of another way to describe it! So-that particular use of imagery is entirely borrowed.

ALSO! Big props to Victor (i.e. Muddgutts!) he has finished the artwork he started for this story and I’m so thrilled! Its just as awesome as he is and you simply must check it out if you have the opportunity…here’s the link…

http://www.boomspeed.com/muddgutts/TR.gif

This update might also satisfy the fluff-lover in you. There is a bit more than my usual in this post, but it works in my story so you get the rewards.

The reference to the Slytherin empath comes from a wonderfully talented writer on the snitch named Jadealinda. If you haven’t read her Hp parallel “Born of Evil the Story of Aurielle Lestrange” you are truly missing out. She’s a fantastically gifted writer and I loved incorporating a snippet of Aurielle into ToR! Its not really a “shipped” Fic at all, mostly plot driven-not romance-however, I’m one of the first mates upon the Harry/Aurielle ship she’s devised on her own. Here is the link to her story:

http://www.thesnitch.net/forums/index.php?showtopic=3214

I’ve adopted CheeringCharm’s personal challenge of posting at least every Sunday…I hope to keep up!

VLeigh

Chapter 11 – Couch Time

“I gather you heard the news,” Tonks said quietly as she entered the room Remus had claimed as his own. After the term started, Molly Weasley had at least one wish granted. Harry’s ability to open Grimmauld Place sealed the inheritance charm Sirius apparently cast upon it. She still wasn’t quite sure why Harry chose to bequeath it to the Order of the Phoenix, but he had. He’d done it over her objections as well, not that such an act was anything new. She tried to impress upon him that he would need a home after Hogwarts and this house, while certainly not the height of luxury, was thoroughly adequate for a young couple just starting on their own. Harry, to her displeasure, would hear none of it and with the aid of Albus Dumbledore had commissioned the house as the new permanent headquarters for the Order. Many of the members, especially those with little other means, had chosen to reside there full-time.

Not surprising to anyone, Remus Lupin was the first permanent resident of Grimmauld Place. Equally unsurprising was his choice of bedroom. He had chosen the same room his best friend Sirius Black had made his own. He changed little of the décor, in part as a tribute to the former Marauder, and in part because their tastes were rather similar.

Tonks used the Headquarters quite frequently. While she maintained her teaching post at Hogwarts she had a room there. However, business from the Order often required her to put in long nights at Grimmauld Place and she was much more inclined to stay there on those nights rather than apparating to Hogsmeade and walking the long path to the castle. Aside from that, completely feasible and logical excuse, there was a greater one. Maintaining a room at Grimmauld Place made it much easier to stay close to Remus Lupin.

He looked up from his writing desk and caught her eye. “Are we sure the information is good.”

She stretched out on the bed behind the writing desk and replied, “It’s highly reliable. It’s from our source in the Ministry.” Remus stopped writing and turned in his chair to face her.

“From Reilly?” Remus looked at her questioningly.

“The very same.” She rolled up onto her side and propped her head on her hand. “If anyone is able to get the inside information on Damien Keres, Reilly is the one. Our information says he found out Harry is still alive approximately two weeks ago.”

“Did Reilly have any additional insight on his current whereabouts?” Remus asked.

“No.”

He returned to his parchment and Tonks surveyed the man before her. She let out a sigh, an all too audible one, and thought she saw his eyes flick back toward her. Remus Lupin might have had some “issues” according to the wizarding world, but none of that made any difference to Tonks.

He’s probably more agreeable during his time of the month than I am.

“Well, we are as prepared as we can be. It had to happen sooner or later. Someone like Damien is not going to be in the dark for long.” Remus’ voice drew her from her thoughts and back to the harsh reality before her.

“No, I suppose not. I just hope we can get everything in order in time.”

***

How many times have I walked these stairs?

Hermione thought back to the inordinate number of times she’d climbed the stairs to the Hogwarts hospital wing. It was hard to escape the fact that she, Harry, and Ron had not managed a single academic year without at least one trip to Madam Pomfrey. On some occasions they’d not managed a single term without a visit. She continued to trudge forward, her feet moving her along while her mind wandered aimlessly. One fact never escaped her attention, in all the times she’d visited the hospital wing it was never for instruction.

Her feet slowed as she neared the entrance to the infirmary. She’d never really studied the great oak doors before. As a matter of practice, she usually broke into a sprint by the time she reached the top stair, flinging the doors open as she flew to the side of whichever best friend, usually Harry, was injured this time.

She was far less obliged to burst into the room today. She stood at the top of the stairs, absently wringing her hands and studying the features of the antiqued entrance. The doors were easily ten feet tall. She’d never noticed the detail to the pewter handles. They stood in a graceful arch that finished in a simple rolled finial. The actual oak doors depicted a scene she recognized almost immediately as one from Greek Mythology. The Morai were listing gracefully toward the top of the left door, looking downward on the mortal Asklepios as they raised him from Hades and apotheosized him into the god of medicine. The right-handed door showed Asklepios later in his existence.

And mum said I never paid attention to her bedtimes stories as a little girl.

She stood, gazing at the figure carved into the right door. She’d never taken the time to look at the carved artwork, and thus never noticed the eerie similarities between Asklepios and the Headmaster of Hogwarts. Much like many gods of Greek Mythology, Asklepios was a rather imposing figure with a long flowing beard. In his right hand he held a staff, encircled by a serpent.

A serpent. That’s interesting.

As she continued to study the scene before her, it broke open in the middle as the doors swung open to reveal the kind smile of Madam Pomfrey.

“Good evening, Ms. Granger.”

“Oh, good evening, Madam Pomfrey…I was just…er,”

“I know you’re a bit worried about your lesson. I promise I won’t bite,” she replied warmly.

I don’t think worried quite captures my mood.

It didn’t capture it either. Hermione wasn’t just worried she was terrified. She wasn’t terrified of Madam Pomfrey, or what she would have her do during the evening. She was altogether terrified of herself and of the unknown. She was an empath.

What does that mean?

She felt totally out-of-control. Her emotions had been on a roller coaster for so long, she barely noticed it now. But, this was different. She didn’t feel as though she had a logical grasp on the situation. Harry and Ron might tease her incessantly, but she needed knowledge to stay in control. Her control didn’t come from physical ability. It didn’t come from the ability to think quickly, or strategically. It didn’t come from the ability to make decisions in the blink of an eye. She didn’t have the gut instinct that had saved Harry so many times over the last seven years. She was certain if the roles had been reversed she never would’ve made it past Quirrell, or the basilisk. She didn’t have the strength to fend off a single dementor – Harry had saved her then- the sheer stress of the Tri-wizard Tournament would’ve done her in there, and she willingly looked to Harry for some feasible escape plan when faced with the Death Eaters in the Department of Mysteries. Harry’s quick thinking had saved her last year as well.

I gave up. I wanted Harry to kill me. I didn’t care about finding a way to save myself. I just wanted the pain to stop. I never would’ve thought to do what he did. I never could’ve defeated Voldemort.

Her strengths were not any of Harry’s. Her strength lay in her ability to study and analyze a situation beforehand. She could solve logical problems, understand consequences (something she knew Ron and Harry never thought about) and be objective about a situation long after everyone else had succumbed to an emotional response.

That’s it! That’s why I’m so confused!

“Madam Pomfrey,” she asked quietly as she followed her into the healer’s office.

“Yes?”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“I believe that’s the whole reason Professor Dumbledore has asked me to teach you.” She smiled warmly.

“Are you sure there’s not been a mistake? I…I mean, Professor Dumbledore is a powerful wizard I understand, but…me…as an empath? It doesn’t make sense.”

She waited for Madam Pomfrey to reply, but she merely sat in her wingback chair, smiling at Hermione. The silence that hung in the air compelled Hermione to talk. “I’m too logical for this. Empaths are supposed to be focused on emotion and all that. I’m not that way. I’ve never cried over a sappy romance novel, I’ve never gotten weepy over a single Muggle movie. I basically detest the gaggle of immature girls that go around screaming their delight to each other – although it was quite fun when Ginny did that after she saw the ring Harry gave me.” She looked up at Madam Pomfrey who sported a toothy grin now, and realized she’d strayed from the subject.

“Er-I just…I am not someone who spends any time focusing on her own emotions. I’m far too logical for any of that.” Madam Pomfrey remained silent. Hermione was beginning to grow a bit agitated with her “teacher’s” lack of response. “During fifth year for example, Harry was absolutely beside himself over what he’d seen in his dreams regarding Sirius. I was completely calm and logical in that situation. I looked at the situation objectively and tried to reel him in! An empath shouldn’t be able to do that!”

Silence.

“It’s not that I don’t have emotions mind you, I do. I have the full range of them I assure you. You can ask Ron about my temper, he’s probably seen it best. I have been happy, I have been sad, I’ve been….scared; scared to death as a matter of fact. I thought I’d never have been so scared as when I saw Viktor Krum in the corridor last year. I wasn’t scared until I saw his face, the look on it.” Hermione looked blankly at her hands. They’d stopped their nervous fidgeting as she thought back to the events of last year. Her face hardened and her jaw worked slightly. “I knew then something was terribly wrong. His eyes, his mouth, the way he stood… anger and betrayal resonated from his body as he stood before me, shaking with emotion. I saw it all in his face and I just stopped drawing breath…”

What page was that on? Was it page 560 or 561? Ugh! If I don’t find this answer before I get to this exam, I just know Professor Vector will ask about it!

Hermione frantically flipped the pages of her Arithmancy text as she increased her gait through the corridor. Her exam was scheduled to begin in just five minutes and she wouldn’t feel completely comfortable sitting for it if this question lingered in her mind a second longer. Over the years she’d developed the uncanny ability to read and walk at the same time. She weaved through students passing here and there, not pausing to look up from her textbook. As she grew nearer to her destination the students in the hallway thinned out.

Ah! There it is.

She slapped the book shut and tucked it under her arm as she turned down a darker corridor that, earlier this year, she’d found to be a short cut. She continued mulling over information she assured herself would be on the exam as she swept through the hallway. As she passed a dark alcove she nearly jumped out of her skin.

“Oh! My heavens,” she gasped and tried to catch her breath. Her heart was hammering. “Viktor? You scared the life out of me!” He stepped further into the light before it even registered with Hermione that Victor Krum was standing in the halls of Hogwarts rather than his flat in London.

“Hello Hermione.” His voice was deep. It was deeper than any she’d heard. She finally clued into the greater mystery.

“Viktor? What are you doing here?”

“I got your letter.”

His eyes flashed when he said it and the sarcasm tainting the words was palpable. This was not a friendly visit. Whereas surprise had sent her heart pounding before, fear began to increase its rate now. He was furious. She had to think of something to say. But what?

“Er- yes. The letter. Well, you see, I didn’t want to…”

“It’s him isn’t it?” His voice rose significantly.

“W-who?” she stammered.

“Potter! You’re in love with boy wonder aren’t you?” The blood coursing by her eardrums was making it difficult to hear. Krum’s eyes were piercing. His hands were shaking and she suddenly felt entirely too close to him. She took a step back and scrambled for an answer. He matched her step, moving even closer than before, and her brain froze. She couldn’t think. Krum had said his name, and before the words passed his lips, her thoughts were singularly focused on Harry.

Harry! Where is Harry?

Before she knew it, she had turned to run. Run somewhere, run anywhere. Run to find Harry, find Ron, even Filch! She didn’t care. She was not the girl expecting a knight in shining armor to gallop in and rescue her from the evil menace, but she was out of her league, and she knew it. Krum was educated at Durmstrang. She wasn’t stupid. She knew what his forte was. While she was a member of the D.A. and rather adept at handling herself, the “flight” response had well overcome the “fight.” She ran as fast as she could, heading for the safety of the Gryffindor common room. The hopeful scene of Harry and Ron bursting through the portrait hole to her rescue flashed through her mind. She chanced a quick look behind her.

Krum was gone. She’d lost him.

Her footsteps slowed as she peered behind her.

Thank the gods! The common room, I’ve got to get to the common room!

She turned forward, her saving destination only a few corridors away. As she turned the corner, her heart lodged itself in her throat.

“No!”

Viktor Krum was blocking her path with his wand extended. She was running so fast, it was physically impossible to stop before she reached him. Seconds seemed like minutes, every motion made from either of them appeared to take hours. Even the gracefully floating dust particles, illuminated by the sunlight streaking through the window, seemed to freeze in midair. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t stop.

She couldn’t hear the spell.

Black ropes flew from the end of his wand and she threw her arms up in a futile attempt to stop them. Her hands were quickly bound together in front of her as additional ropes tangled through her feet, throwing her off balance, and sending her crashing to the floor. A firelight of stars erupted in front of her eyes as her head connected with the rough stone floor. She blinked furiously, trying to clear her field of vision to no avail. She didn’t so much see Krum as felt his presence draw near.

Harry! Oh, God Harry, help me!

Viktor flew into a rage. Hermione suddenly realized her pleading must have escaped her lips as it passed through her mind. Her hands were bound tightly together at the wrist and her thumb brushed over the ring Harry had given her for Christmas. She heard Viktor’s footsteps approaching and felt the ring slip off her hand and clink delicately to the floor as her vision cleared just enough to see Krum’s fist headed ominously toward her.

Oddly, she didn’t feel the pain of the contact. She only saw a blinding white light. She felt his hands seize her around the shoulders as he dragged her to her feet. That was when she felt the pain. Her head was pounding, her eyes didn’t want to open and her range of vision became clouded with hundreds of black flowers that bloomed silently behind her eyes, sending her peacefully into darkness.

Hermione dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief that Madam Pomfrey had offered while she reminisced about the prior year’s events. They sat in silence for a few minutes until Hermione’s demeanor returned to its original state.

“What happened after that?”

Hermione looked at the healer incredulously. “What do you mean? Everyone knows what happened after that!”

“Well, I dare say I’m a bit out of touch.”

“Honestly, the next part is a bit of a blur to me. I don’t remember much of it. I awoke to find him hovering over me at the end of the passageway to Hogsmeade…”

“Get up.” Krum’s hands clamped around Hermione’s upper arms and he pulled her to her feet once again.

“Viktor, please,” Hermione muttered softly. Everything had happened so fast, she wasn’t sure what to make of any of it. Viktor had told her he was in love with her. But, this is not how people in love behave! Normally she would’ve engaged in a fierce internal dialogue to discern what was happening, why it was happening, and what she could do to prevent it. However, between blows to the head, a lack of consciousness, and considerable amount of emotional confusion over the subject, she was far less eloquent.

Why? Why? Why?

He wrapped her in a long cloak and pulled the hood over her head, obscuring most of her vision. Her arms and legs were still bound together but he appeared to have a plan for that. He muttered the locomotor charm and she felt her feet gently lift from the floor. He put an arm around her back and pushed her floating body along as he walked into the blinding sunlight that flooded the main avenue of Hogsmeade.

She hated to admit she was moderately impressed. She imagined to any passing witch or wizard she would’ve appeared to be walking alongside of Krum. She thought to cry out for help to someone, anyone, but her vocal chords were failing to produce the slightest noise.

A silencing charm.

He pushed her along the street and heard the shrill tinkling of a bell announcing their arrival to whatever shop they had entered. The hood obscured her view of virtually everything except the floor. It looked familiar, but she couldn’t place where she’d seen it before. She made a mental note to take more notice of the flooring in the shops she visited the next time she was in Hogsmeade.

If there is a next time.

Her heart pounded in her throat again. She was off Hogwarts grounds. No one would know where she was. Ron and Harry didn’t expect to see her for several hours. She shuddered at the thought of what might befall her in that amount of time. The only one who would truly notice her absence, aside from Professor Vector, would be Merc Thompson. While they’d certainly discussed Harry and Ron over many Arithmancy study breaks, Hermione had never taken the opportunity to introduce them formally. She had become a good friend, but was never part of the “trio,” extended or not. Therefore, she didn’t have the same frame of reference as they did. Merc’s first thought would not automatically drift to a vicious Dark Lord and his plot to kill Harry and anyone in his path. While she was sure her absence from Arithmancy would inspire Ron and Harry to call everyone short of Merlin himself for a rescue mission, Merc Thompson would likely only find is unsettling and think to mention it later.

She was in serious trouble, and no one knew about it.

They crossed the dusty floor and she saw a dark staircase appear under the hood at her feet. She floated downward, the soles of her shoes occasionally tapping along the risers and upon reaching the bottom was moved more forcefully into a dark room at the end of the corridor. Krum lifted the charm and her feet fell to the floor as he pushed her over and in to the corner. He began pacing in the darkness across the room. He was mumbling incoherently and would occasionally stop, turning his head toward her. She froze. She had no idea how to get out of this situation. She felt confident her ability to talk her way out would not be successful given the fact he had silenced her earlier. So she sat silently and waited….and waited…and waited some more.

The scene continued this way for an indeterminate amount of time. Her emotions drifted between terror and absolute boredom. The catalyst between the two usually came anytime his motion stopped and his attention turned to her. He finally did the one thing she never expected.

He muttered an incantation under his breath and her bonds dissolved into thin air.

She rubbed her wrists silently and felt her throat tingle. She cleared it softly to test her hypothesis. It confirmed that the silencing charm had been removed as well. She looked to him and toward the door. She could make a break for it. She could scream for help at the top of her lungs. She could pull out her wand and hex him into the next century. They each had their risks, but she had to do something. The throbbing in her head had receded, enabling the undercurrent of her Gryffindor courage to rise.

I am not going to die here. Nor am I going to share myself with anyone other than Harry.

Oddly, as her thoughts turned to Harry she could’ve sworn she heard his voice. She closed her eyes and concentrated on him. She thought of his voice, his face, how scared she was, and how much she longed to see him again. Suddenly, his voice echoed in her head like a siren.

Tell me where you are…tell me where you are…tell me where you are.

She tried her absolute best to hide the shocked expression on her face. She could feel Harry trying to break into her mind the way he had so many times during their lessons. If she had any inclination to give up it vanished with the sound of his voice.

Harry knows!

She thought harder than she ever had. The hard truth was this: she didn’t know where she was. She knew she was in Hogsmeade. She squeezed her eyes closed and conjured her own memories of the Hogsmeade shops in a desperate attempt to allow Harry to see it. Whether he got the message she didn’t know. The next thing she heard was more terrible than any thus far.

“Crucio!”

Hermione was instantly enveloped in a shroud of pain so absolute she felt as if every cell in her body was exploding instantaneously. She was only mildly aware that the screaming that filled the room was issuing from her own lungs. Somewhere in a distant recess of her mind she realized Krum had countered the silencing charm so he could hear her cry out in pain. Just as quickly as that thought registered with her, the pain was gone.

“I loved you! You broke my heart and all for him!” he blasted. Hermione wanted desperately to explain. She wanted to tell him that she never meant to hurt him. She wanted to make him understand that she didn’t deserve what he was doing to her. However, she couldn’t manage to put those thoughts into words. Instead she tried to appeal to his

“Viktor…Viktor, please! If you loved me you wouldn’t do this…please,” she struggled to get the words out.

“Shut up!” he roared. “You’ll never understand how much you hurt me! I moved halfway around the world for you, and you send me an owl! You sent me his owl!” he screamed.

There was no time to reply. Another wave of the Cruciatus slammed into her as she lay on the floor. She screamed as before and twitched uncontrollably as her legs curled up to her stomach. She couldn’t hear Harry’s voice in her head any longer. The conscious thoughts she had drifted to him, her love for him, and her despair that she might pass from this world without ever seeing him again.

Suddenly, he was there. His presence burst into her consciousness and the pain ebbed away quickly. She looked up to see Viktor, wand still extended, and realized the curse had not been lifted. Yet the pain was gone. She took a deep breath and looked at him, closing her mouth that still hung open from the screams that had recently passed through.

It was Viktor’s turn to look shocked. He lowered his wand and stared at her with a look of complete befuddlement. She had no idea how she’d thrown off the Cruciatus Curse, but she wasn’t about to let him know that...

“He tried it a few more times, I think just to see if he still could. Whatever I had done before, which I later realized wasn’t me at all, I couldn’t reproduce. The next thing I knew, the sounds of Harry and Ron’s voice were drifting around in the back of my head. Oddly enough, it was Harry’s scent that snapped me back to reality. I slowly became aware that he was holding me, carrying me somewhere. I opened my eyes only to find us in the presence of eight Death Eaters.” Hermione dropped her head to her hand.

“You said you thought you’d never been so scared as when this happened. Your phraseology would suggest something scared you more. What was that?”

Hermione looked up suddenly. She was rather taken aback that Madam Pomfrey had not only been listening, but listening closely enough to analyze a sentence she’d muttered nearly an hour before. Still, she was right. “When I realized Damien was going to kill Harry,” she answered.

“You’ve never told anyone that story have you?” Madam Pomfrey said, returning to the point.

She looked at Madam Pomfrey quizzically. “How do you know that?”

“You’re exhausted dear, I can feel it.”

Hermione couldn’t argue the point. She was exhausted. She’d not even begun her lesson with Madam Pomfrey and she’d managed to wear herself out doing the one thing she didn’t think she’d ever done…talk about herself. She suddenly felt the compelling urge to apologize.

“Madam Pomfrey, I’m so sorry. We’re supposed to be starting lessons and I’m blustering on.”

Madam Pomfrey laughed. “Hermione, this has been your lesson.”

“But…” she began, utterly confused.

“Ms. Granger, being an empath does not have a logical answer. I imagine you’ll be only slightly less frustrating to teach than the Slytherin I instructed a few years ago. I’m going to tell you the same thing I told her, which was the same thing told to me when I began my studies.” Hermione sat forward in her chair. “You cannot possibly begin to understand the gift of empathy without first understanding yourself. You cannot discern the emotions of others before you are perceptive of your own.”

Hermione sat back in her chair, thinking about the “point” of her first lesson.

“We’ll, meet again next week. Until that time, I would like you to begin keeping a journal.” Madam Pomfrey assigned.

Hermione looked up. Although the boys liked to believe she kept a journal as matter of habit, she really never had. She always saw journals as something overly emotional weepy girls kept because no one wanted to listen to them whine any longer. The dream journals Trelawney assigned to Harry and Ron only served to validate that in her mind.

“What kind of journal?” she asked suspiciously.

“I want you to track your emotions during the day. You need to see what triggers your range of emotions and the only way to do that is to track them, chart them, and analyze them afterward.” Madam Pomfrey rose from her chair and began walking toward the hospital wing door. Hermione joined her.

Well, if it involves charting and critical analysis it must be all right.

She bid Madam Pomfrey good night and headed for Gryffindor Tower. Of all the lessons she’d had thus far, none had been more exhausting than this one. She longed for one thing…her four-poster bed with warming pans between the sheets.

Warming pans! House elves are the…

Shut up. If they like doing it so much, who am I to complain?

***

Harry made the rounds of the castle after returning from Quidditch practice. As always, he used the time to analyze practice and plan adjustments for the next one. Although it was exhausting, if he didn’t multi-task there was no way he’d get everything accomplished. Usually, he and Hermione made rounds together, but on the nights she had lessons with Madam Pomfrey he went alone.

Her lessons had begun a few weeks ago and what they were doing intrigued Harry to no end. On several nights of solo rounds he thought to snatch Ron’s extendable ears and find a reason to check the hospital wing. He hadn’t done so as of yet. But, the temptation existed nonetheless.

He returned to the common room to find it deserted. As it was nearing the end of October, the professors’ managed to hit their stride with assignments. Consequently, the tone of nearly every student achieved that notable shift between play and work. Clearly, the summer holiday was long forgotten and the stretch until Christmas seemed like an eternity.

Harry didn’t mind the empty common room. He generally found it easier to study. Seventh years were scheduled to take their N.E.W.T.s this year, and their professors were quick to pile on assignments each saw as vital to their success. Combine that with the responsibilities of being both the Head Boys and Quidditch captain and it made for a brutal schedule. What’s more, he wasn’t entirely sure he was doing any of his responsibilities the service they required.

His marks were not nearly approximating the standards he had set in prior years. That’s not really saying much; given the fact his standards were to “get by,” more often than not. Hermione served as a constant reminder to him that his studies were falling by the wayside. As Head Boy, he was sure he could’ve done a better job there as well. On several occasions, he either missed students out after hours, or merely ignored the rattles issuing from the occasional supply cupboard. He also experienced a bit of a moral dilemma in taking points from rule-breaking students. On the rare occasion that he did deducted points from offending students, he felt the word “hypocrite” should just emblazon itself to the back of his robes.

Quidditch was the exact same story. He really felt as though he’d not given the team its due attention. Even without new teammates to choose and train, it purely amazed him how much time it took to do the job right. He and Ron spent quite a bit of time reviewing the Cannon’s strategy Harry read about over the summer. He was convinced it would be an effective tactic against Ravenclaw’s chasers. To that end, he revamped the program and set about training the team. However, at this point, he wasn’t sure that the team was ready and he had run out of time. The match against Ravenclaw was scheduled for tomorrow afternoon. In the pit of his stomach he knew they weren’t ready. What was worse, he knew he’d not done enough to get them ready.

Somewhere in his musings, Harry had done the same thing he’d done practically every night upon studying in a quiet common room…he fell dead asleep. As was her habit on these evenings, Hermione roused him when she returned from her lessons with Madam Pomfrey.

“Harry.” She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and whispered in his ear. He furrowed his eyebrows and let out a muffled groan. She smiled warmly and ruffled one hand through his hair while she embraced him from behind. Attempting to stifle a yawn, he picked his head up and rubbed his eyes.

“Hi,” he whispered.

“Hi,” she replied. He sat up straight in the chair and arched his back as she pulled her arms away. The features of Hermione’s face ruffled with concern as she straddled the bench beside him. Harry turned to her hesitantly as she raised one hand to brush his cheek. “Harry, I’m worried about you.”

“I’m fine,” he said quickly as he removed her hand, kissing the back of it.

“When is the last time you got any sleep?”

“I don’t know…what day is it again?” He chuckled briefly.

“That’s not funny, Harry,” she replied flatly. He dropped his eyes to the table in silent agreement. He noticed Hermione’s gaze float speculatively toward the couch.

She took his hand and rose from the bench. “Come here.” Not having the strength or willpower to argue, Harry obediently followed her to the couch. She pulled his arm toward it and looked across the room to the clock hanging on the adjacent wall. She considered the portrait hole opening and the dormitory staircases in succession. Apparently deciding it was late enough to deter interruption, she returned her attention to Harry. “Lie down on your back.”

“Hermione,” Harry began.

“Don’t argue with me Harry,” she insisted. Harry slowly sat on the couch and slid down sideways until he was propped haphazardly on his arm. Hermione pulled her wand from her robes and with a few muttered incantations, the candelabras dimmed and the common room fire danced wildly along the logs. She looked to where he had finally rested and rolled her eyes.

“I said lay down on your back.” She picked up his legs and pushed them all the way onto the couch as she shoved his shoulder flat against the squashy crimson pillow. He couldn’t help but smile at her frustration.

That smile quickly turned to shock.

“Hermione, what…” he began.

“Close your eyes, Harry,” Hermione said quietly. He continued to stare at her as she hesitantly climbed on top of him; benignly straddling his legs at the knees. She rocked a bit from side to side getting comfortable and looked back to see he still hadn’t complied with her directions. With a huff, she pulled her fingers downward over his eyes and drew them closed. “Trust me.”

Harry didn’t have the vaguest idea what Hermione was doing, but he had to admit now that he was laying down in a dim room, eyes closed, next to a roaring fire with Hermione perched on top of him…he had no inclination to move.

“Harry.” Her voice was quiet and calm. “I want you to listen to the sound of my voice.” He thought to say something witty, but it didn’t come. Rather, he drew a deep breath and did exactly as she asked.

“I want you to clear your mind. Focus on my voice.” He felt her hands on the clasp of his robes and his eyes snapped open. In his state of acute sleep deprivation, he nearly thought she was part veela. The blazing common room fire washed her features with a golden effervescence. Her generally alabaster skin appeared warm and tanned. The firelight reflected in her eyes and they darkened to the deepest brown he’d ever seen. He’d studied her features hundreds, if not thousands of times over the past seven years, but he never got tired of doing so. She absently brushed a lock of hair from her face as she opened the clasp on his robes and easily pushed the fabric to his sides. His breath hitched in his chest and her eyes met his.

Her lips turned upward, hinting at a contented smirk and she fell forward to capture his lips with her own. Harry wrapped his arms around her, only to have her pull away. “Didn’t I tell you to trust me?” She drew her hand across his eyes again, closing them for the second time.

Harry’s shoulders slumped back to the pillow as he let out a defeated sigh. The shaking of his lower legs clearly indicated Hermione’s giggling response to his disappointment.

“I want you to think of ocean waves.” She began unbuttoning his shirt. Harry shifted visibly on the couch. “And relax.” He could tell she was smiling as she released the last button she spread his shirt to his sides, exposing his chest. “Think of the waves rolling peacefully onto the shore.” As she described the calming rhythm of the sea, she pressed the heels of her hands into his chest, pushing them firmly upward.

“The warmth of the fire is the sun streaming down on the beach,” she continued speaking slowly and kneading the muscles in his chest and neck.

“You’re on a holiday and ready to release some of this stress.” Harry felt his breathing grow deeper. “I want you to focus on all of the stress that’s locked in your body. I want you to focus on my hands. Think about the waves washing over you. Each wave is washing the stress from your body.” She worked her hands across his chest.

If Harry had any inclination to tell her this was a silly idea when she started, it quickly left him. She continued talking to him quietly. He recognized this exercise as something tantamount to the guided visualizations that helped him so much last year. As her voice directed the “waves” over his hands, arms, chest and neck, her hands drew the tension from his body. Each successive effort left him feeling physically heavier. He felt as though he were sinking into the couch, his limbs as heavy as lead. Her voice grew more and more distant until is seemed to be a mere echo in his head.

He fell into a state with no temporal restrictions. He had no idea how long she continued the endeavor. It could’ve been five minutes or five hours. The soft contact of her lips upon his drew his thoughts back to the reality of the common room. She kissed him lightly, her hands now motionless on his chest, and his eyes flickered open.

He was greeted by her warm smile and soft eyes. He kissed her again. She sat up, smiling, and recovered his chest with his shirt. “Do you feel better?”

“Loads, thank you,” he replied almost disbelievingly. He felt like he’d slept for hours and the stabbing tension from his shoulders had vanished entirely. “Is that something Madam Pomfrey taught you?”

She giggled. “Perhaps a little, some of these stress reducing techniques tend to help me. Honestly, you can guide yourself through it. But I thought you might need a bit of encouragement.”

Harry lowered his eyelids mischievously. “It must’ve been purely awful for you.”

“Yes, yes. It was quite a chore.” She wiggled her eyebrows scandalously.

Harry smiled broadly. He snaked his hand around her neck and coiled his fingers in the curls of her hair, pulling her closer. “I hate chores,” he said darkly and pressed his lips firmly to hers. He pulled her against him and wrapped his other arm around her waist. Eventually surrendering to the biological need to breathe, they broke apart and Hermione pulled away.

She raised one eyebrow as her lips curled into a smirk. “Harry, this entire exercise is intended to relieve tension.” He chuckled quietly, fully understanding the finer nuances of her comment.

“But, I feel like I’ve slept for hours,” he replied with a smile.

“That’s exactly what you need to do.” She rolled off of him and stood up, straightening her shirt that had somehow gone askew. With a grin, she extended her hand and helped him off the couch.

He knew better than to argue with Hermione; especially when she was right. As he stood up, the full measure of his fatigue revisited him. What’s more, the muscles of his upper body were slow to respond given their relaxed state. Hermione wrapped her arm around him, as he did her, and they stepped to the dormitory staircase together.

“You have a big day tomorrow Captain Potter,” Hermione said playfully as she unnecessarily buttoned his shirt.

“Yeah,” he replied as he watched her hands work the buttons.

“Sleep well,” she said quietly, her hands coming to rest on his chest. She smiled warmly as she looked at the red stone glowing brilliantly on her left hand. “I love you.”

“I love you,” he echoed with a soft kiss. “Good night.”

“Sweet dreams.” She stepped to the stairs and disappeared out of sight. As Harry remained, looking at the place where he’d seen her last, he thought back to her choice of imagery.

A sun drenched beach.

He smiled inwardly and traversed the stairs to his dormitory nearly disbelieving the familiarity of her “happy place.”

12. Humiliation and Revelation

I’d like to invite you all to a new Yahoo group!

The Triumvirate of Verbosity is a Yahoo group for the fanworks of myself, Cheering Charm, and Phoenix_Song. It will include all of our stories, FanArt, discussions etc. Please drop in and join our group!

http://groups.yahoo.com/group/triumvirateofverbosity/

You’ll finally get a couple things in this chapter you’ve been itching for:

1) The conversation you’ve all been waiting for with Dumbledore

2) A bit more information, including a last name-many thanks to Soch on helping me clarify that one, for our good friend Damien!

By my calculations you’ve got one more chapter left before you’re all caught up to where I am. I appreciate your patience in my updates-as you can imagine this story takes quite a bit of time and energy to write, edit, beta, and post. Especially for someone with 2 small children and a 50-60/hr a week job.

Also, For your Info, I have created my own LJ (Live journal) Please stop by and say hello!

http://www.livejournal.com/users/vicariousleigh/

Without further ado….

Chapter 12 – Humiliation and Revelation

“Another 10 points to Ravenclaw!”

Cheers erupted loudly enough to be heard over the wind rushing through Harry’s ears. It was becoming a phenomenon so frequent it was throwing Harry off his game.

Not only was their new strategy not working, it seemed to be imploding on the Gryffindor team as a whole. Harry was spending more time watching the team, and acting as a spectator, than looking for the Snitch. That was something that did not pass unnoticed.

“Harry! Either call for a time-out, or look for the Snitch!” Ginny barked as she flew past the spot where he hovered. Ginny took matters in her own hands and reverted to their initial strategy nearly thirty minutes ago. Harry suspected Ron encouraged her to do so. He had seen them exchanging a few orders at Ron’s end of the pitch shortly before she altered her strategy.

Ron was another story. He didn’t appear to be following any predetermined strategy at all. He had dissolved into a purely reactive state and was losing the battle with Ravenclaw’s chasers. More to the point, he was losing the battle with one Ravenclaw chaser. It was the new one, the one they didn’t know about. It was the one, that had they known about, they likely wouldn’t have revised their strategy at all.

Put simply, she was taking Ron “to school.”

Harry continued to watch her fly circles around the pitch. If he had any argument with her as a player, it was that she was a bit tight with the Quaffle. She either had little confidence in the other chasers, or a stubborn streak to surpass Hermione’s. However, she was a seventh year, and this was her first game.

She’s probably just trying to prove something to everyone.

Harry winced as she shot the Quaffle directly passed Ron and through the left hoop again. The screaming from the Ravenclaw grandstand nearly drowned out Ginny’s voice as she noticed Harry’s obvious lack of progress.

Harry shot upwards, spiraling the pitch, in search of the Golden Snitch. It was time to end this game and save what “face” the Gryffindor team still had intact. He continued to listen to the commentary as Gryffindor managed a goal here and there, but “Ravenclaw” was clearly echoing throughout the stands above all else; well, nearly all else.

As Slytherin and Gryffindor have nothing short of a blood feud raging within the halls of Hogwarts castle, that animosity translated quite literally to the Quidditch Pitch. Just as the Gryffindors have whole-heartedly endorsed anyone playing Slytherin, the snakes were repaying the favor in kind; and it was throwing Ron off his game.

Harry had seen that look before, and it always seemed to accompany a vivacious rendition of “Weasley is Our King.” Unfortunately, Draco Malfoy ‘lyricist extraordinaire’ had found nothing better to do with his time.

She flies around and circles him,

And then she throws the Quaffle in.

And that’s why Ravenclaws all sing,

Weasley is our King!

Malfoy almost managed to lead the stands into a second verse. Ginny, in an obvious show of support for her brother, decked Malfoy as she zipped past with the quaffle clutched in her left hand. Harry made a mental note to watch Ginny’s right hook when Madam Hooch’s back was turned. That was a mistake Malfoy was not likely to repeat. Nor was he likely to hang over the end of the grandstand bellowing out the song ever again. Harry couldn’t help but smile as he lofted higher and higher in search of the snitch.

Shortly after he redoubled his efforts, he saw it. He was scarcely aware of the rousing cacophony from the stands. They knew he’d seen it. He shot off toward the far corner of the pitch toward the gleaming hint of gold. It was fluttering near the grass in plain sight. As a matter of fact, the way the sun was glinting off of it, he was thoroughly surprised the Ravenclaw seeker wasn’t hot on his heels. He gave a backward glance and noticed his rival following halfheartedly behind.

Confused, but encouraged that the Ravenclaw seeker had no chance, he returned his gaze to the Snitch. He leveled himself on his Firebolt and took off like a shot. As he grew closer, he relished in the din that erupted in the stadium. It grew to the familiar, ear-splitting decibel that usually accompanied his capture of the snitch; with one exception. The last thing he heard, before closing his fist around the Snitch was Ginny’s voice speeding up behind him.

“Harry! No!”

He landed softly on the pitch, snitch in hand, only to see Ginny turn in the other direction, letting out a stream of vulgarities that would’ve made Mundugus proud. He looked to the stands to see McGonagall’s face buried in her woolen scarf and Slytherins celebrating with the Ravenclaws (who appeared to want to celebrate alone). As the rest of the team landed and stormed toward the dressing room, Harry noticed the score.

Ravenclaw 260

Gryffindor 250

Harry stood, rooted to the spot, staring at the score and wishing desperately his eyes needed another exam. As the blue numbers continued to flash, he realized what all the screaming was about. He’d caught the Snitch. He’d ended the game; and Gryffindor was 160 points behind when he did it.

Instinctively, he looked toward the Gryffindor stands. She was there. She was alone. The full count of Gryffindor spectators had cleared the stands quickly, but Hermione remained. She stepped to the front of the grandstand to look upon him. This was the one time Harry was thrilled that Hermione didn’t care for Quidditch. There was no judgment on her face, just concern. She smiled as best she could against her furrowed brow and Harry turned toward the dressing room.

He didn’t think he’d ever feel this bad again.

That was until he entered the dressing room.

“Yeah! I surely didn’t see you stopping the Quaffle Ron!” Ginny was livid.

“Well, for all the time you were watching me, you should’ve been scoring some points for Gryffindor!” Ron was equally so.

“You do your job and I’ll do mine Weasel King…”

“Ginny!” Harry interrupted sternly. Siblings or not, he knew how much that song got to Ron and certainly didn’t feel that comment was necessary. The dressing room fell silent upon Harry’s admonition. No one seemed to want to speak next. Although Ron appeared to be seething, Harry wasn’t sure if that anger was directed at his calamitous mistake, or inwardly, over the fact twenty-six goals made it through the hoops without being touched by ‘The King.’

The seven of them stood in a circle, staring at the floor, shuffling from side to side. Clearly this was a “captain” moment. As Harry filled that position, he cleared his throat to address a wholly dejected Gryffindor team.

“Listen, first of all, I’m really sorry.” A few mumbled groans and grimaces floated around the room. “I wasn’t paying any attention to the score.” A scoff clearly emanated from Ginny as she gave a sidelong glace toward her brother. “You worked really hard on that new strategy and you executed it well. I just didn’t realize they had a new chaser.” Harry lowered his voice to a whisper. “I didn’t even think to find out.”

The realization hit him squarely in the chest upon speaking the words. He hadn’t thought to scout the other team this season. It was a rarity that a team remained unchanged from one year to the next and he’d not given a moment’s pause to any player changes by the Ravenclaw team. In retrospect, he wasn’t sure if he’d neglected to find out or if he simply never had the time to do so.

He’d been treading water for weeks. But as he raised his eyes to his crestfallen teammates, he realized the sad truth. He had drowned in a proverbial sea of responsibility and he’d taken the Gryffindor Quidditch team with him.

“Harry,” Ron began quietly. Harry stopped him with a wave of his hand as he looked back toward the floor. He knew what he had to do although he’d never done anything like it in his life. He’d never quit anything. He’d never really failed at anything other than Divination and History of Magic. He’d certainly never failed at Quidditch. But today, just as he’d once heard an Olympic commentator discuss, he was living the “agony of defeat.”

Harry cleared his throat. “I’m not good at this.”

“Oh please, Harry! You’re the best seeker Gryffindor has had in over a century!” Ginny scoffed, surprising some of the team from their silent mourning.

“That’s not what I mean.” He took a deep breath. In reality, he felt as though he’d made this decision the moment he saw the score. Now he just had to gather the determination to go through with it. “I’m quitting…” The room erupted with six distinct voices. Harry waved his hands wildly in an attempt to finish his sentence.

“Wait, wait!” he yelled over their argument. “I’m not quitting the team, but I can’t be captain any longer. I’ve not been fair to any of you this year. This is something I should’ve done before I ever tried to change our offense. I’m sorry.”

The room was silent.

Harry’s eyes seemed completely unwilling to raise themselves to the others. He certainly couldn’t look at Ron. Not only did he feel like a failure, but he also felt like a quitter, and his best friend was ringside for the entire show. He couldn’t stand the silence a second longer and inclined his head toward Ron.

“I’ll see you later.” With that, he turned and left the team to decide their leadership without him. He honestly didn’t feel he had the right to contribute to the discussion anyway. He was hardly surprised to see Hermione standing quietly outside the dressing room.

“You’re not changed?” she said inquisitively. Harry merely shook his head. It was hard enough to do this the first time. Now he was going to have to explain his decision to Hermione. He drew a calming breath and looked at her, deciding how best to proceed. He began to tell her the happenings in the changing room, but was silenced almost immediately.

“No, wait!” She looked at him hesitantly. “Would it be okay if I tried this myself? It’s just what Madam Pomfrey and I have been working on. Harry straightened up and nodded in reserved agreement. He wasn’t exactly sure what she was going to do, but he trusted her implicitly. “Don’t try to help me.” She leveled her eyes to his.

Hermione closed her eyes and furrowed her brow. Harry watched her silently. He felt no different. He didn’t hear her voice in his head as he had so many times before. But, in actuality, he wasn’t sure where that power came from, him, her or a combination of them both. As it was, he remained as completely neutral as possible so as to comply with her directions. Hermione screwed up her face in concentration and clenched her fists. Stepping blindly forward, she rested her hand on his chest and her face relaxed noticeably. Harry absentmindedly placed his hand over hers and she opened her eyes.

“I’m never going to be able to do this.”

Harry was visibly taken aback. He’d never heard Hermione claim she couldn’t do something. Usually, a challenging task would make her only more determined to master it. She didn’t appear so in this case. She looked just like he felt…defeated.

“Hermione,” Harry began. “Yes you will.” She looked to him, apparently grateful for the encouragement and closed her eyes again. Her hand fisted itself in his Quidditch robes as she fought harder to find the answers. After a few seconds she dropped her hand in frustration.

“Ugh!” she growled. “I don’t understand! How could you be sad and frustrated, feel like a failure, and yet be relieved and happy all at the same time! I’m not doing this right!” Harry grasped her shoulders as she stomped her foot on the ground and tried to calm her. He would’ve liked to feel surprised by her progress, but honestly, not much about Hermione’s academic progress ever surprised him.

“Simple,” he said quietly. She startled and looked at him suspiciously. “I’m sad and frustrated because I’m completely snowed under with responsibilities I’m not attending to. I think the whole of Hogwarts understands at least part of the reason why I feel like a failure right now. The part they don’t understand is that I feel like a complete failure as Quidditch Captain aside from my mistake as a Seeker today. I’m relived because I just gave up that responsibility and feel loads lighter.” Her eyes widened in shock. “And I’m happy, because you’re here, and I can do this.” He dropped his head and kissed her fully as he wrapped his arms around her and lifted her off the ground.

He took it as a personal triumph – the only one of the day – that she began laughing against his lips. She broke from the kiss and dropped her head to his shoulder in a tight embrace. He put her down and, with two equally broad smiles, they stepped apart.

“You know, you’re not supposed to laugh when I kiss you Hermione. You might offend my ego.”

“Not nearly as much as your Quidditch robes are offending my olfactory senses,” she giggled. When Harry failed to reply to her insult, she rolled her eyes and stepped closer. “You smell awful,” she whispered. Harry stepped back and took a glance at his soiled uniform. He shrugged his shoulders and with a devilish grin, grabbed Hermione in a playfully crushing embrace.

“What was that Ms. Granger, I don’t believe I heard you?”

“Oh, don’t you two ever stop being sappy?” Still laughing, Hermione and Harry turned in the direction of the voice that had interrupted them.

It was her.

Aside from how she looked scoring nearly all of the twenty-six goals against Ron, Harry couldn’t help but think she looked vaguely familiar from somewhere else. She was a seventh year student as well, yet after six years of classes he wasn’t entirely sure he’d ever met her. He certainly didn’t know her name.

“Hi Merc!” Hermione said brightly. “I should’ve known that was you.” The two girls gave each other a quick hug beside a clearly flabbergasted Harry Potter. They stepped away and Merc looked expectantly between Harry and Hermione. When Hermione failed to chime in, Merc did it for her.

“Hi Harry.” She extended her hand toward him. “I’m Merc Thompson.”

“Oh! I’m so sorry. I keep forgetting you haven’t been formally introduced!” Hermione said quickly. Harry politely shook her hand.

“Hi. I’m Harry Potter.” Merc stifled a laugh and looked toward Hermione.

“Hermione and I have been study partners for a while now.”

“Arithmancy,” Hermione clarified. Harry looked between the two. Her name certainly sounded familiar. He was even under the impression Hermione might have mentioned her in passing. He knew he’d heard it somewhere. But he couldn’t get passed the obvious truth that was staring him in the face.

“So, you are friends?” They nodded emphatically. He looked at Hermione. “And you knew she was their new chaser?” Hermione’s face fell. As Harry locked eyes with Hermione, he noticed Merc backing away.

“Well, I have got a really long Potions essay for Snape I’ve yet to even start. I’d better be going.” With a quick glance to Hermione, she quickly moved up the path toward the castle and disappeared from view.

“Harry,” Hermione began.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Harry interrupted.

“Tell you what? That Merc plays Quidditch?”

“It seems like it would’ve been helpful information. Did you watch the match at all? She killed us!” Harry’s voice was rising.

“Don’t take that tone with me Harry! Does it surprise you that I have a life outside of you and Ron? She’s been a reserve for two years! I dare say it doesn’t take a great deal of neurons to figure out that she’d fill a vacant position!”

“What does that mean?” Harry was shouting now.

“Figure it out for yourself! Or do I have to do everything for you?” Hermione turned on her heel and stormed up to the castle, leaving a seething Harry Potter in her wake.

“Alright Harry?” Ron’s voice chimed in.

“Does it look like it?” he replied, without removing his glare from the back of Hermione’s retreating head.

“Cor, what was that all about?” Seeing an ally in his midst, Harry turned to Ron.

“Did you know that Ravenclaw chaser is Hermione’s study partner?”

“Yeah, I finally pegged her about halfway through the match…somewhere between her thirteenth and sixteenth goal.” Ron tossed his bag over his shoulder and crossed his arms.

“Has she ever told you about her?” Harry inquired.

“Not so much. I really heard of her through Ginny. She mentioned Hermione and that girl to me before. I can’t even remember her name.”

“It’s Merc Thompson.”

Ron scrunched his face and looked at Harry. “What in the bloody hell kind of a name is Merc?” Harry shook his head absently and turned to Ron.

“Listen, I really am sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it, mate. I didn’t have the best game of my career either. As long as you’re still our seeker I’m happy.” Ron smiled brightly.

“Why is that?”

“Because I would be the unanimously elected new Captain; and that means I can tell Harry Potter what to do!” They dissolved into laughter together and Harry gave Ron one of those male-bonding back-slapping hugs that men in athletic gear always seemed to exchange.

“Congratulations, Ron!”

“Let’s celebrate! I’m starving,” Ron proclaimed. Harry picked up his bag and Firebolt and they set off for the castle in a significantly better mood.

***

To say dinner was awkward would’ve been a rather obvious understatement. Harry and Ron had discussed the fated Quidditch match while they dressed for dinner. Through their hindsight analysis, Ron had joined Harry in some testosterone-riddled bond of male athleticism that placed Hermione squarely within their crosshairs. By the time they reached the Great Hall, they were ready to spar.

They walked in together and immediately spotted Hermione at the table. She was sitting alone with the accustomed two spaces saved for Harry and Ron. They shot each other a quick glance and walked purposefully toward the table. They settled in across from Hermione without speaking. She stayed conspicuously silent as well. Not surprising to Harry, Ron took the opening shot.

“So, care to tell us anything else about Merc Thompson?”

Hermione stopped her forkful of mashed potatoes in midair. Her eyes lowered threateningly at Ron. “No,” she replied simply.

“Really? Then how about telling us why you’ve never mentioned her before?” Ron replied.

“I wasn’t aware I needed your approval to have my own friends,” Hermione retorted.

Ron looked incredulously toward Harry. “You mean in the last five years you’ve never had occasion to tell us about this friend of yours?”

“I’ve had as many occasions to tell you about Merc as you’ve thought to ask me about Arithmancy, Ron!” Ron’s mouth hung open while he formulated his response. Hermione didn’t give him the chance. “Exactly! There are some parts of my life that are not common knowledge even to you, if only because you could care less about them.” She stabbed a slice of pork roast from the serving platter and dropped it on her plate.

Harry gathered himself for battle and opened his mouth. He never got out his reply.

“What are you three on abou’.” The voice was unmistakable. Harry spun around and found himself staring at the belt buckle of Hogwart’s grounds keeper.

“Hello Hagrid” Harry’s shoulders slumped having suddenly forgotten the retort that only briefly sketched itself into his consciousness.

“Well, don’ ever’body jump up a’ once,” Hagrid said dejectedly.

Hermione threw a smile over Ron’s red hair, and redder face. “How have you been Hagrid? I haven’t seen any sign of life from your hut. Are you just arriving to Hogwarts?”

“Well.” He leaned over the table. “I been off doin’ things fer Dumbledore. Can’ tell ya’ the details o’ course.”

“Where have you been Hagrid?” Harry asked absentmindedly.

“Harry, did you hear anything he just said?” Hermione admonished. Harry’s face suddenly grew hot. He hadn’t been listening to a thing Hagrid said. His attention was still focused on interrogating Hermione about her friend.

Attempting to cover his obvious inattention he added, “How are you?” Harry ruffled his eyebrows, wondering if Hermione’s rather obvious eye roll indicated that question had been fielded as well.

“I been feelin’ a bit neglected ter tell ya the truth.” Harry looked away. This was yet another point of guilt for him. Since their O.W.L. results arrived last year, their course schedule had not included Care of Magical Creatures. What’s more, between Hagrid’s on again and off again assignments for the Order, and Harry’s preoccupation with Hermione, he’d not visited him once last year. Hagrid had been one of the last to find out about he and Hermione. That was something he regretted. Hagrid was the first person he’d met in the magical world, and he regarded him as much a part of his family as Ron and Hermione. He’d often wondered if Hagrid noticed his absence. Now he had his answer.

“How’s Madame Maxine?” Hermione asked brightly. Hagrid blushed.

“Doin’ fine, ‘ermione.” He looked mischievously at the three. “Come visit me some time an I’ll tell ya all ‘bout it.” He slapped Harry on the shoulder, a bit harder than usual, and his head collided with the pitcher of pumpkin juice set on the table. As Hagrid was turning to go, he stopped suddenly as if he remembered the true purpose for the conversation. “Oh, yeah. Professor Dumbledore wants ter see ya; all of ya, after dinner.” As he walked to the teacher’s table, Harry, Ron and Hermione searched each other’s expression for an explanation.

***

Harry stifled a laugh as they ascended the stairs toward the Headmaster’s office. Although he’d ridden these stairs more often than he cared to count, he was quite sure it was Hermione’s first trip. Her eyes were nearly bulging out of her head. Ron shifted uncomfortably, having only visited this office when in fear of detention, or worse. The great stone Phoenix stopped and left the trio staring at the door to Professor Dumbledore’s office.

They walked to the door in silence. As fate would have it that was just what they needed to do in order to hear the conversation within.

“So, how much are you going to tell them?”

“As much as I can, Remus. I agree with you, they need to know the truth, at least as much of it as we know.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

“I’m aware of that. I think if Mr. Keres had not made an appearance at Privet Drive you would’ve told Harry everything at that time.”

Silence.

A chuckle from Dumbledore. “Remus, I cannot fault your feelings for Harry. Those feelings have made as many decisions, or indecisions, for you as they have for me. In this instance I believe you are correct.”

Harry, Hermione, and Ron exchanged inquisitive stares as Harry stepped forward to knock on the door.

“Come in,” Dumbledore’s warm voice welcomed from inside. Harry pushed the door open to see the Headmaster seated comfortably behind his desk. Remus was sitting in a chintz chair to Dumbledore’s left with his elbows on his knees and hands folded together. In preparation for the conversation, there were three more chairs on the opposite side of the Headmaster’s desk. The trio strolled forward quietly and took their seats.

After a quick glance toward Fawkes Harry asked, “You wanted to see us, sir?”

“Yes, Harry. Its time for us to tell you what we know.” Ron gulped audibly and Hermione sat down in the center chair. Harry and Ron took the chairs flanking Hermione. While Ron was, quite literally, on the edge of his seat, Harry sat back expectantly.

It’s about time.

“We’ve had many a heated argument over the appropriate time to tell you what’s been going on.” Remus let out a huff of air at Dumbledore’s rather glaring understatement. “In seeing what was progressing between you and Ms. Granger, I thought it best to let the three of you work out your issues before moving ahead. I should hope you’ve had time to do just that.”

The trio looked embarrassedly at each other, given the tone of their recent meal together.

“First, I’d like to apologize for my oversight,” Dumbledore began. “It has been quite some time since I’ve had the pleasure of being in love with a lady. Had I remembered the intricacies of that particular state of mind, I might have required Ms. Granger’s presence at Privet Drive long before the encounter that brought her there.” Hermione blushed and looked away. Dumbledore sat up straighter in his chair and folded his arms on the desk.

“Although there has been a vacuum of activity since that time, Lord Voldemort has been rather busy since the end of term last year.” Ron shuffled in his seat and threw a quick glance toward Harry. “However, it would appear that he has renewed his activities in the past few weeks. That is what I’d like to speak with you about.”

“We’ll tell you everything we know at this point,” Remus interjected. Harry nodded silently and joined Ron, sitting forward in his chair.

“Voldemort is getting desperate,” Dumbledore said flatly.

“Desperate?” Harry couldn’t help but repeat the word disbelievingly.

“Well, consider his position Harry,” Lupin replied. “He’s built his persona as some one so threatening, someone so evil, that not even his name be spoken aloud. Yet, where you are concerned, he’s failed miserably…six times.”

“Since his return during your fourth year, his sole purpose has been to kill you.” Hermione leveled her gaze to Dumbledore’s. “He’s even been so bold as to make his last three attempts in the presence of his faithful Death Eaters,” Dumbledore continued.

“Death Eaters that have now watched him fail to kill you three times,” Lupin finished. Dumbledore and Lupin looked to each other, each trying to decide who would speak next. Hermione shattered the silence that accompanied their indecision.

“His ranks are breaking,” she interjected quietly. Dumbledore smiled warmly as his eyes twinkled over his half-moon spectacles.

“That they are Ms. Granger,” he affirmed. “Our source inside the Ministry indicated that nearly a quarter of his Death Eaters were faltering in their loyalties as of July.”

“That’s good isn’t it?” Ron asked.

“Not if you are a Muggle,” Remus answered. He was prompted to continue from the confused looks that crossed each face in turn. “One thing he and his Death Eaters have in common, is their animosity toward Muggles and their prejudice for pureblood witches and wizards. Voldermort knows he’s losing ground and he intends to display his power in any way that will keep his Death Eaters faithful.”

“Muggle attacks,” Harry said darkly.

“They have been increasing in both volatility and brazenness. To date, the Order has attributed twenty-one Muggle deaths to Voldemort and his followers,” Lupin said flatly.

“That would explain the Death Eater at Privet Drive,” Hermione said to Harry.

“It would Ms. Granger, if Damien Keres was a Death Eater,” Dumbledore affirmed.

“He’s not?” she inquired.

“No. He is most assuredly not a Death Eater.” Dumbledore took a sip of pumpkin juice from the glass on his desk. “To be a Death Eater one must have values, twisted values perhaps, but they must have convictions of some manner. Death Eaters also have alliances and loyalty to Voldemort. Damien Keres has neither.”

“Then who is he?’ Harry asked, his brow furrowed with concern.

“He’s a mercenary. At least, the closest thing to a mercenary the wizarding world has been introduced to,” Lupin said as he sat back in his chair and pursed his lips.

“Blimey,” Ron said quietly. He looked to Harry with a look that fell somewhere between fear and admiration.

“You see, Harry,” Dumbledore added. “Voldemort understands that you are protected while in residence at Privet Drive, although he doesn’t truly understand how. His desperation drove him to make an attempt on your life regardless of the ancient charm protecting you. However, he was aware of the risk. He couldn’t send a Death Eater to that task and risk driving more of them away if it failed. So he hired one of the most ruthless people he could find.”

“Damien,” Harry said flatly. Dumbledore and Lupin nodded together.

“He is ruthless,” Hermione said quietly.

“And a perfect match for Voldemort,” Lupin added. “He’s as pureblood as they come. He is one of a rather pure, if not inbred, line of Norse wizards. They have been fighting both wizards and Muggles for centuries. Members of their families have inspired fear on the battlefields of Europe since the Middle Ages. They pride themselves on their exploits in battle. They train their young to follow their example. Damien Keres has nearly 1,000 years of evil pumping through his veins.”

“Do we know what happened to him, after…well, after,” Ron questioned.

“He disappeared for several weeks after the attack in Surrey,” Dumbledore answered. “However, our source has discovered that Mr. Keres is now aware of your survival.” He looked to Harry. “Needless to say, failure is not a word appearing in the Keres family dictionary.”

All visible motion, including the very breath that issued from their lungs, escaped the trio.

“It would appear, you now have two rather determined enemies, Harry,” Dumbledore said softly. Hermione silently took Harry’s hand in hers and closed her eyes. Ron’s mouth gaped open as he looked from Harry to the Headmaster. Harry took a few deep breaths and wondered if he didn’t like his life better before he knew that piece of information.

“Voldemort has failed again, Harry,” Lupin said, breaking the silence. “He already staged another Muggle attack at a club in London proper. While the Muggle newspapers are calling it a freak explosion, we are far better informed.”

“I don’t get how a source in the Ministry could provide so much information to the Order? Doesn’t…he…already know who everyone is?” Ron asked in frustration.

“For the most part, he does know who we are. This source came to us a while ago. No one in the Order knows who he is, just that he has access to rather a lot of information,” Lupin explained.

“So how can you trust him?” Ron asked bluntly.

“He’s never led us astray before. His information has always been reliable. I think we’re going on blind faith and gut instinct at this point…well most of us,” Lupin said with a laugh.

“Mad-Eye?” Harry guessed.

“His Auror instincts are pulling him along. He knows Voldemort has as many people working in the Ministry as we do. He also knows that the best information can be gained from following the right conversations and searching the right files - files we don’t have access to. But, he has issues taking information from someone he’s never met, seen, or heard.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Hermione added.

“Perhaps, Ms. Granger. But instinct must overrule analysis and logic upon occasion. Another thing Alastor is quite well aware of,” Dumbledore added.

Harry furrowed his brow and couldn’t believe the question he was about to ask. “So, why tell us all of this now?”

“Because of the prophecy, Harry,” Dumbledore said quietly. “Voldemort is the key and his defeat is becoming ever more important.”

“Something big is brewing on the horizon. Not only can we feel it, but our source is having trouble getting any reliable information about it,” Lupin said concernedly.

“We can only assume it has to do with his latest plan for you, Harry,” Dumbledore added. Hermione’s hand squeezed his tighter. Ron slid back in his chair and took a breath.

“Then why tell us?” Ron asked, inclining his head toward Hermione. Lupin laughed audibly.

“Ron, do you think James, Sirius, and Peter could’ve ever accomplished their Animagus forms without the support of each other? What’s more, without their friendship for me, would they even have fathomed such a thing possible?”

Dumbledore smiled at the trio. “In my old age I’ve come to realize things are not always what they seem. Sometimes we need to think “outside the spell.” Dumbledore leaned forward. “For too long we’ve been focusing on what to do to kill Voldemort. It dawns on me, that’s not what the prophecy requires.”

In the silence that followed, it was clear the three were mulling over the verbiage of the prophecy, memorized so perfectly in each of their minds.

“Defeat,” Hermione whispered.

“Precisely, Ms. Granger. According to the prophecy, Harry has the power to defeat the Dark Lord. It doesn’t say kill.”

“No, but it does say that neither of us can live while the other survives,” Harry added suspiciously.

“While that’s true, I’ve come to understand that prophecies are merely spoken words; and words have many meanings,” Dumbledore said as he sat back in his chair.

“Voldemort might not survive, even if Tom Riddle does,” Ron said so quietly it was nearly inaudible. Hermione and Harry snapped their attention to Ron. Harry wasn’t sure what shocked him more. The fact Ron came right out with his name, or the theory he’d produced with it.

“Exactly, Ron. That’s where you two come in. The prophecy also says Harry has the power the Dark Lord knows not. We’ve been operating under the assumption that power has been the love in his heart. Naturally that drew our attention to Hermione. But Harry loves you too, probably equally so.” Harry looked at the floor while Remus continued to speak to Ron. “The Order has come to believe Harry does have the power to vanquish the Dark Lord, but he’s going to need the both of you to do it.”

Ron raised one eyebrow and looked across Hermione toward Harry. This was a familiar place for Harry. He felt like he’d been planning this moment since he first heard of the prophecy. While Ron had been ringside for some of the encounters he rarely had the warning, or the prior knowledge that he was marching off to fight Voldemort. For years, he couldn’t even say his name. Yet, oddly trepidation wasn’t what Harry saw reflected in his eyes.

He didn’t see an all-consuming fear. He didn’t appear to be turning green. Ron appeared calm, concerned, but calm. Their eyes locked on each other and an entire conversation was contained in that moment.

At least if we’re in this thing, we’re in it together.

Hermione apparently had the same thought as she opened her eyes and raised her head to Dumbledore. “What do we need to do?”

The trio may not have noticed the absence of snoring from the many portraits on the wall. They may not have noticed the sorting hat straighten up from its resting place on the mahogany bookshelf. They may not have noticed the warble that emanated from the scarlet plumed phoenix resting on his perch. But none of them missed the smirk that flashed between Remus Lupin and Hogwarts most celebrated Headmaster.

13. Halloween

AN-this has been reposted to account for a HUGE copy/paste error- I think I cut off the better part of an entire chapter! There are several scenes that were left off where the last ended…You’ll need to reread this if you read 13 before..otherwise you’ll likely miss something.

In the immortal workds of Hagrid…”Sorry ‘bout tha’”

Chapter 13 - Halloween

Remus Lupin opened the door and sheepishly poked his head through to survey the room within. He was assured she’d be in there. He knew what she was doing this evening. Still, he didn’t wish to seem too intrusive. He recognized her silhouette, framed against the dying sunlight sliding weakly through the window. While her features were obscured by the shadows cast through the dim room, he could still make out the strong line of her jaw, the length of her eyelashes, and the curve of her hip as it flowed along the line of her body. In actuality, we wasn’t sure if he saw those features in the low light of the bedroom, or merely recalled them from the crisp imprint of his memory.

He studied every inch of her for so long he’d forgotten what was real and what he’d imagined. He stood amazed every time she altered her appearance and felt the undeniable urge to consider her features all over again. Although they had not “moved in together”, it was an indisputable fact that Lupin and Tonks lived under the same roof.

Remus claimed unspoken credit when she’d chosen the bedroom adjacent to his own. He was not oblivious to the changes in their relationship over the past several months. While they never broached the subject openly, Remus noticed the way her eyes sparkled when they spoke. He relished in the laugh she rarely gave anyone else, and lived for those moments when she would touch his arm, rub his shoulder, or linger in his presence just a second longer than was necessary. The room she chose was close enough to hear her footsteps as she trekked to the kitchen every night for a glass of water. It was close enough to allow him the occasional indulgent glance through the door as she nestled herself among the blankets, lost in dreams of a lighter time. It was also far enough away to keep him grounded in the stark reality that no matter her interest, he and the life that dwelled within him could never get closer to her than the threshold of the door he stood within now. He knew that logically, but convincing his heart was another matter.

“Are you going to come in or continue staring at me like some escapee from St. Mungo’s long-term care ward?” Tonks asked without looking up from the bag she was inspecting.

Feeling somewhat embarrassed that he’d stood there for so long, he entered the room and sat on the arm of an overstuffed chair by the window. “I can’t change your mind can I?”

She hesitated, a woolen cloak grasped in her hand, before stuffing it haphazardly into the bag. She finally raised her eyes to his, a quizzical expression ruffling her brow. “No, you can’t. More to the point, why would you want to?”

Remus picked up the chenille throw lying haphazardly over the chair and folded it unnecessarily. “I don’t know.”

“Bullocks.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It’s supposed to mean that I know what you’re doing. I know why you’re here Remus.” He gulped audibly, feeling the heat flush his face - welcoming the casting darkness that was falling across the sky outside the window.

“You…you do?”

Tonks zipped the bag closed and slung it over her shoulder. “Yes, and there’s no way you’re taking this assignment in my place. I volunteered to join Kingsley tonight and that’s what I’m doing.” Lupin’s shoulders slumped as relief washed over him. “What?” Tonks inquired.

“What?” he replied innocently.

“That is what you meant isn’t it?” Suddenly she appeared uncomfortable.

“Er- yes. Yes, that’s exactly what I was talking about.” He cleared his throat and rose from the arm of the chair. “Here, let me at least make some dinner for you before you go.” He pulled the bag from her shoulder and ushered her through the doorway toward the stairs. His heart rate returned to normal as they descended the stairs together. For a moment, he thought she’d caught on to the real purpose behind his question. He didn’t want her to go at all.

He hated her job as Auror.

While he worked in the same field, he couldn’t overcome his masculine egotism. He’d watched too many people rise and fall at the hands of dark witches and wizards. For as much as he hated the obvious pessimism that drove his thoughts, he felt anyone operating within the line of defense merely existed on borrowed time. As with nearly everyone he’d ever known that faced up to Voldemort or his cronies, it was only a matter of time before their life, or the quality thereof in cases like the Longbottom’s, was snuffed out like a birthday candle in a tidal wave.

The thought turned his stomach. Not only for those he’d already lost, but for whom he might lose still. Interestingly enough, when he thought of the possibilities his first thought was not of Harry, his surrogate child, but of the rather oblivious witch walking the stairs in front of him.

While he realized this might not be a strong enough word, he fancied Tonks. The mere fact she volunteered for this assignment scared the hell out of him. He wasn’t even sure why. It was a rather routine assignment. She was joining Kingsley’s post to surveille and protect a muggle home. Still Remus was uneasy. Tonight was Halloween and try as he might, the events of that evening 16 years ago never allowed him to enjoy the festivities on any subsequent holiday. This was the only night he understood the overprotective tendencies of Molly Weasley.

He didn’t want Tonks anywhere he couldn’t see her and intervene on her behalf if necessary. He felt certain if she knew any this, he’d be admitted to the spell damage ward in record time. Afterall, Tonks was the last witch on Earth that claimed to need someone to protect her.

“What would you like?” Remus asked as they entered the kitchen and Tonks took her place at the long wooden table. “You can have anything you’d like.” He disappeared into the cupboard just outside the doorway. “Provided its…well…provided its got peanut butter and jelly as its two main ingredients,” his voice floated into the kitchen. Tonks giggled audibly as Remus came back into the kitchen with a few jars and a loaf of bread. He grabbed two plates and some utensils and sat down across from her.

“Remus, I can make my own sandwich, you don’t need to do that for me,” Tonks admonished as she reached across the table toward the loaf of bread. Without thinking Remus grabbed her hand and held it in check. Her startled eyes met his and the kitchen fell silent. Both of their eyes drifted toward the table, where their hands were entangled with the other. Remus let go swiftly and sat back on his bench seat. Tonks slowly pulled her hand away and looked at the man seated before her.

“I’m sorry,” they both chimed together. Their mouths bobbed open and closed, each attempting to launch into some apology or explanation and each stopping to let the other talk. The end result found both Lupin and Tonks appearing to imitate common goldfish, gasping for oxygen.

“You first,” Lupin offered.

“Is everything okay, Remus?” she asked concernedly.

“Sure. Fine,” he replied a bit too quickly. She watched him prepare the sandwiches and ran her fingers across the place where his hand had grasped hers.

Without looking up she began, “Remus.” Something about the quiet sincerity of her voice drew his hands to a stop. He tentatively raised his eyes to meet hers. “I’m not…I’m not one for small talk,” she said hesitatingly. “and you know that I meant something else by that question.”

He swallowed the grapefruit that was lodged in his throat and mulled over any one of a thousand responses. “Yes.”

“Brilliant orator you are!” Sirius’ voice chided him.

“Remus, I want to ask you something, I’m just not sure how to do it,” Tonks said quietly.

“Incoming!” the memory of James’ voice echoed in his head.

Remus couldn’t help the grin that broke his expectant features, remembering the sortie of hexed water balloons Sirius launched their way during seventh year.

“I know we work together rather closely.” Her eyes darted away and she shuffled in her seat. “And I know our work affords us the opportunity to spend a lot of time together,” she said, carefully choosing her words. “But, as you well know I have to split my responsibilities between the Order and my students at Hogwarts. I…I was thinking. Albus allowed me to take the assignment tonight provided I chaperone the first Hogsmeade weekend. And, well…that weekend is coming up, and…well, you probably aren’t interested, but if you think about it….maybe we could, well…” she stammered.

“Yes.” She snapped her eyes to his and a bright smile shattered the awkward nervousness of her features.

“Really?” she asked.

“I’d love to go to Hogsmeade with you,” Remus replied simply. He smiled warmly, for the moment forgetting who he was, and relished the moment. “I’d also love to eat this sandwich!” he added easily breaking the silence that accompanied their matching smiles.

***

Harry finished his classes for the day and found himself alone in the common room. Hermione was in Arithmancy class and Ron hadn’t come off of the Quidditch Pitch in four hours. Taking full opportunity of his solitude, he decided a long-overdue visit to Hagrid was in order.

He enlisted the help of the most devoted house elf he knew to help him prepare an apology of sorts for Hagrid. As he trudged through the snow toward the cabin the aroma wafting from his “apology” made his stomach growl. Dobby stuffed his bag full of pumpkin pasties, carrot cake, four enormous mutton, lettuce, and tomato sandwiches on toasted pumpernickel bread, several bottles of Butterbeer and a few chocolate frogs for good measure.

Harry rapped on the door expecting the familiar cacophony that generally erupted inside. But the hut remained silent. He pushed the door open slowly and poked his head through the doorway. “Hagrid?”

Nothing.

Harry stepped inside and surveyed the hut. Everything seemed as orderly as it could be for a half giant with only moderately honed housekeeping skills. He dropped the bag from his shoulder and placed it on the table. Feeling the gamekeeper was likely outside in the forest he stepped through the back door.

Should’ve owled ahead.

Did I ask you?

Just making an observation.

Harry walked around the back of the hut and took a few steps into the forest. He’d had his share of life (if not limb) threatening adventures in the Forbidden Forest and couldn’t honestly say he was afraid of what lay among the trees. But he wasn’t looking to put a forest hike on the top of his to-do list either. “Hagrid?” he shouted, hearing his voice reverberate among the trees. Some birds took flight from their perch a few hundred feet into the forest and Harry strained his eyes for any sign of movement.

“No need ter shout ‘arry,” Hagrid responded in his ear-sending Harry’s heart into his throat and his wand swiftly to his hand.

“Hagrid! Don’t sneak up on people like that!” Harry snapped, trying to catch his breath as he stuffed his wand back into his robes. Seeming to enjoy a bit of payback, Hagrid’s entire body quaked with laughter.

“Sneak up on ya? Ain’t never had noone accuse me of bein’ steath ’arry,” Hagrid replied. “So what brings ya down here?”

“I brought lunch. I thought we could catch up.”

“Oh! Tha’s perfect ‘arry! Take this, and this,” he said, stuffing Harry’s arms full of equipment. “I could use some help. We can eat when we get back.”

“Get back?” Harry asked timidly. He shifted the load in his arms as he suddenly lost his appetite. “Where are we going?”

“Ter the forest o’course,” Hagrid began stomping off along the trail leaving Harry to catch up.

“Hagrid,” Harry said, breathless from keeping up with a half-giant’s stride while carrying a variety of lopsided and heavy instruments. “What is all this stuff?”

“Tha’s just some stuff I’m usin’ to build a cave.”

Harry was sure he hadn’t heard him correctly. “A what?”

“A cave. It’s just up here a bit more,” Hagrid said, pointing in front of him to a particularly dark grove in the forest. Harry didn’t bother to ask any more questions as they trudged toward the darkness. He’d been in this situation before and learned that Hagrid’s perception of ‘a bit more’ and Harry’s usually differed by at least fifteen minutes.

The trail, or what there was of it, grew dark enough that Harry stumbled over a few tree roots and felled branches here and there. If he had the ability to hold one more thing, he’d light his wand to show the path. As it was, his arms were already burning from the things he’d been carrying.

Needless to say, Harry was a bit put off. He’d come for a quiet lunch with Hagrid and ended up being a pack mule for an unwanted trek to the depths of the Forbidden Forest. The least Hagrid could’ve done was carry some of this for him. Although it wasn’t lost on Harry that Hagrid’s crossbow was at the ready nearly ten minutes ago.

That didn’t make him feel better.

“Alrigh’ ‘arry,” Hagrid whispered, coming to a stop before him. He pointed to a structure of mounded earth and trees that stood shrouded in the darkness of the forest. “Put that stuff down and get yer wand out just ter be safe.”

A chill shuddered through every cell in Harry’s body. If Hagrid was interested in safety he was sure that cave harbored a hideous beast as yet unknown to Harry. He put his things down quickly and pulled his wand from his robes, peering around Hagrid’s side toward the black opening.

“Just got ter make sure he’s not home,” Hagrid said walking toward the cave. Harry was faced with a terrible case of indecision. He could either follow Hagrid – and by follow he meant attach-himself-to-Hagrid’s-moleskin-topcoat – or he could stay rooted to the spot, away from the cave, and without protection. His feet made the decision for him. He followed at Hagrid’s heels – eyes wide and staring into the inky blackness of the cave, praying to see no movement whatsoever.

“Nah, must be out huntin’,” Hagrid said decisively. Harry felt some measure of relief wash over him and stepped back a few feet. He looked at the meticulously crafted ‘cave’ and back to the equipment on the ground.

“Did you build that?”

Hagrid turned, a proud smile on his face, “O’course I did! Poor feller had ter have someplace ter live.”

Quickly running through the list of magical creatures he was intimately acquainted with, he couldn’t place one that lived in a cave. “What lives in there?”

“It’s called a Gelidus Bear.”

“What’s a Gelidus Bear?” Harry asked, scanning their surroundings for a clawed and fanged mound of fur bent on removing intruders from his home.

“Not ter worry ‘arry. He’s the friendliest one I’ve ever seen, hardly ever takes a swipe at me.”

Harry wasn’t feeling reassured. After all, Hagrid’s lifelong dream was to raise a dragon in his backyard. His idea of ‘friendly’ diverged considerably from the standard definition. He wearily followed Hagrid back to the forgotten pile of tools, secretly wishing for a spell to enable night vision and a set of eyes in the back of his head, and set out to help him in his endeavor. When they finished, what seemed like hours later, Harry was famished.

“I should probably apologize,” Harry said quietly as they walked through the forest, this time equally sharing the load between them.

“What fer?” Hagrid asked.

Harry looked at him incredulously. This had been his first visit to Hagrid’s cabin in well over a year. “You’re not mad that I haven’t come by?”

Hagrid laughed and shouldered his crossbow. “Blimey ‘arry! You think not coming ter see me is gonna make me mad? Yer growin’ up you are. I didn’t expect ter see much of you the older you got. Especially when you got other…things…on yer mind. I’m not talking about You-Know-Who either,” Hagrid clarified wiggling his massive eyebrows mischievously. Harry stifled a laugh as Hagrid’s gesture bore a striking resemblance to a muskrat on a trampoline.

Nonetheless, Harry felt a weight lift from his shoulders almost immediately. He hadn’t realized how worried he’d become over this. Hagrid was the first magical person he’d ever met. He was the one through most of his early years that he confided in and called on for support. During the ‘Umbridge Era,’ the defense of Hagrid’s teaching position took up a great deal of Harry’s time and yet last year, he’d not given him a sidelong glance.

They exchanged smiles and launched into animated conversation regarding the events of the past thirteen months. Given their lively conversation, the trail out of the forest seemed much shorter than the one leading in. But then again, leaving the forest always made Harry happier than entering it. Such complacency might’ve been their first mistake.

“So anyway, I just decided that it was all too much and resigned as Quidditch captain. They voted Ron in unanimously and he’s doing a spectacular job! He’s really doing a much better job than I…” Hagrid stopped, cutting Harry’s conversation off at the knees. He knew that look, and it didn’t help that his crossbow found its way from his shoulder to his hands before Harry could blink.

“Shhhh,” Hagrid whispered, turning circles in place and staring suspiciously into the woods. Harry wasted no time pulling his wand from his robes and searched the trees for signs of any number of threatening creatures. It didn’t take him long to find one.

He felt, more than saw, the pair of eyes fixed on them from the shadows of a distant grove. A cold shudder settled into his stomach and radiated through his extremities. Two glints of dim light reflected in the creature’s eyes and were obscured rhythmically by the puffs of warm air issuing from its snout. “Hagrid,” Harry whispered, never removing his eyes from the predator and nudging Hagrid in the waist. He spun, staring in the direction of Harry’s gaze, and stepped in front of him, crossbow drawn.

“It’s him,” Hagrid said quietly.

“Who?”

“Come look, I don’t believe I’ve shown ya’ a Gelidus Bear before.” Hagrid was still whispering but he was clearly excited to see yet another of the forest’s magical creatures. Harry peered around Hagrid’s massive frame and looked to where he’d first locked eyes with it.

“You said he’s friendly…right?” Harry asked, begging for any consolation from Hagrid, no matter how unbelievable.

“Well, he can be a bit temper’mental a’ times,” Hagrid said softly. Harry snapped his eyes upward.

“Is this one of those times?” Harry demanded.

“Just back away slowly, bears-magical or not-will attack if ya’ run,” Hagrid directed. Without questioning further, Harry began to take a few steps backward. He scrambled a bit faster as Hagrid’s massive feet began stepping back toward him as well.

Time stood still as he heard an inhuman growl that shook the very earth under his feet. In one motion, Hagrid spun and threw Harry to the ground, ordering him to ‘play dead,’ and ran in the opposite direction. Fully expecting the bear to follow Hagrid, Harry looked up to survey the situation. What he saw sent a paralyzing fear shooting through him.

The bear was bounding toward him undeterred. It’s gruff black fur dancing in the breeze as it lobbed along haphazardly, but at a considerable speed. The sheer length of stride, encouraged by his seven-foot frame, was enough to cover a significant distance on its own. Snapping himself to the reality hurtling toward him, Harry scrambled to pull him wand from under him.

He fired a stunning spell directly at the bear’s chest. Nothing. Quickly remembering advice from the Tri-wizard tournament, he aimed a conjunctivitis curse at his gleaming eyes. No effect. The bear continued bounding forward. Harry used one defensive spell after the other with the same insignificant results. In seconds, his ability to react was entirely usurped as the bear descended on him with bone-crushing force. In the back of his mind, Harry couldn’t help but wonder if Hagrid had run so far, in hopes of drawing the bear off, that he didn’t see Harry’s predicament.

Remembering Hagrid’s last directive, he curled into a ball and covered his head with his arms. Arms that were burning with pain as the bear’s claws slashed him, attempting to roll him to his back. The bear’s massive paw connected with his side and while he knew he let out an audible groan, he was sure the scream he heard did not come from his own lungs.

Suddenly, the bear rolled off of him, leaving his body bleeding and pressed into the leaf-strewn earth. He looked up to see it quickly hobbling away in retreat. Although his glasses had been crushed, and his vision was blurry, he counted at least seven arrows from Hagrid’s crossbow piercing the thick black fur.

“’arry!” Hagrid shouted, dropping to the ground next to him. “Alrigh’ ‘arry?” He pulled cloth from the inside of his topcoat and began wrapping Harry’s forearm. He rolled gently onto his back, wincing from the pain that shot through his side. He took a quick mental inventory.

All my limbs are attached.

That’s good.

My arms are a bit cut up from the claws.

I can live with that.

Ouch!

Those would be broken ribs.

Harry groaned as Hagrid tied the bandages around his arms. “Can ya’ stand up?” Hagrid asked quietly, still looking around to ensure the bear had left for good.

Harry picked his head up to pull himself from the ground and the shooting pain from his ribs quickly encouraged him to lie back down. “No,” he gasped, gingerly clutching his side.

“Alrigh,’” Hagrid said, shouldering his crossbow. “There’s no way ter do this withou’ hurtin’ ya. Take a deep breath.” Harry did as instructed, preparing for the inevitable. Hagrid bent over and slid his massive hands under Harry’s shoulders and legs. Harry couldn’t hold back the yelp that escaped his lungs when Hagrid lifted him from the ground. Although his masculine ego was not inclined to be carried out of the forest, the realist in him knew that the trek would be far more comfortable this way. Hence, he didn’t argue. He merely laid his head against the imposing breadth of Hagrid’s chest and silently practiced his relaxation techniques in a vain attempt to push the pain from his mind.

Although he never removed the pain from his consciousness the relaxation techniques did make the trip go by quickly. He was drawn from his thoughts by the resonating sound of the hospital wing’s oak doors slamming closed against the frame.

“Harry!” Hermione’s voice called from across the room. Her footsteps drew near as she pulled Hagrid’s arm down to her eye level.

“Oh, dear! Mr. Potter, whatever did you do now?” Madam Pomfrey chided as she pulled the makeshift bandages from his arm. She scowled at Hagrid. “Hagrid! Have you been taking students into the forest without permission?” she roared. “These lacerations look to be from a bear!”

Hagrid said nothing.

“Rebeus? If there is a bear in the Forbidden Forest you must tell the Headmaster about it!” she argued.

“Dumbledore? Blimey, it’s just a bear Poppy!” he retorted.

“And look what it did to Harry! Honestly, Hagrid! When are you going to understand these are children! Bears are not very common in this area and are some of the only animals likely to come out of the forest after students. You must tell Albus, and if you don’t I will!” Hagrid looked crushed at the mere suggestion. In retrospect, Harry hadn’t seen that look since Norbert was sent to Romania.

Hagrid laid Harry on the nearest bed and averted his massive eyes from the fuming mediwitch. He gingerly placed Harry’s smashed glassed on the bedside table and stepped back silently. Madam Pomfrey stormed off to her office, ranting about irresponsible gamekeepers and the possibility of renaming the hospital wing for Harry Potter. As she crouched next to the bed, Hagrid wasn’t getting a warm reception from Hermione either.

“Well, I’m sorry abou’ all this ‘arry,” he said rather sheepishly. “Hermione.” He inclined his head in her direction. Reacting to the seething glare she shot his direction, Hagrid continued, “Maybe she’s right,” he said quietly.

“I’m okay Hagrid,” Harry said with a weak smile. “Madam Pomfrey will have me fixed up in time for the feast.” Hagrid nodded his head in quiet assent and took the opportunity to escape the castle in Madam Pomfrey’s absence. Harry watched him trail out of sight and turned his head toward Hermione.

“Harry, you’re a mess. A bear? What in the world happened?” she asked as she plucked a leaf from his unruly hair. “I was worried to death! I came back from class and no one knew where you’d gone and you’d been gone for hours!”

He reached for the hand she willingly thrust into his and smiled. “Is your first instinct to visit Madam Pomfrey when I’m missing?” He chuckled softly.

“It should be. Honestly, Harry! Would it kill you to leave a note?” With her free hand, she pulled the wand from her robes and pointed it toward the remnants of his glasses.

“Oculus reparo!” she huffed as his glasses flew back together.

She handed them to Harry with pursed lips and a decisive glare. “Thanks,” he replied tentatively. “Hermione, what’s the matter?”

Apparently realizing her posture, she relaxed a bit as a huff of air escaped her. “Harry I came to Madam Pomfrey because I could feel your fear, but I had no way to know where you were or what was happening.” Her voice began to waver. “Given what Dumbledore told us a few weeks ago, I just…I couldn’t… I didn’t,” she stammered. Harry released his hand from hers and curled it around the back of her neck, pulling her forehead to his own as he propped himself up in the bed.

“It’s alright. It was nothing. It was just another of Hagrid’s favorite friends of the forest. I’m fine.”

“Ahem,” Madam Pomfrey cleared her throat audibly as she stood by, tapping her foot, holding two bottles of potion. Harry and Hermione broke apart slowly and he turned to face the disgruntled nurse.

“Wow. You are angry with me. If I didn’t know better that noise sounded like one Professor Um…”

“Harry Potter you will not speak that vile woman’s name in my infirmary!” While he knew he’d pay for his reference from Madam Pomfrey, the giggle Hermione stifled in her throat was exactly the reaction he was willing to sacrifice himself for.

“Sorry, Madam Pomfrey,” he said quietly while throwing Hermione his most charming grin.

He pocketed the vial of potion Madam Pomfrey instructed him to take that evening before turning in. A few spells later, Harry was leaving the hospital wing under his own power; his arm wrapped firmly around Hermione.

“You know, I hate to sound like Ron,” Harry began.

Hermione giggled. “Let’s go to the feast, I’m famished too!”

***

Given the activity that associated so many Halloween evenings in the past, nearly everyone in the Order was on assignment. As the permanent resident of Grimmauld Place, Remus’ charge was simple. He had to stay at headquarters as a contact to collect information and issue new orders if they became necessary. He couldn’t leave. He felt completely useless.

Remus paced the kitchen floor in front of the roaring fireplace. While the heat from the fire warmed his body, he felt ice running through his veins. He had practically no information. What he did know chilled him to the bone. He looked at the clock on the kitchen wall for the third time in the past five minutes.

“Poppy are you sure about this?” he asked Madam Pomfrey who had joined him twenty minutes earlier with the only information he had.

She looked up to him, the firelight glinting across her tearstained cheeks. “Yes,” she replied simply.

He looked at the clock again. “Where could she be?” He stopped pacing and looked back to Poppy. “You’re sure Snape said she wasn’t there?”

“Remus, he said there was nothing left when he arrived to relieve Kingsley. The muggle fire department was rounding the corner. He barely had time to…to bring Kingsley back,” she said, dissolving into tears again.

“Damn it! Then where is she?” Remus was quickly losing his temper. He had little information, and no idea where Tonks was, or who might have her. What was worse, he had no way of finding out.

You don’t understand Moony! I feel like a caged rat in here! I’m not the rat Remus – he is!

Remus flinched at the memory of a conversation with Sirius that took place in this very room. He always felt for Padfoot’s situation while he was restricted to Grimmauld Place, but he never really understood it until now.

A soft knock at the front door, pulled him from his thoughts and he looked between the front hallway and the fireplace. He didn’t want to leave the kitchen for a single moment, worried he’d miss a contact. The knock came again and Remus let out an exasperated sigh as he bolted to the front door.

He grasped the door knob and flung the door open, ready to admonish whoever had forgotten the password to enter without assistance. His breath caught in his throat at the sight that greeted him.

Tonks was half standing, half holding herself up with the porch railing and covered in blood. Her hair was disheveled and her robes were torn in several places. With great effort she raised her head toward his and met pleading eyes. “Remus,” she croaked softly as she took one step toward him and collapsed as he rushed to catch her.

“Dear Merlin, Tonks! What happened?” Remus adjusted her weight in his arms and slid his hand behind her knees. He carried her into the house, kicking the door closed behind him. He rushed her to the sitting room. She winced as he gingerly laid her on the sofa. Her eyes were fluttering as she fought to stay conscious. “Poppy! Poppy!” he shouted desperately.

“What is heaven’s name?” she gasped, flying from the kitchen.

“It’s Tonks! It’s bad! I don’t know what happened!” The words spilled out of his mouth before he had a chance to think clearly.

She spun back to the kitchen and quickly and grabbed the emergency supplies she’d come prepared with. “Oh, my. Remus, go in the kitchen and get some clean towels and water.” He sat, frozen in place, staring at Tonk’s blood streaked face. “Now!” Poppy barked.

Shaken from his paralysis, he leapt from the sofa and ran to the kitchen. He grabbed a few dry towels from the wash he’d been folding and filled a large bowl with water. He rushed back to the sitting room where Tonks lie motionless on the sofa.

He dropped to her side, water slopping out of the bowl and onto the floor. “Tonks? Tonks.” He dipped a towel into the water and began helplessly cleaning the blood from her forehead while Poppy laid one hand on her chest and muttered several incantations. “Nymph?” he voice was beginning to shake. “Please wake up, I have to know what happened to you.”

“Shhh,” Poppy hissed, never breaking her concentration. As she continued the spell work, Tonks’ eyebrows furrowed and her breath rasped in her chest. She turned her head toward them and fought to open her eyes.

“That’s it. Come on, that’s it, come back,” Remus encouraged. Her eyes blinked open and met his. He smiled weakly and asked the question that plagued him since Poppy Pomfrey arrived with Snape’s report, “What happened?”

She opened her mouth to speak, but her voice was nearly inaudible. Remus leaned over her, his ear mere centimeters from her lips and was crushed by her response. “I’m sorry, Remus.”

He snapped his head back and looked at her incredulously. “Sorry? You don’t have anything to be sorry about. Just tell me what happened, please.”

He leaned back over her. She didn’t have the energy to speak in complete sentences but the few words she whispered were enough to convey the point. Remus winced as she finished and sat back, eyes closed, face screwed up with the stern determination to keep his tears at bay. Poppy laid a calming hand on his shoulder and he looked up to where she stood.

“She’ll be alright Remus. If she’s up to it, you can move her to her bedroom where she’ll be more comfortable. She needs her rest, I’ll leave a few potions in the kitchen.” Poppy said quietly.

“You’re leaving?” Remus replied worriedly.

“She’ll be okay Remus. I have to go back to Hogwarts. Someone has to tell Hermione.”

***

“Well, all I’m saying is that it was bloody dangerous for him to take you in there!” Ron growled as he chased a boiled potato around his plate with his fork. “I mean honestly,” he said as he stabbed the potato. “Irate centaurs, giants, let’s not forget the spiders, and now a bear; I don’t think Hagrid will truly find happiness until one of us is eaten alive or beheaded by one of his cute and fuzzy magical creatures,” he finished sarcastically.

“Ron, I didn’t know you cared,” Harry teased.

“Care! Of course I care! How many other seekers do you think I have?” Ron bellowed. Harry fought back a chuckle and Hermione rolled her eyes disbelievingly.

“Honestly, Ron!” Hermione scoffed. “Harry is nearly killed by a Gelidus Bear and all you can think about is Quidditch.”

Not having remembered telling Hermione all the details, Harry’s interest was suddenly peaked. “How’d you know it was a Gelidus Bear?” Hermione raised an eyebrow and turned to Harry with a knowing stare. “Okay, silly question,” he conceded. That look could only mean she’d read it in a book.

Answering his question anyway, she said, “It’s the only magical bear that inhabits this part of the world.”

“So what’s so magical about it,” Ron asked. Hermione shifted in her seat and focused her attention on preparing her corn. Harry and Ron, noticing her obvious lack of response, exchanged a shocked smile. Ron, sensing blood in the water, leaned up on his elbows and continued, “Hermione? You do know the magical properties of the Gelidus Bear, don’t you?” She drew a breath and looked between the boys expectant stares.

“Well, Gelidus Bears are…they have…” she faltered.

“You have no idea, do you?” Ron said, barely containing the emotional victory dance he was about to break into.

“Well,” she said, averting her eyes. After a few interminably long seconds she finally appeared to give up. “Oh! Shut it, Ron,” she said defeatedly as she chucked a roll across the table! He and Harry both broke into laughter. While Ron punched his fists in the air declaring he’d finally stumped Hermione Granger, Harry leaned over and kissed her on the temple. She playfully elbowed him and said, “you too, you git.” That only served to make Harry laugh hard enough to clutch his tender ribs.

Harry looked over the table toward Ron and noticed his face fall from victorious laughter to a blank, and rather cold, stare. He was staring over the top of Harry’s head. Instinctively Harry turned around expecting the likes of Draco Malfoy.

It was Merc Thompson.

“Hi Merc,” Hermione greeted her still looking timidly between her friend and Ron. To Hermione’s relief, he wasn’t saying anything. She was relatively assured Ron was still smarting over the record number of goals Merc scored against him during the Ravenclaw Quidditch match.

“Hi Hermione, Harry…Ron.” The tone in her voice made it quite clear Ron’s seething glare had not escaped Merc’s attention. She held her eyes to his a moment longer than necessary and Ron, unflinching, settled into his chair.

“So, how are you?” Hermione asked, drawing Merc’s attention from the stare down.

“Fine, I’m sorry to intrude on your dinner. I had a question about the Potions assignment Professor Snape gave us yesterday.”

“Don’t be silly, you’re not intruding on anything,” Hermione admonished as she slid over and patter her hand along the smooth oak bench next to her. Hesitating slightly, she looked to Harry and Ron and joined them at the table.

“So you were talking about a bear?” Merc asked, tentatively taking a roll from an earthenware bowl. Ron’s face lit up.

“Hermione here was just conceding the fact she doesn’t know the magical characteristics of the Gelimus Bear.” He smiled broadly.

“I think you mean Gelidus Bear,” Merc corrected softly. Ron’s eyes caught fire as his face grew stern. Holding his glare for only a moment, Merc turned to Hermione. “Gelidus Bears are in a great book I found researching Centaurs, I’ll show it to you on Tuesday.”

“Great, another bookworm,” Ron scoffed as he helped himself to another slice of pork roast, still eyeing her over the platter.

Merc tilted her head and broke into a wry smile. “You know Weasley, your ears turn an adorable shade of red when you’re angry.” Harry nearly aspirated his pumpkin juice as Hermione nodded appreciatively.

Ron’s face quickly matched the hue of his ears. “You know, if you have a question about Snape’s assignment, you could always ask him,” Ron quipped as Merc’s smile slid from her face.

“While that would be the most logical course of action, most observant students might have recognized that Professor Snape, along with several other teachers, are not in attendance this evening, are they?” For the first time since she’d arrived, Ron looked away and glanced along the head table. Merc was right. Tonks, Snape, Madam Pomfrey, and Professor McGonagall were all absent.

Apparently deciding the query could wait, Merc rose from the table and addressed Hermione. “It’s not that important. I’ll ask you about it Tuesday.”

“Are you sure?” Hermione asked.

“Yes,” she replied flatly. “I’ll see you later.” She turned to leave the table as Hermione clearly prepared to admonish Ron for hurting her friend’s feelings with his trademark sensitivity. She soon decided it was unnecessary. As Merc began to walk toward her place at the Ravenclaw table she stopped and threw a spirited glance over her shoulder as her long dark hair flipped away from her face. “Have a nice evening, Red,” and with a sarcastic wink toward Ron she nearly skipped to her house table.

Harry stifled a laugh as the trio watched her retreat.

“I never would’ve saved that one from any bloody mountain troll, I’ll tell you that,” Ron’s voice seethed. Harry and Hermione broke into harmonious laughter that, in time, broke down Ron’s defenses. His scowl quickly fell victim to a defeated smile and accompanying chortle. His reaction only encouraged their release. It wasn’t long before half the Gryffindor table was staring at them in question.

As Hermione dabbed her eyes with her napkin, a soft voice issued quietly over her shoulder. “Hermione dear, I need to speak with you.” She turned to see the kind face of Madam Pomfrey.

Harry, still feeling his mirth, chuckled, “Madam Pomfrey, I promise I have gained no significant injuries in the last three hours.” Not that he considered a career in professional comedy, but he thought the comment at least warranted a smile. It didn’t come.

Rather, Madam Pomfrey looked to Harry and Ron and added, “I think you should come along as well.” Confused, Hermione looked between her newest teacher and her two best friends. Without further comment, they rose from the table and followed Madam Pomfrey out of the Great Hall.

***

“Do you think Dumbledore will engrave our names on his office door by the end of the year?” Ron suggested with a smile.

“Uncle Vernon once paid an exorbitant sum to get his name engraved on a brick in front of the British Lawn and Garden Association,” Harry offered.

“Maybe Dumbledore will scratch our names into his stone floor,” Ron replied thoughtfully.

“Do you two mind?” Hermione snapped. Her brow was furrowed, and the lively banter between Ron and Harry threatened the intent gaze she maintained on the flagstone floor. In truth, they were driving her crazy.

It was hardly uncommon for them to be oblivious to the greater picture, but it was clearly annoying that they didn’t realize what she did; something was wrong. What’s more, not only were they blissfully unaware of the situation, they had the audacity to joke while she was trying to find the solution. She fought to focus her efforts on the task at hand. Her eyes remained locked on the earthen tones of the floor although she was desperately trying to get a sense of what was bothering Madam Pomfrey.

“You’re right Hermione,” Ron conceded. “He’s far more likely to change his office password to ‘Potter.’” Ron laughed at his own joke as Hermione, interrupted again, growled in frustration and glared at him. Although she was angry, she didn’t miss the quizzical look, Ron shot over her head toward Harry. She turned with an equally threatening look to see Harry shrug his shoulders and attempt to conceal a mischievous grin.

Rolling her eyes, Hermione refocused her attention, this time on the back of Madam Pomfrey’s robes as they swept toward the Headmaster’s office. Her frustration mounted as she tried, with no success, to get a sense of Madam Pomfrey’s emotions. She practiced these techniques far more than anyone knew, including Harry and Ron. Generally speaking, Harry and Ron would probably be upset if they knew how often they were unwitting guinea pigs for Madam Pomfrey’s methods of emotional interpretation. That was the most frustrating part. Pomfrey taught her these techniques personally over the last few lessons and yet she suddenly could feel nothing from her at all. She visualized her notes, retracing every step of the process, attempting to find the mistake in her progression. She was utterly lost in her own thoughts; she barely noticed their ascent on the spiraling staircase.

Professor Dumbledore’s office door stood open and Madam Pomfrey escorted them into the room, standing aside at the door as they passed. Harry, Hermione, and Ron, walked to the same chintz chairs they occupied a few short weeks ago. At first glance, everything appeared eerily similar to their last visit. Dumbledore sat quietly behind his desk while Madam Pomfrey lowered herself gingerly onto the same chair where Remus Lupin had been. It was the first opportunity Hermione found to look upon Madam Pomfrey’s face. Her thoroughly blank expression, averted eyes, and the deafening silence clearly confirmed Hermione’s suspicions.

Something was terribly wrong.

Hermione’s eyes were intently fixed on Madam Pomfrey. She was vaguely aware that Ron and Harry were looking curiously between her and the two adults before them.

It’s about time they finally catch on!

“Ms. Granger.” Dumbledore’s warm voice drew her attention to the headmaster.

“What’s going on?” she said quickly. She slid to the edge of the chair, awaiting an answer as Dumbledore looked to Madam Pomfrey. Hermione’s eyes followed the Headmaster’s as Madam Pomfrey rose from the chair and glided to the desk before her.

“Hermione dear,” she began warmly.

“Just tell me what’s going on!” The words leapt from Hermione’s throat before she could temper them. With disbelieving eyes, Harry grasped Hermione’s arm softly. Madam Pomfrey did not flinch in the least. Rather, she stepped forward and knelt down in front of Hermione’s chair. “Please.” Her voice was shaking.

She felt Harry’s grasp tighten on her arm as his eyes registered the concern in her voice. “Ever since you taught me how to recognize the emotions coming from others, I’ve practiced it everyday. I know I’m doing it right, I just know I am. I know Ron would rather be climbing into his four-poster after the feast and Harry is completely confused as to why I’m acting this way.” She sensed Harry and Ron’s startled expression but continued without diverting her attention from her mentor. “But, you.” The tears that welled in her eyes began silently meandering down her cheeks. “I can’t feel anything from you. It’s like you’re no more human than this chair!”

“I assure you I am human, Hermione,” Madam Pomfrey said quietly. “I always knew you’d be a good student. I didn’t expect you to learn as quickly as you have. I must say it took a bit more concentration than I thought to shield myself from you. But, what I’ve done, I’ve done to protect you.”

“Protect me from what?” Hermione asked, her breath quickening. She saw Harry’s head snap to the Headmaster as his concern grew markedly. Madam Pomfrey gave a fleeting glace over her shoulder and met the unspoken assent of Albus Dumbledore.

She drew a deep breath and took both of Hermione’s hands in hers. Logically, Hermione knew it shouldn’t make her feel better; the gesture in itself did not bode well for the approaching conversation. Yet, she could not deny the physical change Pomfrey’s touch brought about. Hermione’s chest loosened and the tension in her muscles lifted, if only marginally.

Madam Pomfrey looked down at the hands she held in hers and began, “I wish there were some easier way to do this. But there is not, and I won’t insult your intelligence by trying to euphemize it.”

Oh, gods! This is worse than I thought. For as much as she tried, she couldn’t stop the sudden stinging in her eyes.

Madam Pomfrey screwed her face up in concentration, seeming to steel herself for the next sentence. “The Death Eaters staged another muggle attack this evening.” Her resolve audibly faltered as her voice shook for the first time since they’d seen her in the Great Hall. “I’m so sorry Hermione, but…”

“No,” Hermione interrupted, shaking her head furiously. She already knew the next thing Madam Pomfrey intended to say.

It’s not true. They owled this morning. They are making plans for the Christmas holidays. They want Harry to come with us to Belgium. I haven’t even asked him yet. I totally forgot. I haven’t even had time to write back.

“Hermione,” Madam Pomfrey pleaded. Squeezing her eyes shut Hermione continued to shake her head defiantly.

I’m an empath aren’t I? If something were wrong I would know! I would know if they were dead!

“It’s a mistake Madam Pomfrey,” Hermione said quietly. “I would know.”

“Hermione, dear, empathic ability is grounded in the same rules as all magic; distance and time matter. There’s no way you would know they were killed.”

As the words quietly escaped Madam Pomfrey’s throat, a deafening silence befell the office. Even the Fawkes warbling commentary ceased. Hermione was only vaguely aware that Harry’s grasp on her forearm now threatened to restrict the flow of blood to her hand. Excruciating moments passed, elongating themselves until it felt as though hours had drifted by. As the silence resounded in the office Hermione became acutely aware of a new emotion…one that threatened to consume her.

“No,” she said quietly shaking her head in angry defiance. Madam Pomfrey squeezed her hands tighter. “No!” she screamed, jerking her hands from their protective enclosure as if scalded by fire.

“Hermione, please let me help you,” Madam Pomfrey said pleadingly.

“No!” she repeated, leaping from her chair and sending it skidding across the office. Her eyes floated over the pained expressions of those before her as the truth became harder to ignore. But ignore it, she did.

“Why? Why would you say such a horrible thing? Is this some kind of sick joke?” she roared.

She continued to back away as Madam Pomfrey, shaking her head quietly, edged across the room. Hermione knew what her mentor was doing. She was intending to calm her as she did before. But, Hermione had no intention of remaining calm. Her blood was boiling in anger and she would be damned if someone was going to simply whisk it away without her permission.

“Stay away from me!” she screamed, stopping the mediwitch in her tracks.

She was coming unglued and she knew it. She felt the collective eyes of the room boring through her, yet no one said a word. Her eyes fell on Ron’s anguished expression then drifted to Harry. While his furrowed brow broadcast his concern for her, there was a fire behind his eyes she’d never seen. Madam Pomfrey stood idly by and Professor Dumbledore sat straight-backed in his chair.

“Hermione,” Madam Pomfrey’s voice quaked. “You know it’s true. You know it in your heart. Listen to your emotions. Listen to how you feel…not what you think.”

Hermione’s eyes flashed. The last thing she wanted was a lesson. She didn’t see this as some fleeting opportunity to expand her empathic education. She didn’t want knowledge and understanding, she wanted a time turner. She wanted to crawl into a hole and act like the last thirty minutes never happened.

She’s right. You can feel it from her and Dumbledore. They’re telling you the truth.

No! I won’t believe it. It’s not possible. They just owled me this morning!

Magical ability aside, Hermione was still human. Her breath rasped in her chest as she fought both Madam Pomfrey and her own intuition. Her heart beat wildly and the muscles in her legs jumped and flinched involuntarily. She was succumbing to the primal “fight or flight” response. The former hadn’t worked and the latter was beginning to take over.

Hermione began stepping backwards unsteadily, vigorously shaking her head from side to side. All manner of verbal communication left her; she dissolved into repeating the same phrase as if trying to convince herself of its validity. “It’s not true, it’s not true, it’s not true.”

Before long she retreated as far as she could. Her progress impeded by the smooth stone wall of Dumbledore’s office, she pressed herself against the wall and refocused her attention on Madam Pomfrey. Although phrased as a statement, she renewed her question with pleading eyes. “It’s not true,” she choked.

With that, Madam Pomfrey’s demeanor shifted noticeably. Her shoulders sagged, her face fell, and her eyes held the undeniable truth that she finally allowed Hermione to feel, if only to convince her of its authenticity. Both her body and mind were overcome with the feeling of pure, unadulterated, anguish. It was a torment only a child who had lost their parents could understand. The truth was inescapable, Hermione was now an orphan.

“No!” Hermione yelled as she clasped her hands over her ears in a futile attempt to physically block what her emotions could not impede. As her body convulsed, her legs collapsed from under her. She was only marginally aware that she never hit the floor. Ron caught the lion’s share of her weight in his arms as he and Harry reached her simultaneously. Their arms encircled her protectively, but for as firmly as they were holding her, she desperately wished for more. She was coming apart in their arms with no plausible means of stopping herself. In the buried recesses of her mind, she knew she was losing it, and losing it in front of them. But she couldn’t stop. Her body seized with tremors as the sounds of her suffering replaced the grim silence that filled the office before. Her quaking shoulders collided with those of Ron and Harry’s. Aside from their row at the Burrow, she’d never seen them release their emotions in public. She felt their resolve collapse entirely as she dissolved into anguished screaming for a mother and father that could no longer hear her cry.

They weren’t the only ones fighting their own tears. Waves of sorrow wafted from Madam Pomfrey and Professor Dumbledore. As she looked up from the floor she saw Dumbledore’s head buried in his hands, his shoulders invisibly quaking. Madam Pomfrey’s agonized expression was as heartbreaking as the sobs issuing from her own throat. Suddenly, she walked to the trio and dropped to the floor in front of Hermione.

Hermione buried her head in the crossed arms of both Harry and Ron. She clutched Harry’s left arm with hers and knotted her right hand in the fabric of Ron’s robes. Every cell of her body was racked with uncontrollable sobs. The tighter Harry and Ron clutched her, the more her emotions soared out of control. Her head was spinning, her eyes were open yet dark shadowy fireworks exploded in her field of vision. With each passing moment she felt increasingly ill. Her stomach churned and her heart raced out of control. She felt Madam Pomfrey’s tentative hands extend toward her, finally resting on the sides of her head. The fireworks behind Hermione’s eyes quickly turned to lazy black clouds that enveloped her completely. She sensed her body calm as darkness swaddled her.

Hermione had never been so exhausted in her life. Although she recognized the fact she was conscious, she couldn’t muster the strength or will to open her eyes. It was only after she felt the gentle touch of someone’s palm on her forehead that she gathered the resolve to face the world. She wasn’t surprised with her bedside company. She knew it wasn’t Harry, she knew his touch. She opened her eyes fully and they fell upon the sympathetic smile of Madam Pomfrey. The events of the evening rushed back to her and she looked away, surveying the unfamiliar surroundings she found herself in.

The first thing that struck her was how unique the room was. She was lying comfortably in a massive four-poster bed, each post exquisitely carved with no detail left unattended. The room itself was octagonal and boasted a fireplace twice the size of that found in the Gryffindor common room. The walls held alcoves, built in mahogany bookcases, illuminated glass shelves, and colorful tapestries. As she gazed around the space, her eyes fell on the largest telescope she’d ever seen. Following the line of the telescope, Hermione looked up, past the towering stonewalls and the brass ladder that allowed access to the upper bookshelves. At first, she thought nothing of the ceiling. She simply believed it was enchanted similarly to that of the Great Hall. Her eyes fell upon silvery stratus clouds that wisped along the night sky. Fawkes floated gracefully through the ceiling and landed on a polished brass perch that sat between two large chairs in a raised sitting area. It was then she realized the ceiling was not at all similar to that of the Great Hall. As a matter of fact, there was no ceiling at all.

She clutched at the down comforter; feeling as though she should be freezing from the night air, yet the room was thoroughly warm and inviting. Though she could see the wind rustle through the treetops, she felt only a wisp of air from Fawkes’ wings. Even the few autumn leaves that swirled in the sky, threatening to impugn the spotless chamber, scurried along, repelled by some invisible enchantment.

“Remarkable isn’t it?” Madam Pomfrey said quietly as she too stared at the night sky exposed above them.

“Where am I?”

“This is Professor Dumbledore’s private chamber,” Madam Pomfrey said as she smiled inwardly. “Would you expect anything less?”

“I don’t remember reading about this in Hogwarts, A History.”

“Well, for as thorough as that book may be, the castle still maintains its share of secrets.” With a heavy heart, Hermione looked toward Madam Pomfrey, still gazing skyward.

“I’m sorry,” she offered quietly. Madam Pomfrey snapped her head toward Hermione, and incredulous look etched across her features.

“Good heavens! You have nothing to be sorry for!”

“My behavior…it was…”

“Perfectly reasonable for someone, anyone, who had been given similar news!” Madam Pomfrey interrupted. “I’ll not hear another word of that rubbish. You’re not the first to lose control in that office,” she said, inclining her head toward Hermione’s left hand, “and you won’t be the last.” Hermione glanced at the sparkling horntail seated on her left hand. The stone was the most brilliant blue she’d ever seen.

Hermione made a vain attempt to sit up, only to realize her muscles felt like cinder blocks. Madam Pomfrey gently placed her hand on Hermione’s shoulder to discourage further effort. Resignedly collapsing back to the fluffy pillow she asked, “What did you do to me?”

Pomfrey sighed audibly. “An empath’s ability can be very powerful; it can also be very dangerous. We’ve not progressed far in our lessons. You’re only just learning to recognize the emotions you’re bombarded with every day. You’ve not learned how to shield yourself from them yet.” She straightened her blankets needlessly. “It’s difficult to describe, but without shielding yourself, intense emotions can override your own physical well-being. Forgive me for using a muggle example, but I’m sure you understand the concept of an electrical short circuit.” Hermione nodded. “That’s the point your body had reached.”

“I know. My stomach was churning, my head was spinning, and I started to lose my vision.”

Madam Pomfrey nodded supportively. “Your body was overloaded and in an effort to protect itself was shutting down.”

“So then why…”

“I’ve learned it’s better to control that reaction than let it occur naturally. It allows me to dissipate your emotions afterward and promotes a healthier recovery,” she interrupted. Hermione looked skyward again, finding solace in the renewed snowfall. She drew a breath and asked another plaguing question.

“When you stopped shielding me,” she began. “I felt your sorrow for more than just my…my p…” she couldn’t say the word and gulped audibly. Madam Pomfrey looked away, seeming to know the question she was trying to ask. “Who else?”

Madam Pomfrey let out a heavy sigh and her brow furrowed with sadness. “Kingsley Shackelbolt,” she whispered. Hermione closed her eyes against the welling tears. “It’s not your fault Hermione,” she said quietly. “Nor is it Harry’s. The only people responsible for this are the dark wizards who chose to do it. Do not forget that.”

A quiet tear escaped Hermione’s eye, “He was trying to save them wasn’t he?”

“They both were.”

“Both?” Hermione’s heart dropped to her stomach.

“I’m afraid Tonks sustained some rather serious injuries as well,” she replied.

Hermione’s eyes widened and she opened her mouth to speak as Madam Pomfrey interrupted her. “She’ll be fine. Remus is with her now.” Hermione relaxed somewhat, still trying to process the events of the evening. “What about you?”

Hermione looked down and toyed with the golden threading along the blanket’s edge.

“What can I do for you, dear?” she inquired.

“I just want to go to sleep.” She looked around Dumbledore’s chambers, as exquisite as they were, it didn’t give her the sense of normalcy her heart was begging for. In response, she added, “In my own bed.” Nodding, Madam Pomfrey rose from her side and helped her to her feet. They walked slowly to the door and just as Madam Pomfrey reached for the handle, Hermione placed her hand over hers. “Thank you,” she said simply.

The mediwitch grimaced, “Just promise me you’ll not try to face this alone,” she implored as she opened the door. Hermione’s eyes fell on the two most familiar, and welcome, faces at Hogwarts.

“I don’t think that will be an issue,” she replied as Harry and Ron rushed to meet her. She fought back the tears as they both wrapped their arms around her. She let herself be nurtured for a moment before breaking contact to bid the others a good evening. When they stepped away, she met a new face. Professor McGonagall was sitting in a chair, donned in her dressing robe and slippers, her face dark with worry.

“Hermione,” she said as she rose from the chair to greet her. Hermione was rather surprised the rather stern teacher did not hesitate to embrace her. Feeling her sincerity and concern, she reciprocated without hesitation. When she stepped back from her, Professor McGonagall brushed a stray lock from Hermione’s face and rested her hands on her shoulders. “I thought you might like some privacy tonight. I arranged other accommodations for your roommates this evening.” Hermione thought to argue the point but was beaten to the punch.

“Professor, I don’t know that she should be alone tonight,” Harry said tentatively. Ron nodded in agreement.

“Harry, Ron,” Professor Dumbledore said quietly. “If you would like to escort Hermione back to Gryffindor Tower, you will find the charm protecting her dormitory has been temporarily rescinded.”

Harry took her left hand in hers, while Ron grasped her right. Too exhausted to argue she allowed them to walk her “home.”

***

All magic aside, the most unbelievable thing about Hogwarts was the celerity with which news traveled the castle. The more interesting the gossip, the faster it spread. It gave new interest to the phrase “if the walls could talk.” Sometimes it seemed that was exactly what they did.

Ron and Harry escorted Hermione back to the common room and realized immediately upon their arrival that the full count of Gryffindor students were already aware of the news. The common room fell grimly silent as they stepped through the portrait hole. It looked like a wax museum. No one moved, no one spoke, scarcely anyone breathed. They just looked at the trio, a variety of emotions etched on each face.

Ginny was the first to move, and move she did. After engaging in her own moment of memorial silence, she rose from the carpet in front of the fireplace and crossed the room toward Hermione. With outstretched arms, she was the first to pull her into a speechless embrace. Her gesture opened the floodgates and Hermione soon faced an impromptu receiving line. Harry and Ron remained at her side, unsure whether to shoo away the well-wishers or allow them time to grieve with her. In the end, they followed Hermione’s lead.

With a watchful eye they supervised the scene and paid close attention to any sign that Hermione might need a quick exit. She did not. Those in the common room greeted her quickly and quietly. Some girls whispered support in her ear, some cried, some hugged, some held her hand; most of the boys merely offered bewildered stares. The lone exception to that was Neville Longbottom. He pulled Hermione into a tight embrace and kissed her on the cheek as he let her go. Harry noticed his was the only exchange that brought Hermione to the brink of tears.

After the last Gryffindor extended their condolences, Harry and Ron ushered her to the girls’ dormitory staircase. Harry heard the questioning voices as the staircase allowed them to escort her to her room. Normally, Harry would’ve been intently interested in his new surroundings, but given the circumstances, he really didn’t care.

She opened the door to her room and the trio entered quietly. Ron closed the door behind him as Hermione sat down on her bed. She was the first to break the silence.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“Well, we’re not about to have you walk back alone,” Ron insisted.

Hermione shook her head. “That’s not what I mean.” She looked up at them both, tears welling in her eyes once more. It appeared more than Ron could take.

He crossed the room quickly, kissed her on the top of her head and whispered, “What are best friends for?” He hugged her briefly and said, “I really need to take a walk. I’ll be back in a while.” Harry nodded as Ron gave his shoulder a supportive squeeze and left the room.

***

Merc Thompson stared out of the window, tapping her quill on the parchment daydreaming. Something about the falling snow always mesmerized her. Large lazy flakes had fallen around Hogwarts intermittently all day. They floated past the window, dancing into one another as they swirled to the ground. Redirecting herself, she forced her eyes away from nature’s choreography and back to the charms book before her. Her eyes found the same paragraph she’d “read” a dozen times already. She made it only two sentences this time before her mind meandered off again.

She looked around the Ravenclaw Common Room at the scene that played relentlessly for the last seven years. If anyone had paid her enough attention, they likely would’ve reserved this table for her alone. It’s the only place she ever sat.

It was a small round table with barely enough seating for one. It was unobtrusive, occupying a little regarded nook in the corner of the common room. But, it served every function Merc desired. It was out of the way, by nature of its size it was impossible for procrastinating students to cozy up for some easy answers (she got enough of that in class), and it was located directly adjacent to a massive bookcase that climbed the wall toward the soaring ceiling. She had to admit, even though she’d not laid eyes on any other, she was especially attached to the Ravenclaw Common Room.

The room had always been inviting to her even if she felt those within it were not always as engaging. The floor was the same earthen toned flagged stone that covered most of Hogwarts castle. The focal point of the room was an expansive fireplace surrounded by an intricately carved mantle piece. Her favorite decorations sat atop the mantle piece. She’d spent many a quiet moment attempting the varied magical mind-benders that found their home above the fire. Some were wooden, some polished brass, others carved pewter, each with a different logical challenge and a hidden solution. The most interesting of them all was a simple wooden cube that appeared to have no magical powers at all. It was composed of nine separate cubes on each face, each face with the same carved rune. The object was to spin the sections in combination until returning all the runes to their appropriate spots on the cube.

The generally accepted rumor was that Professor Dumbledore placed it in the Ravenclaw House Common Room with a standing offer of 100 points to whoever could “solve the blasted thing.” At one point during her third year, Merc had resolved to not pass from the earth until she had proved the Wizard “Rubik” that his cube could be solved. She officially gave up the fight last year. Her surrender always made her think of Hermione. She smiled inwardly as she envisioned Hermione, eyes glazed over, wasting away with no food nor drink feverishly trying to find the cube’s solution. That was one of the differences between Merc and her only real “friend.” Merc could give in, give up, admit defeat and move on. She wasn’t sure those words were in Hermione’s vocabulary.

Her eyes continued to float around the common room. A large chocolate leather sofa and two overstuffed leather chairs faced the fireplace. A hand knotted Indian rug, its blue hues worn from years of abuse, lined the floor under the furniture. As usual, couples being thoroughly, if not sickeningly, sweet to each other occupied the best seats in the house. Several imposing mahogany tables spotted the room with glowing blue lamps atop each one. Each table was flanked with several straight-backed mahogany chairs upholstered in the same distressed leather as the other furnishings.

After seven years Merc understood the unspoken system well, even if she didn’t use it. Each table was dedicated to one subject or another. Ravenclaws would gather at whichever table they required assistance in. Study groups would form, disband, and reform throughout the evening as students worked on their assignments. She always felt the looks that floated toward her small table when the groups fell silent. Sooner or later, someone would draw the short straw and venture over to patronizingly sing her praises of “brilliance” before asking her to join them.

Never being able to say no, and certainly not when someone actually noticed her, Merc would willingly join the group to have the same result eventually befall her. She would explain the question as she knew and understood it and begin working with them to find the answer. Invariably, hours, if not minutes later, she would be left “working” with perhaps one or two students who still put up the appearance of studying with her. The rest would either leave of their own accord or spend the time distracting her attention with embellished stories between friends or love interests. However, they always ensured they would return to the task at hand as she finished the assignment. As a matter of habit, Merc entirely avoided the common room immediately proceeding or following Hogsmeade weekends. There was only so much teenage-boyfriend-you’ll-never-believe-how-sweet-he-was-at-Madam Puddifoot’s-angst she could take.

Her eyes rose to a first year student, precariously perched on another bookcase ladder. This was one secret she never told Hermione about. The Ravenclaw Common Room walls were lined, and stocked, with a collection rivaling that of the Hogwart’s main library. In truth, many of the titles were the same so there was not any real advantage to being sorted here. But it did explain the lack of some Ravenclaws in the library. They didn’t have to go, they had their own resources in the house tower. Merc went to the library faithfully, but did so only to spend time with her friend; the same friend that would collapse in fits of jealousy if she ever stepped foot in this room. The young girl on the ladder, although having learned quite a lot of magical theory thus far, was not too studied in the laws of physics.

If she stretches out any further for that book she’s going to make a lovely sound when she hits the floor….and then that group of anxiously awaiting boys over there will laugh at her.

Her last thought conjured entirely too many memories she’d like to store in a pensieve, if only to banish them from her recollection. She pulled out her wand and quietly muttered, “wingardium leviosa.” The book, only inches from the girl’s fingers moved into her palm as she grasped it tightly and moved between the safety of the ladder railing. She hesitated for a moment, looking between the book and her wand hand inquisitively. Having devised no answers, she appeared to chalk the occurrence up to another Hogwart’s mystery and descended the ladder, returning to several friends at the “transfiguration” study table.

Merc smiled warmly and returned her attention to the paragraph she’d now read a dozen and one times. It wasn’t long before she was interrupted.

“Merc,” a quiet voice drew her from her textbook.

“Oh! Hi Luna.” Merc smiled. She always liked Luna. Although there was practically no one inhabiting Merc’s list of “friends” she had several people she regarded as acquaintances and Luna Lovegood was one of them.

They were a bit similar in that they both seemed to be outcasts from the norm. Luna was a bit eccentric. She tended to bring her social issues on herself. But Merc thoroughly respected both her backbone and her indifference to the stares and whispered commentary. In truth, Merc wished to be a bit more like Luna. Although she would never admit it, the stares and whispered commentary surrounding her own behavior shook her to the core. She was acutely aware of everything said about her. She generally covered her insecurities with sarcasm and moved on with her life. She did it so well, everyone seemed to be under the impression she was Merlin’s gift to “confidence.” In a revolting twist of fate, the more confident Merc appeared, the more she seemed to intimidate others, thus entrenching her in the generally solitary life she’d led thus far. Her isolation only contributed to her ardent desire to appear as though it didn’t bother her in the least. Thus the cycle continued.

Luna pulled a chair over to Merc’s table and sat down, her face riddled with an expression that Merc could not ignore. “Luna, is everything alright?” she asked concernedly.

“I…well, I was in the library and some Gryffindor students came in a few moments ago.” She paused.

“It’s okay Luna, you can tell me. What’s the matter?” Merc asked, leaning up on her elbows.

Luna took a breath. “There’s been another muggle attack.”

“Death Eaters?” Merc inquired needlessly.

“Yes,” Luna replied. They looked away from each other and Merc’s fingers played with the small pumpkin ornament she had nicked from the Halloween feast.

“What awful news,” Merc sighed. Still, she wondered why Luna was acting so strangely. News of muggle attacks was not anything new. The Daily Prophet seemed to have new reports in nearly every issue. This news, while disheartening, was nothing shocking for Merc. Aside from a few of her distant relatives marrying muggles, there weren’t any in her family at all. She wondered if she was being heartless in that she wasn’t truly affected by what Luna told her.

“There’s more,” Luna added. Merc furrowed her eyebrows and looked toward her roommate curiously. “It’s all over the castle.”

“What?”

“The Death Eaters attacked Hermione Granger’s family. Her parents were killed.”

Merc felt as though a cannonball landed squarely in her chest. She couldn’t breathe. Luna reached across the table and grasped her hand warmly. “I know she’s a friend of yours, I thought you would want to know.” Merc nodded wordlessly as Luna gave her hand a supportive squeeze and rose from the table. She left quietly, leaving Merc to absorb the news.

If there was one thing Merc Thompson was not prone to, it was emotional outbursts. She didn’t cry in public, not even when her brother broke her arm playing Quidditch when she was seven. She didn’t fly off the handle, she didn’t scream, as a matter-of-fact she prided herself on being able to outwardly maintain her composure in nearly every situation. Her eyes were fixed, unseeingly, on the charm text in front of her as a thousand disjointed thoughts rolled flew through her head.

Regardless of what she was thinking, her feelings were clear. She needed to see Hermione.

What do you say to someone in this situation? Saying you’re “sorry” is patronizing. Saying “they’re in a better place,” is cheap.

She doubted she’d even get past Harry or Ron to have the opportunity to hug her. She could tell her “I’m here for you if you need anything,” but honestly, what would she need from her? Aside from Harry and Ron, she has a rather large support network in Gryffindor and the D.A. (which despite Hermione’s best efforts, Merc didn’t have the courage to join at the time); she wouldn’t “need” Merc for much of anything. But still, she wanted to do something, say something, if only to let her know that she was thinking of her.

As if finally seeing what she had been looking at, her eyes focused on the page open in front of her. She smiled inwardly and grabbed a few spare quills from her bag. She transfigured the three quills into exquisite white orchids and flipped through the pages until she happened upon the chapter regarding cheering charms. Her eyes scrolled down the page until she found the perfect charm. She pulled her wand from her robes and muttered, “amelior meror.” She studied the blooms and felt a smile break across her face. Encouraged that the spell was working properly, she slapped the book closed and left the common room.

It was late, and she shouldn’t have been roaming the halls but for once in her life, Merc didn’t think about breaking the rules. She wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight anyway, she at least wanted Hermione to have the flowers she’d enchanted for her.

As she walked the corridors, her thoughts focused on the friendship she shared with Hermione. They met by coincidence. They happened to sit at the same table during their first arithmancy class. Hermione, lost without the steady companionship of Harry and Ron, was searching for a friendly face to pair up with. Merc was searching for someone that was serious about studying and wouldn’t simply “borrow” her answers while planning her social life. Needless to say, she found a true “study partner” in Hermione Granger.

She was one of the hardest working witches she’d ever met. She worked much harder than Merc did. That was a truth that did not sit well with Hermione on more than one occasion.

Everyone has their own gifts. She is strong, knows what she wants and is not afraid to go get it. She works diligently and never gives up. She’s a loyal friend who thinks of others before herself, and everyone loves her for it. Me? Well, I’m just one of those people for which academics come easy.

Oh, get over yourself, you have more talent than that!

Okay, I can play Quidditch too.

Ugh! You are moderately attractive, you’ve got a great body thanks to Quidditch, you have more friends than you claim, and people do actually like you!

Right.

Never mind, I’m not talking to you anymore!

Thanks the gods for that! You never stop talking to me, I promise I’m going to give you your own name and claim you on my taxes!

She rounded the final corner leading toward Gryffindor Tower and drew to a stop. A student was sitting against the wall opposite the Gryffindor portrait hole, knees against his chest and head buried in his crossed arms. The flaming red hair was as telling as a neon flashing nametag. It was Ron Weasley.

She looked at the orchids clutched in her hand and gathered the courage to approach him. “Ron?” she said quietly. He raised his head and looked up toward her.

“What do you want?”

“I wondered if I could see Hermione,” the mere sentence sounded overtly intrusive. Ron’s face darkened.

“I don’t think she’s really up to receiving visitors right now,” he said sarcastically.

Merc masked her wince and chastised herself for not asking this question first. “How is she?”

“How do you think she is?” Ron snapped.

Merc realized the idiocy of the question and fought to find the appropriate words. “How are you?”

“What do you care?” he dropped his head back onto his arms.

Stay calm, stay calm. He’s been through a lot as well, he’s probably not even aware of what he’s saying.

Oh, please. How many times has Hermione vented about his insensitivity and their signature arguments? He knows what he’s saying. He also can’t stand you.

“Listen Ron, I know this must have a profound effect on you as well. I would just like to see Hermione. She’s my friend. Please? I need to see her.”

“She’s got enough friends. She doesn’t need you. You’re just a bloody study partner anyway!”

Merc closed her eyes and attempted to maintain her composure. “I am her friend, Ron.”

“Sure you are! That would be why her best friends have heard so much about you! If you were any kind of friend to her, you think Harry and I would’ve known your name before this year! Trust me when I say she doesn’t need you at all.” Ron fumed.

“How do you know what she needs?” Merc was losing her own battle with self-composure.

“Because I’m her best friend!”

“Are you really?” she crossed her arms resolutely across her chest.

“What does that mean?”

“It means, if you were any kind of friend you’d know she needs every bit of support she can get right now, whether it meets your approval or not!”

Ron’s face flushed red and he rose from his place on the floor. For all the conversations Hermione had about Ron when he was angry, Merc felt like she was getting to see his fury first hand.

“Who do you think you are? I’ve been at this school for seven years and don’t think I’ve ever noticed you once! You’ve got a weird name, an arrogant personality, and the only redeeming quality I’ve found thus far is your ability to play Quidditch which probably explains why I doubt you’ve ever had a boyfriend. The only thing I can figure is that you’re insufferably brilliant and that’s the only reason why Hermione wants to study with you to begin with!”

See, I told you.

Oh, please! Think logically for a minute! He’s been through a lot this evening too, and you are an available release…don’t take it personally!

Merc drew every ounce of energy within her to maintain the steadiness of her voice. This was no time to crack and let the enemy see your weakness. The same invisible shield she’d raised before her so many times before detached her from the harsh reality that a near stranger just hit upon every insecurity she had. She drew a breath and let her defense mechanisms do the talking for her. As usual, her voice became low and quiet. The coldness of her tone chilled the very air around them.

“I would appreciate if you would pass these along to Hermione for me, that is if you are done impressing yourself with the mere ability to string together more than three sentences without gasping for a breath.” She handed Ron the orchids and relished in his dumbfounded expression. The only thing that made her feel better in these situations was a well-placed comment that directly preceded her smooth exit. It was no different this time.

At least you got the last word.

I always get the last word.

You don’t actually believe him! He’s hurting right now. He feels completely useless to help her and you are an easy target!

It doesn’t change the fact he’s right! I don’t have any friends; I certainly don’t have any boyfriends! You know half of Ravenclaw thinks I bat for the other team. Maybe I have put too much stock in my friendship with Hermione. After all, he’s right, maybe I don’t mean much to her if she’s never mentioned me.

Will you please engage your brain for a moment? Of course she’s never mentioned you! Or have you forgotten the number of times Hermione has been completely frustrated with them both for procrastinating their studies. The last person they would be interested in hearing about is someone Hermione studies with!

Merc didn’t even hear her own voice mutter the password to her Common Room. She walked through the portrait hole to see the world exactly as it had been when she left; couples snogging on the couch, a lively game of Exploding Snap in the far corner, various students engaged in homework at the house tables.

She walked as casually as she could to the table where her things lie abandoned. She had been in this place before. She knew what was coming and she knew exactly how long she had before her inner strength collapsed. With a shaking hand she collected her things and made for the dormitory staircase. Luckily, Halloween was an occasion that managed to keep her roommates awake longer than normal. As a result, her dormitory quarters were deserted.

She quietly closed the door behind her and raised her right hand to her face in the futile attempt to cover the pained expression that darkened her features. Her effort was as successful as ever. She walked on unsteady legs to her bed and dropped her books to the floor beside it as she collapsed into her pillow. She had just enough time to cocoon herself from the outside world by means of her midnight blue bed hangings before curling up her knees to her chest and crying herself to sleep.

***

Harry watched the snowflakes fall gracefully by the window as the waxing moon illuminated the sparkling white blanket enveloping the grounds. It never ceased to amaze him how much life could change in the span of a few short hours. In some ways it seemed only minutes ago that they gorged themselves on the Halloween feast, blissfully unaware of the events of the night. In other ways, that memory was a lifetime ago.

As he stared out of the window, he couldn’t help but think of his parents. Well, more to the point, he couldn’t help but think of the “concept” of his parents. He had spent a lifetime never knowing them. The only memories he owned were memories of others, or events he fictionalized from the photos he’d spent years studying. Sometimes he wondered if it wasn’t easier that way.

Guilt, familiar as an old friend, descended upon him as he unsuccessfully tried to block the thought that he was lucky his parents died so young. He never had the chance to know them. He never had the chance to love them, and hence never had the chance to truly “miss” them. How can you miss what you never remembered to begin with? He never had to deal with the logistical aspects of their death. He never organized funeral arrangements. He never dispensed with a last will and testament. He never had to look upon a devastated home and watch the burning embers slowly discolor his memory.

Hermione was not so lucky.

The soft click of the bedroom door hailed her return and Harry turned to see her walking quietly into the room. She had elected to take a hot shower and get ready for bed while Harry waited.

“Hi,” he said quietly.

She laid a fluffy white towel across the end of her bed and looked up. “Hi,” she replied simply. This was the first time they had been alone together since Madam Pomfrey broke the devastating news only a few short hours ago. Harry, never having been the best with words, crossed the room in three steps and wrapped his arms around her. She leaned into his chest, clutching the back of his shirt, and said nothing. Neither did he. In truth, he still didn’t know what to say.

“Thank you,” she repeated her sentiment from earlier.

“Anything for you,” he whispered, kissing her on the cheek. He drew her in, feeling if he could just hold her tighter, he could somehow protect her from the pain. But, he was smart enough to know the pain came from the inside, and nothing he could do would help assuage it. The best he could hope for was her consent to let him stay the night. He felt relatively assured he wouldn’t rest a bit, but couldn’t bear the thought of her being alone.

“Harry,” she said quietly. He drew back to look at her properly. “Would you mind staying here tonight?” she asked timidly.

Greatly relieved that he wouldn’t have to fight that battle, he replied, “Wild hippogriffs couldn’t drag me away.” It was the first time since the Great Hall that he’d seen her smile. He bent down with the intention of kissing her properly when she threw her hand over her mouth in a vain attempt to conceal a broad yawn. Harry chuckled softly. “Am I that exciting?”

Hermione rolled her eyes and playfully swatted his chest. Seeing the exhaustion stamped across every feature of her face, Harry gathered the courage to make a final suggestion. “Hermione,” he began timidly. He pulled back from her and reached into his pocket for the vial of potion Madam Pomfrey had given him before leaving the hospital wing. He saw her eyes narrow skeptically and preempted her. “It’s a potion for dreamless sleep. Trust me when I say it will help.”

Hermione’s mouth bobbed open and closed. Harry was convinced she was attempting to string together a viable rebuttal. Before she had the chance, he continued, “Please, Hermione. For me?” With that her shoulders slumped and she flopped onto her four-poster bed.

“Alright, for you,” she replied defeatedly.

She climbed under the covers as Harry poured the potion into a small goblet on her table. He sat down on the edge of the bed next to her and handed her the glass. She clasped it in her hand and swirled the potion around, watching miniature cyclones form and dissolve in the goblet. After studying the cerulean hues for a moment, she raised her eyes to his and whispered, “You’ll stay, right?”

Harry chose not to respond verbally. He’d already done that once. He thought to do the one thing for her he’d wished someone had been able to do for him after Cedric’s death. He stood up and walked around her bed, climbing onto the four-poster behind her. He felt it best to stay on top of the covers, now was not the time for her to question his intentions, and pulled her toward him until her back rested along his chest. Propping himself on his elbow he waited for her to drink the potion. With one fleeting look in his eyes, she did so. Harry took the goblet from her hand and reached across her, replacing it on her bedside table. He wrapped his arm around her stomach as felt her body relax against his. With one final kiss to her temple, her eyes fluttered closed and her breathing became slow and steady.

“I love you,” he whispered quietly. He only hoped she’d heard him before surrendering to the sleep she so desperately needed. He flopped his head back on the pillow and stared at the ceiling above him, trying to process the events of the day. He wasn’t sure how long he stayed there, nearly catatonic, listening to Hermione’s breathing as she lay resolutely in place. But it was some time later when he realized his entire right side had fallen asleep.

He swung his legs over the side of her bed and quickly regretted doing so. His right leg broke into sharp tingling as the blood coursed back to his foot. He limped around the room, grimacing, trying to walk off the sensation. He eventually settled into a chair by the window and looked back toward the bed where Hermione lie sleeping.

The moonlight streamed through the window and fell gently across her bed. The pain and exhaustion had left her face. The blankets over her rose and fell rhythmically with her soothing respiration. Her hair spilled across the pillows, the honey blond highlights of her hair reflecting golden in the moonlight. He’d looked at her for years, he’d studied her intently for the last several months, but there were times – like these – that he couldn’t escape the simply beauty that lie before him everyday.

Hermione wasn’t stunningly gorgeous. She wasn’t plain and demure. She was “Hermione,” and he could never think of any other way to describe her than that. She was perfect, even with her imperfections. His eyes traveled along her body, buried beneath the covers, to her left hand. It was sticking out of the ruffled bed coverings just enough for Harry to see the enchanted ruby casting a brilliant blue hue.

Disjointed memories walked across his consciousness. He remembered the first time he’d seen the ring, and all the times thereafter when he would sneak clandestine glances into its velvet box. He remembered giving Hermione the ring last Christmas. He remembered Neville handing it to him after he realized Hermione was missing, the stone black as death. He fondly remembered his proposal, supremely impressed that he hadn’t come off looking like a Cro-Magnon with a poor grasp of the English language. He recognized the fact that Voldemort’s name was getting more spoken attention these days than the words “marriage” or “wedding” between he and Hermione. And, he also realized why that didn’t bother him.

“For better or for worse,” he whispered as he stared toward her. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he understood the difference between his head and his heart. His head claimed they weren’t married until they had a ceremony, a few spells, and a piece of paper signed between them. His heart told him otherwise. He couldn’t imagine his life with anyone else and frankly shuddered at the prospect of a life without Hermione. In his heart he was married already, he could care less how long the formalities took. He told her that when he proposed, somehow he felt he might need to reiterate the point at a more appropriate time.

Harry was drawn from his thoughts as the door opened slowly. Ron poked his head through and his eyes found Harry’s. Although the room was dim, Harry could tell something was troubling Ron.

“Alright, Ron?” he asked concernedly.

Ron merely nodded his head and walked into the room, quietly shutting the door behind him. He looked to the bed and bobbed his head in Hermione’s direction. “How is she?”

Sitting back in the chair, Harry answered, “I convinced her to take the sleeping draught Madam Pomfrey gave me before we left the hospital wing tonight.” Harry closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “That seems like an eternity ago, now.” Ron nodded wordlessly. “You’re rather quiet. Are you sure you’re okay?”

At first it seemed as though Ron was going to say something, but he appeared to catch the comment in his throat as he swallowed audibly. With a defeated look he dropped onto a vacant bed next to Harry’s chair and flopped onto his back. “Have you been thinking about it all night?” Ron asked quietly.

“Haven’t thought of scarcely anything else,” Harry replied flatly.

“What are we going to do?” Ron said, staring at the ceiling above him.

“I don’t know.”

Ron sat up, propping his elbows on his legs and burying his face in his hands. “Harry, for the first time in our lives, I’m not sure we can do this. And if we can’t, what does that mean?”

“You know what it means,” Harry replied, his eyes still fixed on Hermione.

Ron grimaced and squeezed his eyes shut. “I just keep thinking about what Dumbledore said. Gryffindor or not, it scares the bloody hell out of me.”

14. Mourning

AN;Reposted-I noticed this chapter wasn’t coming up at all-I hope reposting will help. As a matter of citation…There is a poem appearing in this chapter that I did not write. I actually took it from my HS yearbook – it was dedicated to a classmate who died in a car wreck. It is written by “anonymous.” It is not mine.

Chapter 14 - Mourning

Hermione stirred in the bed, a squeak escaping her throat as she turned over toward the warm sunlight. Her eyes fluttered open, only to be squeezed shut again to block out the morning light. For a moment she nearly forgot where she was. Her body felt like lead and every position she moved into seemed more comfortable than the last.

But, she hadn’t forgotten.

She lay in her bed, eyes closed, yet fully awake, mustering the courage to force herself to move. It would be so much easier to lie here all day and act like the last eighteen hours hadn’t happened. But, what would that accomplish? After all, there are studies to be had, classes to attend, meals to eat….and parents to bury.

She raised her hand to her forehead only to have it stop midway. She felt another hand grasp hers as her bed gave way to the weight of someone sitting beside her. She felt the soft touch of Harry’s lips to the back of her hand and her face broke into the slightest indication of a smile. She opened her eyes and met his.

His face wasn’t riddled with concern. He wasn’t fawning over her. He wasn’t racked with worry. He was smiling at her. Oddly enough, that seemed exactly what she needed. She had enough to worry about, enough to mourn. She didn’t want to feel the compulsion to hold her friends together, or the guilt of “ruining everyone’s day.” While she knew it was only the first step, she had enough of an emotional meltdown the night before, she didn’t want to be “poor Hermione” today…or any other day for that matter.

“Good morning,” he said softly, still holding her hand in his.

“G’morning,” she yawned broadly.

He stifled a chuckle. “Need I ask how you slept?”

She smiled. “About like that, I think,” she said, pointing to Ron’s body haphazardly thrown over Pavarti’s bed, snoring audibly.

“You are more right that you think.” Harry feigned a wince as Hermione slapped him on the shoulder. After regaining his composure, he pulled Hermione to a sitting position and silently wrapped his arms around her. She laid her head on his chest, arms loosely around his sides, listening to the rhythm of his respiration.

This was one of her favorite things about Harry and her relationship. It never felt forced. It never felt pressured or uncomfortable. They just “fit” together better than any two people she knew. She attributed most of that to the friendship they built long before their interest in each other changed. Harry played a lot of roles in her life. This was clearly his time to be a best friend. And, she loved him for it.

“Thank you,” her muffled voice reverberated against his chest. She felt his arms draw her tighter and his hand play in her hair. With a short kiss to her temple he let her go. She looked to Ron, taken aback by the dark circles still visible under his eyes. “Neither of you slept last night at all, did you?”

“Well, I’ve been trying to show Hedwig that I’m really sensitive to her needs, so I thought I’d try to be nocturnal just to prove my devotion,” Harry said playfully. “Ron had more issues with sleeping between pink sheets than anything else.” Hermione giggled softly.

“Well, he does look rather cold with no blankets to cover him,” she replied.

Harry looked at him curiously. “Yeah,” he said softly.

More feeling his unease than hearing it, Hermione looked between the two of them. “Harry, what’s the matter?”

He returned his eyes to hers. “I honestly don’t know. He came back last night after you’d gone to sleep. Something wasn’t right but he wouldn’t tell me what it was. Just shrugged it off and said he was worried about you.”

Hermione watched him sleep a moment more, her body finally forcing her to pay attention to its more basic needs. She pushed the warm blankets off her, shuddering from the chilled air. “I um…need to,” she stammered.

Cottoning on, Harry hopped from the bed, “Oh, yeah. Go ahead.” She smiled at him and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Pulling a towel from the hook behind her bed, she clutched it to her chest and padded to the door. She grabbed a pink gingham lined basket from a cubby by the door and left for the loo.

One thing Hermione did like about the girls’ dormitory was the bathroom. It was massive, yet comfortable. The toilets were cordoned off from the main dressing area. The dressing area boasted extensive stone countertops, several upholstered iron stools, and a vast expanse of warmly lit mirrors. Understanding the “pack” mentality of women and the loo, worn but comfortable, chairs and a small sofa sat in the center of the room beneath the rotunda ceiling. A spattering of popular beauty magazines littered the small tables between the seating. For as much as she loved appointments of this room, on mornings like these, she loved the lighting best.

Several sconces hung intermittently from the walls around the room. The roaring flames not only warmed the bathroom but gave a gentle amber light to the room that diminished how undoubtedly dreadful she must look. If she appreciated Hogwart’s for anything, it was for the castle’s sensitivity to what a girl looks like at the crack of dawn.

After seeing to her basic needs, Hermione settled herself onto her favorite crimson stool and rested her elbows on the stone counter. She whisked a few strands of hair away from her face and stared at her reflection in the mirror. She wasn’t sure what she was looking at, or even what she was thinking, but her eyes locked involuntarily on the familiar brown ones in the mirror.

So this is what an orphan looks like.

She squeezed her eyes shut as she tried to force the thought from her mind. After a moment, she sat upright in the stool and hastily pulled her hair back with a clip from her basket.

I’m not going to cry. I’m not going to cry.

For as much as she tried to force her heart to listen to her head, it wasn’t working. The tears welled in her eyes, blurring her vision as she continued to wrestle with her hair. She drew a deep breath, wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her dressing robe and looked back to her reflection. Her eyes fell across her bushy hair only moderately contained by the clip she’d pulled it back with, as her mind remembered a conversation she’d had during the summer between her third and fourth year.

Hermione, you don’t need to use that speak-easy potion…

It’s “Sleak-Easy” dad.

I don’t care what you call it; your hair is fine.

I should hardly expect a man to understand! Small birds could nest in this mop and I’d never be the wiser! I hate my hair!

Well, I love it. It reminds me of your mum.

With the echo of her father’s voice in her head, and the memory of the kiss he’d placed on her head as he left the room, Hermione dropped her brush to the counter and burst into tears. She sat on the stool, arms wrapped around her stomach sobbing until the tears had finally run out several minutes later. She looked back to her own tear-stained face fighting to regain some modicum of control.

You’ve got to pull yourself together.

Her mind understood the trauma she’d endured and reasoned away her response, but some distant part of her ego willfully scorned the fact she was unable to control her own emotions. If there was one thing Hermione Granger always prided herself on, it was her self-sufficiency. She could take care of herself. She could reason her way to the answers and she’d never given into feminine outbursts of emotion.

Almost never.

She dropped her forehead to her hands as her eyes filled with tears again. She couldn’t escape the truth and she knew it. For the first time in her life, she had no answers for anything. She didn’t even know where to start. She only knew one thing – she needed her mother, and it was the one thing she couldn’t have.

It still seemed utterly surreal. Part of her was convinced if she borrowed Hedwig she would return with a note on her mother’s linen stationary declaring she’d finally lost her mind. But, for as much as her heart believed that – her head knew better. She knew her parents died. What’s more, she knew Kingsley died and Tonks was injured trying to save them. She knew the root of the attack lie with Voldemort and his Death Eaters.

More than anything, she knew the last twenty-four hours irrevocably changed her life forever.

But, she had no idea how she felt about any of it. She didn’t know how to feel. She didn’t know what to do, or how to behave. She didn’t want to know. She wanted to act like it didn’t happen and move on with her life, but she knew that was impossible.

So, here she sat. Sitting before a reflection she didn’t recognize, suffocated by a sorrow she couldn’t seem to temper, the logical part of her mind impeded entirely by the emotional part of her heart.

“Hermione?” Ginny’s soft voice interrupted her musings. Hermione instinctively wiped the tears from her eyes, pulled a loose strand of hair behind her ear and, cleared her throat. She sat up straight and looked in the mirror to see Ginny approaching behind her. “Hi,” Ginny said quietly as she wrapped her arms around her from behind.

“Hi,” Hermione replied non-chalantly, but curling her hands over Ginny’s arms as they crossed along her chest.

“Harry asked me to check on you. He said you’d been gone for a while,” she answered, before Hermione could ask the question.

Hermione tilted her head to the side and leveled her eyes at Ginny’s reflection. “I’m fine,” she said flatly. “Really, I don’t need people gawking over me, I can take care of myself,” she replied with a forced smile to soften the words.

Ginny squeezed her tighter. “Everyone knows that Hermione. There isn’t a more capable witch in all of Hogwart’s than you.” Hermione relaxed her posture a bit. “But,” Ginny continued. “The point is – you shouldn’t have to take care of yourself right now. That’s our job.” Ginny smiled warmly and released Hermione’s shoulders. “I’ll tell him you’ll be along in a minute. Take your time.” With that, Ginny swept from the room and the door closed with a soft click.

Hermione guessed Ginny couldn’t have taken four steps along the corridor before Hermione dissolved into uncontrollable sobbing. If Ginny heard her through the door, she did her the courtesy of allowing her to regain her composure without an audience.

***

Remus balanced the tray on his left hand while his right fumbled with the doorknob. He pushed the door open and walked in quietly. Tonks was lying in the bed looking toward the window with a vacant expression. The sunlight streaming through the window brightened the room and Remus couldn’t help but smile. She was broken, she was bruised, but she was alive.

He cleared his throat quietly to announce his presence and she turned her face toward him. Although, still darkened from her experience, Remus couldn’t help but notice how much better she looked today than she had upon her return last night.

“I brought you something to eat. I thought you might be hungry,” he said holding the tray expectantly. She smiled at him warmly and pushed herself up on the pillows until she was sitting upright. Remus walked to her bedside and cautiously placed the tray on a nearby table. Settling down on the bed next to her, his fingers played with the delicate threading of her comforter. It wasn’t long before she stopped his progress.

“I imagine you came in here for more than my breakfast,” she said quietly.

“Yes,” he replied.

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d like a little time to put my report together.”

“Of course.” he said quickly. In truth, that wasn’t the real reason he’d come to see her either. He just didn’t know how to say it, or what she would think. He felt a bit like a fish out of water, but couldn’t fight the compulsion to stay. Luckily, she rescued him from his dilemma.

“Remus,” she began, her voice as timid as he’d ever heard it. He looked up to see her staring at him. His breath caught in his throat and all logical consideration flew from the room. She threw her arms around him as he reached for her. He grasped onto her with everything he had, a distant part of his consciousness screaming concern for her injuries. However, her response to him seemed to indicate she either wasn’t bothered by the strength of his embrace, or didn’t care. He didn’t think she could’ve held him any tighter if she tried.

“It’s okay. It’s okay,” he muttered, more to settle his own nerves than assuage any fears on her part. Her hands fisted themselves in his shirt as they rocked together gently.

“I thought I’d never see you again,” she said hoarsely.

“It’s okay,” he repeated.

“No. No it’s not,” she said determinedly as she pushed back to look at him properly. “Remus, we’ve been dancing around this for months. I’ve never had the courage to say what I’ve wanted. I’ve always been too afraid of what it might mean, what you might think. The moment I realized what I was up against, I realized what a mistake my silence had been.” Her voice faltered. “I realized that I might never get to tell you the things I’ve been too afraid to say.” Her mouth opened and closed as she searched for either the courage, or the words, to finish what Remus knew she wanted to say.

“Remmy,” Sirius’ voice echoed in his head. “What do you say to a little good humor for our dear friend Prongs?”

“I say if you mess up what’s about to happen between him and Evans, I’ll hex you myself.”

Remembering the sweet kiss James exchanged with Lily in front of the common room fire, Remus was suddenly aware that actions spoke louder than words. He slid his hand around the back of Tonks neck and pulled her head toward him, not hesitating to consider the consequences. He crushed his lips to hers and was met with an equally impassioned embrace. Her hands slid across his back and through his hair. He wrapped his free arm fully around her waist and pressed the length of her body to his, as the breakfast he brought for her remained untouched.

***

Hermione clutched Harry’s hand as she entered the Great Hall for breakfast. She had no real inclination to eat, but Harry would not hear of it. While she was slowly giving up the great House Elf quest for amnesty, she wasn’t yet ready to ask for room service. Resigned to the inevitable barrage of pitying eyes, she accepted Harry’s offer to meet Ron for breakfast.

She closed her eyes briefly, letting Harry unknowingly guide her along the length of the House table, as the room quieted upon her arrival. Eyes closed or not, she could feel the stares from every corner of the room. The charged emotions of, literally, hundreds of students suffocated her.

Eyes still closed, she sensed Harry’s head turn toward her as she gripped his hand tighter. She focused the lion’s share of her faltering energy on him and only him. This was one instance where being in love with Harry Potter was far more beneficial than being just his friend. Sadly, he was Hogwart’s expert in “putting on a brave face” in response to tragedy. He certainly had more practice than anyone else. Out of sheer habit, he seemed to be doing the same thing right now, and that was exactly what she needed.

She couldn’t, or wouldn’t, allow herself to be any less brave than he had been in the face of Cedric’s death - or Sirius’s. She opened her eyes and met his as they continued to walk toward Ron’s place at the table. Wordlessly, she assuaged his concerns and let him know she was okay…as long as she was with him.

“Hi,” Ron said as the settled onto the bench across from him. His eyes were fixed on Hermione.

“Hi,” she replied warmly and gave him the best smile could manage. She looked between Harry and Ron for a moment and added, “Thank you.” She looked at Ron specifically. “Both of you.”

“Anytime Hermione,” Ron said quietly.

“Ron,” Harry said inquisitively. “Are you sure you’re okay?” Hermione followed Harry’s eyes and was equally as perplexed by what she saw. Ron’s plate was half empty. In and of itself, that was nothing to be concerned over. But, this was different. It was clear that not only did Ron take very little breakfast; he also hadn’t touched any of the food he selected.

“I’m fine,” Ron mumbled as his spoon played in the rapidly chilling porridge.

Harry looked to Hermione questioningly. It was clear to her that this was what Harry referred to this morning. Ron wasn’t acting himself, and she was not about to believe it revolved entirely around her situation. Without giving it a second thought, she released Harry’s hand and closed her eyes.

She fought through the varied emotions around her and tried to focus on Ron. She had, unbeknownst to them, used both Harry and Ron several times to practice her empathy lessons. While she harbored a bit of guilt over the inescapable fact she was “prying,” and generally marked it up to the best interest of education and learning. However, this time was different.

Either Ron was highly emotional – which she wasn’t sure he was capable of, save their shouting matches – or she was improving her skills. His emotions erupted through her almost immediately. So much so, she drew a sharp breath as his feelings trounced her already raw emotions. The instinctive hand Harry threw to her leg essentially broke the contact she’d established, but she had what she needed. Something was wrong – and it had nothing to do with her.

“Ron,” she said pointedly. He looked up sharply, no doubt realizing what she’d done, and leveled his eyes to hers.

“Hermione,” he warned.

“I’m sorry Ron,” she interrupted. “I had to. Harry and I are worried about you and you won’t talk to us.”

Ron’s mouth bobbed open and closed. Hermione had seen that look before. He was fighting the urge to launch into a scathing attack. To his credit, he merely shook his head and returned to stirring his porridge with increasing vigor.

Hermione slumped her shoulders, feeling guiltier that Ron didn’t berate her, than if he’d done so. She knew he was only on his best behavior due to the circumstances. She looked between Ron and Harry and let out the first chuckle anyone had heard from her since dinner the night before.

“Look at us,” she scoffed, helping herself to some kippers and toast. ‘What we wouldn’t do for a cheering charm around this place.” She looked up to Ron, expecting some manner of smile, only to see him turn his attention to the inside pocket of his robes.

He pulled out three exquisite orchids and the faintest of smiles broke his features as he looked at them briefly. “We have one,” he said warmly. “These are for you.”

Hermione reached across the table incredulously.

Ronald Weasley thought to get me flowers? Orchids at that?

She examined the white petals, admiring how the strength of the blossom contradicted its fragile appearance. A smile crossed her features and her shoulders relaxed as her eyes lingered over the gift. Two questions were answered rather quickly. First, the flowers hadn’t been crushed in Ron’s pocket, so they must’ve been transfigured from something else and two; he had clearly used a cheering charm on them. She couldn’t stop smiling as she spun them in her hand.

“Thank you Ron,” she said brightly. “That’s the most thoughtful thing you’ve ever done for me.”

“Well.” Ron cleared his throat and took a sip of his pumpkin juice. “I’d like to take credit for…” he hesitated, his eyes obviously catching hold of something across the room, “…for it. But I’m just the messenger.” Hermione noticed Harry turn to look over his shoulder, clearly searching the room for what interrupted Ron’s thoughts.

“Messenger,” Hermione repeated. “Then, who are they from?”

Ron returned his gaze to attention to the condensation silently meandering down his glass and replied, “Merc Thompson.”

“Merc? But when did you…” she stopped suddenly. Cheering charms aside, her face darkened as she remembered their conversation from dinner last night and realized what his mood was likely related to. “Ron,” she began. “Tell me you were nothing short of the perfect gentleman when she brought these to you.”

Ron didn’t reply.

“Ron?” Hermione insisted.

“Not so much, no,” he replied dejectedly.

“Ron!” Hermione barked, causing the heads of several nearby students to spin in her direction. Harry grasped her leg tighter, encouraging her to calm down, but Hermione was not in the mood to be subtle. “Whatever did you say to her?” she demanded.

“I don’t…well, I just,” he stammered.

“Ronald Weasley you had best tell me what happened before I hear it from her!”

Ron sat back, pushing his plate away, and drew a deep breath. Apparently deciding it best to make a preemptive strike, he told them what happened the night before. By Ron’s standards, the story was incredibly detailed. He even gave a verbatim account of their final conversation. Hermione was under the distinct impression that the incident didn’t last as long as the story, but she was livid nonetheless.

“I absolutely cannot believe you!”

“Hermione,” Harry interjected.

“No! Don’t you try to save his arse on this one Harry Potter!” She turned back to Ron. “That is, without doubt, the most loathsome thing I think you couldn’t done or said to anyone, least of all to someone trying to do something thoughtful for me! Where do you get off disallowing her to see me? Since when have you ever known what I truly needed?”

“Hermione,” Harry said, this time physically turning her chin to his. “He obviously feels bad enough about this,” he reasoned.

“Bad enough?” she repeated, Looking incredulously toward Harry. “This from the keeper who loses his cool over a silly song, yet feels it is perfectly acceptable to berate, ridicule, and demean someone he doesn’t even know!” She cut her eyes back to Ron. His forehead was buried in his hands. “This was vile, Ron; even by your standards of engagement.” She turned back to Harry as she spun around on the bench. “No matter how bad he feels, I can absolutely guarantee it’s not the remotely close to what she’s feeling right now.” With that she nearly leapt from the bench and walked determinedly toward the Ravenclaw House table.

***

Ron pulled his cloak around him as he stepped out into the frigid air. He hesitated on the castle’s front steps, dreading the fast-approaching conversation. He watched his breath condense in the air, forming miniature clouds that quickly whisked away in the steady breeze.

This was unfamiliar territory for him. Although his feet had begun carrying him across the well-worn path to the Quidditch pitch, he wasn’t going to play Quidditch. He wasn’t going to spend hours in the team dressing room working out strategies on the board. In truth, that’s what he loved most about the Gryffindor captaincy. Devising Quidditch strategy was somewhat akin to chess, and he surprised even himself with his own creativity. But this was not strategy, this was not Quidditch, and he had no idea what he was doing.

He stopped on a familiar burm that offered a broad view into the stadium. The Ravenclaw team was drawing their practice to a close. He could see their captain waving the players down onto the pitch where he feverishly began scratching something into the sand. He waited, trying to gather his own courage, until he saw the team head off for their dressing room.

It’s now or never.

You don’t have to do this, you know.

Yes, I do.

Although he willingly decided to go through with this, he wasn’t breaking any land speed records getting there. He arrived just outside the main gate doors and leapt out of the way as they flew open in front of him.

“…And presenting,” a boy appeared, covering his mouth and simulating crowd noise by huffing into his hand,” playing for your Chudley Cannons,” he continued his commentary. “Kennedy, Lenhart, Moore, Stephens, Ryan, MacBeth, and,” he cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed, “Mercury Thompson!” He threw his hands wildly in the air and continued his mock applause.

Ron took a step back as Merc appeared behind her teammate, giggling softly and rolling her eyes. “Please,” she began to protest. Before her teammate could interject she added, “You’ve got it all wrong. The seeker is always the last one they announce.” She smiled broadly.

“Well, in your case, they’ll make an exception.” The boy stopped and turned around to face her. As he did, Ron’s eyes locked with his. “Well, if it isn’t the Weasel King,” he said flatly.

Ron choked back the fire that erupted in his stomach at his unsolicited nickname. He knew this would be difficult, but he had at least hoped to find Merc alone.

“What are you doing here? Gryffindor doesn’t have the pitch until tonight,” Merc asked.

Ron cleared his throat and gave an apprehensive look to her teammate. For all he knew this was her boyfriend. Even if he was just a friend, the look on his face made it quite clear that he knew about what happened between them on Halloween.

If you’re going to do it, do it right. Don’t just stand there like some skittish house cat.

Ron drew himself to his full height. The result of years of growth and Quidditch playing did well for Ron. He was nearly 6’5” inches tall and was built proportionately to his frame. He wasn’t overly impressed with himself, but it did do wonders for his confidence to know he could beat the Boy-Who-Lived at nearly any feat of strength. “I was wondering if I could talk to you,” he said.

Merc and her teammate exchanged skeptical glances. Never taking his eyes off of Ron, he inclined his head toward Merc. “Do you want me to stay?”

Merc looked at Ron quizzically and replied, “No, you go on. I’ll be fine.” She smiled at her teammate who rather hesitantly adjusted the bag on his shoulder and walked toward the castle.

After he was out of earshot, Ron found himself without the words to continue. He gathered the resolve to apologize to her, but somewhere along the way he’d neglected to prepare the speech ahead of time. This was apparently frustrating for her as well. She shrugged her bag higher on her shoulder and crossed her arms over her chest. Feeling she was about to either yell, or leave, Ron scrambled for something to say.

“So, Merc is short for Mercury,” he began colloquially.

“Yes,” she replied without embellishment.

“That’s a strange name.” He wanted to kick himself as soon as he heard the words come out of his mouth. Here he was swallowing his pride to apologize and he begins the whole conversation by degrading her again.

Smooth Weasel.

Shut up.

“It’s a nickname,” she replied.

Feeling heartened that she hadn’t let into him; he continued to avoid the real reason for his visit. “Oh,” he began interestedly. “Where’d you pick it up?”

She smiled warmly. “When I was five my father signed me up for the Wee Witches Quidditch League and I beat a nine year old boy in the speed trials.” She relaxed her stance. “My father’s an alchemist, what can I say, I’ve been Mercury ever since.” She shrugged her shoulders and uncrossed her arms.

“You played in the Wee Witches League?” Ron asked surprised.

“I played every year until coming to Hogwarts,” she replied.

Ron’s brow furrowed in question. “If Merc is a nickname? What’s your given name?”

“Ron, I’m quite sure you didn’t kip out to the pitch in the freezing cold to have a friendly conversation about my name. What do you want?” Merc said abruptly.

The comfort Ron had begun to feel in this conversation rapidly dissolved. The moment was upon him and his heart lodged itself in his throat. “Right,” he began sheepishly. “Listen, I um, “ he stammered. Merc fixed her eyes on him, awaiting his answer, and successfully increasing his discomfort by geometric proportions.

“I’m not very good at this,” he conceded. He drew a breath and decided this was much like his mother removing the bandages when he skinned his knees as a child; it’s hurts less if you don’t hesitate. “I wanted to apologize for what I said to you the other night.” He rocked back and forth on his heels, unable to raise his eyes to hers. “I was in a right state.” His voice grew distant. “I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.” An unsettling silence followed his comments. He forced himself to look at her properly, if only to see that she hadn’t walked off.

Merc was staring at him silently, an inscrutable look engraved across her face. Ron continued, if only to assuage the awkward silence that hung in the air between them. “So, that’s it really. That’s why I came down here.”

“I honestly didn’t give it a moment’s thought,” Merc said quietly.

“I’ve thought of little else.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” she offered sincerely.

“I want to,” Ron replied. “I’ve spent the last three days hoping I could get the words out before you hexed me.”

“Well, my wand is safely tucked away in this bag, so no worries there.” She readjusted the strap across her shoulder as silence resounded in the air between them.

Feeling the awkwardness stifle the conversation entirely, Ron decided he’d had enough chivalry for one day and sought a quick exit. “Well, I really need to head back,” he said simply. Not entirely sure if he should wait for a response, he took a few steps backward. Still feeling his face flushed from embarrassment, he offered a meek wave in her direction, and turned to follow the path back to the castle. Succumbing to a compulsion he didn’t quite understand, he stole another glance over his shoulder. It didn’t pass his notice that Merc had not moved from her spot until he was halfway to the entrance.

***

If the circumstances had been any different Harry would’ve thought this was a sign of the apocalypse. Not only were he and Ron easily surpassing their third hour in the library, but Hermione hadn’t blessed them with a single scathing remark. There were two possible reasons for that. The first, he and Ron had actually been rather diligent in their task, so pontificating about the woes of procrastination was completely unnecessary. More likely, and more distressing to Harry, was the second reason. Hermione hadn’t done much of anything.

He and Ron exchanged silent conversations regarding her behavior. Her potions text lay open to the same page for well over an hour and the ink in her well was likely to dry before she finished the first part of her assignment. It was clear neither of them knew what to say or how to say it. How do you tell Hermione Granger that she’s neglecting her studies? What’s more, is it even appropriate to say such a thing…after all, it had only been a week since her parents were buried and he was quite positive that while her body sat in the Hogwart’s library, her mind was reliving the bitter cold of that day.

There were so many things about this experience that were foreign to Harry. Most interestingly of all, was how uncomfortable he was in a muggle suit. In retrospect, he’d still spent more of his life as a muggle than a wizard, but the wizarding world – for all its dangers – was still far more comfortable to him. He and Ron, not owning the appropriate muggle attire, had transfigured their robes into tailored black suits. If Harry was uncomfortable, Ron was downright miserable. It was all Harry could do not to elbow him in the ribs when he persistently fidgeted next to him. Aside from the wardrobe, everything about the service, and the customs associated with it, was sadly mysterious to Harry.

The Grangers were Anglican and attended services every week. They were not only well-known in their professional circles but appeared rather steadfast members of their church. While the Dursleys attended religious services, they did so for mere appearances only, and anything that served to enhance their social standing was not an open invitation for Harry’s attendance. As a result, Harry had never seen the inside of a church, let alone a cathedral. As the funeral service progressed, he watched Hermione diligently. Not only was he concerned for her emotional well-being, but he had no idea when to sit, stand, or kneel and following her lead was the only way he felt he’d not make a horribly embarrassing mistake.

For his part, as the service progressed, he watched the only people in the cathedral that held any station in his life. As this was a muggle service, the wizarding community harbored several concerns. First, while the full count of Gryffindor students wanted to support Hermione, attendance was limited exclusively to Harry and Ron. All interested students were encouraged to send flowers or other inconspicuous tokens of support to the gravesite. Second, the manner of their death was not forgotten by those who actually knew the truth. The entire Order of the Phoenix attended the services incognito, each with their hands securely planted in their pockets – no doubt with a wand at the ready. Third, Harry was not naïve. As he glanced around the towering cathedral, he saw the bemused and confused expressions of other, rather poorly dressed, “muggles.” He was Harry Potter, he was not in the presence of his blood relatives, and he was not at Hogwarts. He was quite sure the variety of expressionless funeral-goers stationed at intervals around the room were likely Aurors in the Ministry’s employ.

The only others he recognized were several teachers from Hogwarts. Professors Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Snape were acting as both representatives of the school and the Order. Harry felt the presence of Poppy Pomfrey was done for the benefit of Hermione’s emotional stability. When the service began and Madam Pomfrey took the open seat next to Hermione, Harry was certain of her purpose. While he had no idea what she might be doing, he felt it must’ve been effective. Save for a few errant tears that escaped her eyes, Hermione remained stony-faced and strong throughout the entirety of the mass. Later he would look back and admire her strength, especially given his demeanor at the graveside service was another story.

If Harry prided himself on anything, it was his own ability to stay strong in the face of difficult situations. He’d nearly made such practice an art form. In his recollection, he’d only truly let his friends see him cry after their row on the Weasley’s patio. He wasn’t prepared for what the service would entail, nor was he prepared for where his own emotions would take him.

Even for early November, the weather was bitter. The biting cold scorched his cheeks and nose as his visible breath chapped his lips in the stiff breeze. Hermione clung to his arm as they exited the cars and walked the ever-lengthening steps to the gravesite. She hadn’t spoken a word since the service began, and this was no different. There were a few covered chairs beneath a green fabric tent that sat toward a mechanism that would hold the coffins. Harry gently guided her to one of the chairs as he took his place behind her. Not surprising to him, Madam Pomfrey settled into the chair next to her as the pallbearers made their way to the tent.

In hindsight, Harry reasoned the bitter cold weather and the consuming despondency that stifled the air must’ve elicited his response. If conjuring a Patronus would’ve made this sadness go away he would’ve done it despite the presence of hundreds of muggles.

As he looked to the pallbearers edging ever closer, the two caskets carried between them, his memories drifted to the echoed screams of his mother. The same screams he’d heard in the presence of the dementors rushed back to him with vivid detail. He stifled a gasp and closed his eyes, turning his head from the scene before him. For as much as he willed the voice to stop, it did not. When he opened his eyes again he found himself staring at the simple black veil of an elderly woman seated a few feet away. As it swayed quietly in the breeze, visions of Sirius flashed through his mind.

Even after shutting his eyes to the elderly mourner, he couldn’t erase the vision of Sirius falling through the veil. Like a skipping record, it replayed itself in his mind over and over. Harry found himself leaning on the back of Hermione’s chair, willing the sounds and vision of his past to remain there. He was supposed to be here to support Hermione yet he couldn’t erase his own experience from his mind.

Harry’s breathing grew more rapid as he fought to contain his own erupting emotions. The gentle sounds of the caskets being placed before them compelled his eyes to open. Yet, rather than seeing two, his mind saw three. He squeezed his eyes shut as he felt a familiar hand clamp down around his arm. It wasn’t Hermione. It was Ron.

He looked to his right and saw the heartfelt compassion of his best friend. He wasn’t sure if Ron knew his thoughts were hijacked by the memory of his own parents or if he just saw the struggle Harry was succumbing to. But, the simple gesture helped. It helped immensely.

Harry glanced down to the women seated before him. He found Madam Pomfrey’s arm encircling Hermione, whose shoulders were quaking silently. The thought of her sorrow only made him want to wrap her in his own arms, but Madam Pomfrey had him pretty well boxed out. What’s more, every time Harry made the gesture to touch Hermione supportively, the mediwitch inexplicably brushed his hand away.

Harry didn’t have the opportunity to get angry about it. Before he could process the next step the minister was standing between the caskets reading from his text and giving the final farewell. Oddly, Harry’s thoughts shifted again.

He looked at the caskets, perched above the graves that had already been prepared before their arrival. There had been so many people at the funeral he’d never given the finality of it much thought. As the minister closed the service and people began milling around, talking quietly and gazing toward their Grangers final resting place he was overcome with a feeling of solitude.

All these people will leave. Hermione will leave. Yet they will stay here, alone…forever.

It was an odd thought to have. Why should it matter to them if they are alone? They’re gone already. It’s not like they know everyone has left them. It’s not like they would feel abandoned or lonely…right? He turned to see several mourners making their way to their vehicles…getting on with their lives. Something about it was so unfair. Their lives were over; part of Hermione’s life was over…

…just as part of his life had ended – twice – without the opportunity to say goodbye.

His eyes welled with tears that burned hot in the frigid breeze. His mother’s voice from her death mingled with the voice he’d heard in the graveyard. The visions in his mind flashed between memories of Sirius in the Department of Mysteries and old photographs of his parent’s radiant smiles. Harry felt his own shoulders begin to shake as he fought, unsuccessfully, to stem the flood of emotion he’d never expected, nor prepared for. And suddenly, Madam Pomfrey’s presence at the service became crystal clear.

As he felt himself dissolving into tears, another hand grasped his securely, nearly crushing the bones in his hand. His breath caught in his throat and the visions in his head subsided as rapidly as they arrived. His breathing slowed and he quickly regained control of the tears that were streaming down his cheeks. He looked to Madam Pomfrey whose eyes were fixed securely on him. The expression on her face fell somewhere between compassion and indignation as she looked back to Hermione concernedly. Realizing his own emotional state was likely affecting Hermione, Harry walked toward the place where Ron, inspecting the memorials sent by the Hogwarts students, had come to an abrupt halt.

A variety of floral arrangements surrounded the tent. While unnoticed by the muggles, many of the flowers had been enchanted. Cards, letters, and even a few stuffed animals littered the graveside.

While walking along the line of gifts, Ron appeared particularly interested in one simple gesture. He was holding a piece of linen parchment lettered in exquisite calligraphy. The name from the handmade card attached to it caught Harry’s attention as he assumed it had done with Ron. It was from Merc Thompson. Harry read the inscription on the card as Ron held it at arm’s length.

Dear Hermione,

I wish there were words to take away your pain. I wish there was something I could do. I know there is not, but am compelled to try anyway. I hope these words will give you comfort, if not now, later. I wrote them for you. If you ever need anything, know that I’m there for you – even if it’s just to hug you until you can’t cry anymore.

Love, Merc

As Harry finished reading the card, Ron was already puling the linen parchment to the forefront to read what Merc had written for Hermione. Harry read silently along.

For Hermione:

Do not stand at my grave and weep;

I am not there,

I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow;

I am the diamond glints on the snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain;

I am the gentle autumn’s rain.

When you awaken in the morning’s hush;

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft star that shines at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry,

I am not there;

I did not die.

It was nearly more than Harry could take. He drew a calming breath and walked back to Hermione, Ron still clutching the parchment in his hand behind him.

Ron cleared his throat pointedly, drawing Harry’s thoughts back to the library. He looked to Ron questioningly only to see him sit up, broad shouldered, while his eyes looked threateningly behind Harry and Hermione. Harry had seen that look before. He turned just in time to see Draco Malfoy sidle up to the table.

“What do you want Malfoy?” Ron asked acidly.

“What is it with you Weasel? I can’t even offer my condolences to a fellow classmate without a scathing remark?” he replied.

Ron scoffed. “Like you have a sincere bone in your body to offer condolences with!”

Malfoy lowered his eyes mischievously and leaned forward against the table. “Some of my bones are more sincere than others.” Hermione’s jaw fell open as both Ron and Harry leapt from the table.

“What the hell does that mean, Malfoy?” Ron exclaimed before Harry got the chance.

Malfoy merely smirked and looked past them both to where Hermione sat. His features softened almost unnoticeably. “For what it’s worth Granger, I am sorry about your parents.”

“It’s not worth much coming from you,” Harry said darkly.

“If your opinion mattered to me Potter, I’d be hurt,” he replied simply. Malfoy stepped back from the table. “Well, best not to keep you from all this studying. I guess the Head Boy is supposed to at least look studious.” Harry shoved his wand hand into his robes, as Hermione grasped his arm.

“Let him go,” she said quietly as the trio watched him walk away.

“Let him go,” Ron muttered mockingly. “Why? That git deserves a face-lift. I’m all for letting Harry give it to him.”

“I don’t know,” Hermione said thoughtfully. “Something about him is different…not right.”

“Hermione, he’s never been ‘right,’” Harry said casually as he and Ron sat back down.

“He does make a fair point,” she continued to amid their shocked expressions. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you both study this much.” Harry exchanged a knowing look with Ron and shuffled in his chair. “What?” she asked, looking between them.

“Nothing,” they replied together.

“Okay, now I’m positive you’re both hiding something from me. What is it?” Hermione demanded. Harry looked to her questioning brown eyes and felt a sigh of relief. He wanted to tell Hermione what happened in Dumbledore’s office, but never felt the time was right, or she was ready to hear it. Although she didn’t realize the depth of the question she’d asked, the fact she opened the door to the conversation, made his decision a lot easier.

“Well.” He looked to Ron for support. Ron nodded as he put his quill down and settled in for the story. “The truth is…Ron and I aren’t working on our homework.” Hermione looked questioningly at the parchment and books littering the table.

“Then what is all this?”

“A needle in a haystack,” Ron muttered dejectedly.

Harry closed the book in front of him and pushed it along the table toward Hermione. She glanced down at the title and her eyes widened in shock.

“1,000 Years of Dark Magic,” she read quietly. “Harry, this is a restricted book about the dark arts!” she hissed.

“I know,” he affirmed. “You’re the smartest witch at Hogwarts. If you’re up to it, Ron and I are in desperate need of your help.” Ron nodded quietly.

“Tell me what happened,” she said flatly.

***

“Boys,” Madam Pomfrey said quietly. Neither he nor Ron moved. “Boys,” she reiterated, this time putting her hands on their arms, crossed securely over Hermione’s body.

“What did you do to her?” Harry asked, a tear streaming down his cheek.

“The only thing I could do for her,” she replied softly. “She’ll be fine, but I’d like to make her as comfortable as possible when she wakes up.”

“Poppy,” Professor Dumbledore’s voice floated across the office. “She can rest in my private chamber.” A door opened to the trio’s left. Harry and Ron looked quizzically toward each other and back to the open doorway. Harry suddenly became aware of the logistics of his situation. He was sitting on the floor, Hermione’s full weight stretched between he and Ron, and he had no idea how he would be able to get up from his position, without dropping her, and move her. His predicament didn’t last long.

Professor Dumbledore walked from behind his desk and stopped in front of the trio. As he stretched his hand over them, Harry felt Hermione’s weight lift from his legs. She glided through the air ahead of him, Madam Pomfrey close behind, and soon the three disappeared into his private chamber.

Harry and Ron stared at each other completely dumfounded. Demonstrations of the Headmaster’s power never ceased to amaze them especially when his use of magic employed no wand at all.

Both Harry and Ron collected themselves from the floor and dropped unceremoniously onto the chairs in front of Dumbledore’s desk. Within moments, he returned from his chamber and took the seat before them.

“Sir,” Harry began. Dumbledore raised his hand to preempt further inquiries.

“Harry, before you ask. There is more you should know about what happened tonight.” Harry and Ron exchanged a nervous glance. “We actually doubled the protection on the Granger home this evening. It was not enough. When Professor Snape arrived to relieve the first watch, he found the house in flames, one of our members dead, and the other missing.” Harry’s heart dropped to his feet.

“Who?”

“Kingsley Shacklebolt died trying to protect the Granger’s from the ambush. Professor Snape could not locate Tonks.” Harry felt his stomach lurch into his throat. “She arrived under her own power at Grimmauld Place just before Madam Pomfrey brought you to my office.”

“So, she’s okay?” Ron asked with alarm stamped on his face.

“Poppy says she’ll be fine after a few days observation and rest.” Harry looked at the Headmaster, studying the features of his face and demeanor. He didn’t look tired. He didn’t look distinguished. He looked old. Although no one knew how old he really was, it seemed as though every year of his life was ingrained on the lines of his face. It didn’t inspire confidence.

“Harry,” Dumbledore said softly. “Voldemort’s desperation to solidify his position will eventually involve you.” Harry felt Ron’s eyes on him as he continued to listen to the Headmaster. “This has to stop.”

Harry looked to him incredulously. “How am I supposed to stop it?” Frankly he couldn’t believe Dumbledore was looking at him as though he had the answers or the responsibility to defeat Voldemort. Afterall, wasn’t Dumbledore the most powerful wizard of modern time. He’s supposed to be the one with the answers, not seventeen year-old Harry Potter.

“Of that, I’m not sure,” Dumbledore conceded. “I’ve searched for the answer relentlessly over the course of my life. I’ve not come to any conclusions.”

“Sir” Ron interjected. “If you’ve looked for a way to defeat him for half a century, and found nothing, what makes you think Harry can find it now?”

“Because, for as much as I’m skeptical of divination, I’ve come to understand one thing about genuine prophecies; they have a tendency to come true.” He smiled. “I have come to believe I cannot find the answer to this question because I am not the one destined to solve it.”

“You think I can find the answer you can’t” Harry asked dumbfounded.

“Yes.”

“How?”

“That is the more difficult question to answer,” Dumbledore replied. “As with any adversary, I would suggest attacking his weaknesses.” Ron and Harry looked between each other and back to the Headmaster. “As I’ve mentioned before, Voldemort puts very little faith in the branches of ancient magic. He finds ancient magic arcane, useless, and overly complex. His preference for modern magic overlooks the power of our ancestors. It’s really quite ironic. Voldemort places such valued importance on the ancestry of pureblooded wizards, yet neglects the branches of magic that essentially derive their power from the magical bonds of family and friendship.”

“Hogwarts doesn’t exactly teach ancient magic, sir,” Harry replied. “How are we supposed to find answers in magic we’ve never studied?”

“Hogwarts does not teach ancient magic on my orders. I’ve had far too much experience with ancient magic to not understand its power. Quite simply, it’s not a branch of magic appropriate for students.”

“But we’re students,” Ron retorted.

“You are very special students. Sometimes special students have special arrangements.”

Harry furrowed his brow inquisitively. “What do you mean?”

“Hogwarts has a rather impressive collection of books devoted to the branches of ancient magic.”

“Where?” Harry asked, a sinking feeling settling in his stomach as the memory of a screaming dark arts text leapt to his mind.

“You will have full access to the restricted section of the library,” he answered.

“Books?” Ron said disbelievingly. Harry couldn’t help but agree with him. Even if they had every textbook ever written on ancient magic and the dark arts, there’s a big difference between empirical knowledge and the application thereof. Dumbledore made it a point to mention the complexities and power of ancient magic. Harry was not at all convinced that was something even Hermione could learn from a book.

“You’ll also have a rather experienced professor for your studies,” Dumbledore added.

“Who?” Harry and Ron chimed together.

“Me.”

“Dumbledore is teaching us ancient magic?” Hermione said incredulously.

“Well, I don’t think he’s teaching us in the traditional sense.” Harry paused to look past Hermione’s shoulder toward the restricted section. The gate opened quietly and Dumbledore emerged leafing through a book. “Hermione, meet our new study partner.”

“Ms. Granger,” Dumbledore said quietly as he settled himself in a chair at their table. “We’re glad to have you back.”

15. What Lies Beneath

A/N: CheeringCharm, Phoenix Song and myself are posting our new chapters on the Yahoo site first. They’ve had this one for about three days. If you’d like to read them a bit sooner, feel free to come on over and join! You’ll find us at the following link!

http://groups.yahoo.com/group/triumvirateofverbosity/

A mentioned earlier there would be several ships floating on the ToR sea. If it’s not already obvious-and it should be-Remus/Tonks is one of them. Another one will get a pretty big hint dropped here-not that you probably need one. This thing got so depressing over the last 2 chapters, happily I’ve worked in a bit of fluff!

As always-a big thanks to CC for her beta work! You are the best!

Chapter 15- What Lies Beneath

Working with Professor Dumbledore was a distinct experience. He was clearly unlike any other teacher at Hogwarts. Most teachers proselytized from the front of the room, spouting their knowledge and expecting regurgitation on command. Some teachers, like Tonks, Madam Sprout, and even Professor Snape, focused a bit more on experiential learning. However, all the teachers remained the spring of knowledge from which the problems were solved. It wasn’t like that with Professor Dumbledore. Perhaps it was because he wasn’t trying to “teach” them anything. He was a partner in learning and hence they all occupied the same station, albeit an equally clueless one. He did have one thing in common with the teachers in his charge…homework.

Professor Dumbledore didn’t really assign them homework, but when the Headmaster of Hogwarts is your study partner, failing to pull your share of the workload is not an option. Ron, Harry, and Hermione silently acquiesced to the same conclusion. They were going to have to work as hard as he did; and that was going to be a challenge.

“I never thought I’d praise the day I could be in class!” Ron said quietly.

“I’m just glad Tonks’ is back,” Harry replied as they walked through the doors to their Defense class. Hermione was scribbling rapidly in her homework planner as she walked. Harry placed a hand on her shoulder and steered her around a table to their normal seats in the classroom. He couldn’t help but smile at her activity. “Hermione?” he began, watching her erase certain entries and scrawl new notes along the side of the notebook.

“Don’t look at me like that Harry,” she replied without looking up. Harry smirked at Ron while he dramatically rolled his eyes and sat down. “I saw that, Ron.”

“What?” Ron asked with an injured expression as they all took their seats.

“My schedule was full enough before we started this little research project.” She put her quill down and studied the array of responsibilities laid out in glittering colored ink. She looked up to Ron sitting across the aisle. “I simply don’t know how I’m going to do all this without…” she stopped and smiled as Dean and Seamus walked between them to their seats. After they sat down, she lowered her voice to a whisper. “…without begging McGonagall for another time-turner.”

“You might be overreacting,” Ron said flatly.

“Only because you two were on the pitch and didn’t see the stack Dumbledore left at the table for us last night. It was higher than the last three weeks combined!” Hermione’s voice was growing louder.

“Hermione,” Harry said warningly as he surveyed the room for attentive ears.

She expelled a quick breath and dropped her shoulders. “Sixteen books and seven feet of parchment. Honestly! I’m not even that bad!” she muttered. Both Harry and Ron snapped their heads in her direction with incredulous expressions plastered across their faces. Luckily for both of them, Hermione didn’t have time to retort.

“Good morning class!” Tonks said brightly as she swept into the room from her office. She smiled as a mélange of various greetings returned to her from the class..

“I must apologize for my extended leave. I’m afraid my clumsiness got the best of me. If you should ever happen to fall out of two story window I suggest you choose more wisely than I and ensure you have a broomstick at the ready.” The class laughed heartily as Tonks turned toward Hermione. Her smile wavered briefly as she and Hermione exchanged a conversation in a simple look.

Harry couldn’t help but smile at Tonks’ cover story. No one would ever think to question Tonks ungainliness. On more than one occasion even Peeves was blamed for debacles caused by Tonks inelegance. Harry surmised her story would satisfy the whole of Hogwarts without reservation, leaving only Harry, Hermione, Ron and the other members of the Order with the real explanation for her absence.

“Unfortunately, I’m afraid we’re behind schedule in our study of N.E.W.T. skills. While I appreciate the other Professor’s efforts to cover my class, we are sadly in arrears.”

She instructed them to put their wands away and open their textbooks to the appropriate page. Normally, this would’ve conjured most unpleasant memories of Defense classes under Delores Umbridge. However, the students couldn’t scramble their wands into their holsters quickly enough. Just prior to Halloween, Tonks embarked on the study of the most difficult N.E.W.T. skill in the curriculum. She’d skipped the others, and much to the students’ excitement, jumped directly to wandless magic. However, her absence had relegated the class to textbook studies and enrichment exercises regarding telekinesis, directive defense spells, and patronuses (something Harry was quite proud to say appeared to bore the former D.A. students stiff-as they already mastered those skills). She appeared equally as eager to resume their study of wandless magic as the students were, no matter how impossible the task appeared.

It took a lot to frustrate Harry Potter in Defense Against the Dark Arts. Arguably he’d been excelling at the practice thereof since he was barely able to walk. But wandless magic was testing the limits of his patience. Not unlike Tonks’ telekinesis classes from sixth year, the class spent the majority of their practical application staring at small objects. The only exception is that students were now shouting ineffective incantations and throwing their hands out in a futile effort to transfigure or charm the objects before them.

“No wonder Ollivander’s has been in business for centuries, “ Ron growled. If Harry wasn’t so frustrated by his own lack of progress he would’ve found Ron’s attempt entertaining. “Wingardium leviosa!” he barked. The feather did not move.

“Ron?” Hermione began.

“Hermione, I promise if you even think about correcting my pronunciation,” he began hotly.

She appeared to choke back the laughter begging to erupt from her throat and answered timidly, “I was just going to say this might be easier if you didn’t use the feather Seamus just cast a sticking charm on.” Ron’s head snapped to Seamus and Dean, standing one table over, as Seamus shoved his wand back into his robes and played, rather unconvincingly, innocent. As Harry’s eyes met Seamus’s the four of them dissolved into laughter as Ron stood by, attempting to decide whether he should laugh with them, or hex them all.

“Sorry, mate,” Seamus chuckled, wiping a tear from his eye. “I couldn’t resist.”

“Oh, ha ha Seamus,” Ron replied sarcastically. “You have no idea what you’re dealing with Finnegan,” he continued. Seamus’ laughter fell quiet as he looked toward Ron interrogatively. “Or did you forget who my brothers are?” With that, Seamus’ face fell to stone and Tonks called the students to attention.

“Alright class,” she called. “Our time is up for the day. Please remember your essays. They are due in less than a week and procrastinating the Dark Arts is only helpful if your goal is to end up dead.”

The class jumped to life as students gathered their things and clamored for the doorway. Ron, Harry, and Hermione stayed behind, helping Tonks put the course materials away and waiting for the room to empty completely. After it did, they stopped straightening the room and met Tonks at her desk.

Harry reached her first. Surprising even himself, he gave her a quick hug. “We’re glad you’re alright, Tonks,” he said warmly.

“Me too,” she replied. “Alright Ron?” she asked. He sat haphazardly against her desk and smiled brightly.

“I’m fine.”

Her eyes drifted back to the young witch standing between them. “Hermione,” she reached out and pulled her into a firm embrace. Before she let her go, Harry heard her whisper, “I’m so sorry.” Appearing to fight back the tears, both of them released each other.

“It wasn’t your fault Tonks,” Hermione offered. “You did everything you could.”

“I know. I just wish I could’ve done more. I wish I could’ve stopped them,” she replied sadly.

“You nearly died yourself. You can’t do more than that,” Hermione said quietly. Out of sheer instinct, Harry laced his fingers through Hermione’s and kissed her softly on the temple.

“Well,” Tonks began, her voice growing stronger. “It’s not everyday that someone pulls an ambush on me. Don’t you think for one second were going to sit still for all of this. They got Kingsley as well and the Order doesn’t take kindly to losing one of their own,” she finished determinedly.

“Is the Order planning something?” Harry asked, giving a quick look to the doorway.

Tonks hesitated visibly. She surveyed the three faces before her and her expression softened. “I shouldn’t be telling you this. None of you are in the Order and we’ve decided to keep all of our operations within our ranks to avoid any more surprises.” She looked squarely at Hermione. “But, for you,” she continued, “I’ll give you the short version. Besides, I expect all of you to keep this to those you trust-even if that’s only the three of you.”

They nodded their silent assent and Tonks explained the general points of their plan. It was no secret that Lucius Malfoy was widely regarded as Voldemort’s right hand. While the Order had been getting the impression for weeks that something was looming on the horizon, they never seemed to get any concrete intelligence on the matter. Riley, the Order’s source high within he Ministry’s ranks, that they’d come to trust, had fallen upon some recent information. He’d come to believe that whatever plan Voldemort and his cronies were espousing, Malfoy Manor had become the makeshift “war room.” In short, the Order was devising a plan to infiltrate the Manor and acquire any and all information regarding Voldemort’s latest scheme. Harry couldn’t help but notice Tonks nonchalance as she mentioned the dangerous quality of the operation. She made it very clear that the Order had adopted a “curse-first-ask-questions-later” mindset on the mission. He got the distinct impression Tonks was looking forward to doing that very thing.

Although she was vague, the operation was scheduled for sometime in the days immediately preceding Christmas break. They planned to infiltrate the Manor before Draco returned for the holidays and while the family was supporting the whole of the wizarding economy with their annual shopping trip. The Order was going to a great deal of time and effort, in the week or so remaining, to devise avenues around the security wards, plan their mission, and consider every possible detail. Given the result of the Halloween operation, Tonks mentioned, every member of the Order had a vested interest that “Operation Ferret” be successful.

***

Hermione walked to Arithmancy feeling oddly free. Since her parents’ death, Ron and Harry had scarcely left her side. Although she understood they had her best interest at heart, a month with no “alone time” gets tedious. Arithmancy was a nice escape, not only for her, but for them as well. She knew they used this time to discuss all things Quidditch – something they had amusingly avoided during the past several weeks. She might’ve walked to the classroom, but she was rather sure they were running to the pitch. Either way, it was nice to be “unreachable” for a while. If they wanted to find her they would require the use of the Marauder’s Map as they certainly had no idea where her classroom was located. She settled down at her table and flipped through her textbook.

“Starting without me I see,” a friendly voice broke her concentration.

Hermione looked up to see Merc dropping her bag next to the desk and settling down in her chair. “Hardly.” She smiled. “I was bored.”

“Only you would alleviate your boredom with a textbook,” Merc replied laughingly. “I really should introduce you to the entire genre that is fiction, Hermione. Books aren’t all about academics you know.”

“I know what fiction is!” Hermione retorted, the smile already breaking across her face.

“Wait, don’t tell me,” Merc prompted.

“I read about it in a book once,” they chimed together dissolving into giggles.

If there was one thing Hermione loved about her friendship with Merc is that it made her into a different person than who she was with Harry and Ron. She wouldn’t be so easily inclined to mock her own study habits in front of them, because she always felt some strange obligation to be the “role model” for their education. She didn’t have to do that with Merc. She also didn’t have to hide the fact she was a girl. Admittedly, being best friends with two boys can limit the breadth of one’s conversation. Boys just don’t want to hear about hair, make-up, and the typical gossip most other seventeen year-old girls espouse. For those things Hermione turned to Ginny and Merc.

Professor Vector’s voice interrupted their playful conversation and they quickly turned their attention to the lesson at hand. As was his habit, Professor Vector discussed arithmantic theory for nearly half the class, leaving the last portion for practical application. Both Hermione and Merc spent the lecture scratching down notes feverishly in preparation for both the practical exercise and their looming homework. When he finally set them loose with their classroom assignment, they got the opportunity to resume their discussion.

“So,” Hermione began timidly. “You never told me your version of what actually happened between you and Ron that night.”

“I’m aware of that.”

Hermione cocked her head to the side and gave her an exasperated look. “Merc!”

“Hermione, I’ve told you before, I just don’t think it’s necessary to give you all the gory details. Besides, I’ve nearly forgotten the entire matter. It would be a distant memory if you wouldn’t keep bringing it up.”

“Bullocks,” Hermione quipped. “I know you Merc. If he said anything to you on the scale of what he’s said to me before, then I know you’ve committed the entire episode to memory.” Merc looked at her and sighed audibly. “Tell me.”

“Listen, I know what your friendship means to you, and I just don’t want to impugn your impression of one of your best friends.”

“He wasn’t lying then. He was awful,” Hermione said defeatedly.

“Pretty much,” Merc replied quietly as she flipped through her textbook. Hermione hadn’t moved a bit, as was her plan. Merc told her just enough to unleash “stubborn Hermione” and there was no way Merc was escaping now. She apparently understood the same thing. “Okay,” she sighed. With a quick glance to Professor Vector, still seated squarely behind his desk, she told Hermione the story. Hermione couldn’t believe her ears. She thought it sounded bad when Ron told her what happened. Merc’s version, complete with the sound of her quaky voice, was far more disturbing.

“Merc, I’m so sorry. I promise I don’t know what got into him,” Hermione said dejectedly.

“It’s not your fault. And besides, you don’t have to apologize. Ron already did.” Merc smiled. Hermione sat for a moment, staring blankly at Merc as she returned her attention to the parchment in front of her.

“What do you mean?” Hermione asked.

Merc looked up from her parchment quizzically. “What?”

“What do you mean, ‘he apologized,’” Hermione clarified.

“Just that. The next afternoon he came down to the pitch as practice was ending and apologized for his behavior. He said he was in a right state and shouldn’t have taken it out on me,” Merc answered simply. Hermione stared, expressionless, in her direction. “Hermione, what’s the matter?”

She shook her head quickly and snapped back to reality. “Nothing.”

“What is it?’

“He’s never apologized to me.”

It was true. Hermione mused over the course of their relationship and couldn’t think of a single instance where Ron had retracted any scathing remark he’d made toward her. Something about that gave Hermione pause. She didn’t know if she should be angry, hurt, or just confused. After all, he barely knew Merc yet found the compulsion to apologize to her. He’d volleyed a virtual sortie of insults Hermione’s way and never stopped to consider her feelings. It was unsettling to say the least. So much so, she barely heard Merc over her own internal monologue.

“So, um,” Merc began hesitantly. “Why do you think he apologized to me?”

Hermione regained her senses and looked at Merc. “I don’t know.”

“Well, it doesn’t really matter, water under the bridge and all that,” she said flatly as she drew her matrixes on the parchment. “Let’s get working on this so we don’t have hours of homework to do later, I have Quidditch practice and you’ve got all that Head Girl rubbish to do,” she said jokingly. Hermione nodded in agreement and they set to work together. They made rather impressive progress for the lack of time they spent concentrating on the assignment. When the bell heralded the end of class, they’d nearly completed half the requirements.

“So are you going to Hogsmeade this weekend?” Hermione asked as she gathered her books.

“I don’t know. I rather like Hogsmeade weekends at the castle, if only for the peace and quiet,” Merc replied. “Are you going?”

“Yes, we’re all going. This is the last weekend before the Christmas holiday and I’m afraid I haven’t gotten Harry or Ron anything,” Hermione said as they walked out of the classroom together.

“Hermione, given the circumstances I doubt they would expect gifts from you this year,” Merc added.

“I know that. But I want to. They have both been so helpful. I don’t think I could get through this without them,” she answered. Merc responded with a smile. Suddenly Hermione recognized what had been bothering her since she and Merc started talking. She could feel that Merc was uncomfortable talking about Harry and Ron. For two girls that always found it so easy to speak to each other, it was thoroughly unsettling to Hermione.

“Merc?” she began. Merc looked at her with the same projected façade. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” Merc said with false enthusiasm. “I should probably get back to my house common room. I’m seriously craving a hot bath before dinner.” When Merc failed to maintain eye contact with Hermione, a unique feeling settled in the pit of Hermione’s stomach. There was only one thing she could do to assuage it.

“You’re not staying at the castle this weekend,’ Hermione declared.

“What are you talking about?” Merc answered quizzically.

Hermione could feel her eyes brighten as her mood improved. “You are coming to Hogsmeade with me.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. I have a lot of things I need to catch up on,” Merc argued while she fidgeted with her bag.

“Then you’ll meet me; one o’ clock at the Three Broomsticks, I will absolutely not accept ‘no’ for an answer,” Hermione beamed.

Merc’s mouth bobbed open and closed. She appeared to run through her entire vocabulary in an attempt to find a word that would refuse Hermione’s demand without being seen as some derivation of the word “no.”

“You’re trying to find a polite way to tell me ‘no,’ aren’t you?” Hermione giggled.

“Well, I – er,” Merc stammered.

“Merc I know you too well. You’re incapable of saying no, least of all to a friend. I’ll see you at one o’clock.” Hermione winked at Merc and the two girls separated for their respective common rooms. As she walked back to Gryffindor Tower, Hermione felt lighter than she had in weeks.

***

“It, just like the last four shirts, looks perfectly fine, dear,” the mirror said exasperatedly as Remus continued to scowl at his reflection.

“You don’t think the blue one looked nicer?”

“I told you the blue one looked nicer and you insisted on trying the burgundy anyway.”

‘Well, there’s no need to get tetchy about it,” Remus replied unamused. The mirror fell silent as Remus pulled the shirt off and retreated to his closet for the blue button down he’d tried on earlier. He felt a bit silly, it’s not like Tonks had never seen him before. It’s not like she’d never seen him in nearly every stitch of clothing he owned. But, something about today was different, and nerve-racking at that.

Today was a date.

It was a real date. A predetermined time and location where he and Tonks were going to spend time together for the mere purpose of spending time together. His stomach flipped over at the thought.

He couldn’t understand why he was so nervous. Why should a “date” matter? He’d already kissed her and he knew from her response that she felt something for him as well. Yet, he couldn’t stop the swarming butterflies from tickling his midsection. He slipped his shirt over his shoulders and buttoned the front, inspecting his reflection in the mirror. He gave himself a begrudging smile and grabbed his wool cloak from the armchair near the door.

Tonks’ injuries had kept her from Hogwarts, and happily with Remus, for several weeks. Her desk was inundated with papers to grade, lessons to prepare, and various other school duties that had fallen by the wayside during her convalescence. As a result, she stayed in her quarters at Hogwarts rather than spending that time at Grimmauld Place. For as much as Remus offered, Tonks refused to let him out of their Hogsmeade date. She not only sang the praises of Poppy Pomfrey but also argued that she needed a break. Therefore, she arranged to meet him at the Three Broomsticks where they could not only enjoy each other’s company but also supervise the throng of Hogwarts students that invariably passed through the establishment.

Remus walked into the back garden to the warded apparition point the Order established months before. He hesitated slightly, brushing his hands over his chest and picking invisible lint from his cloak as he fidgeted. Finally, realizing there was nothing more he could do to prepare himself, he pulled his wand from the pocket of his cloak and apparated to Hogsmeade.

Not surprisingly for the last Hogsmeade weekend before the holidays, the streets were filled with bustling Hogwarts students. Remus stepped out of the alley to see the smiling faces of many students he’d once instructed. They passed by, chattering brightly, carrying bags of merchandise that would invariably cause them to owl home begging for additional funds. Unlike the December visits of the past, the air was not bitingly cold. The blinding sun reflected from the glinting snowdrifts. In the distance he spotted an unmistakable fuchsia coif entering the Three Broomsticks. His heart flopped in his chest as he absent-mindedly started up the cobblestone street to meet his date.

“Whoa!” a voice sounded as Remus collided with a student.

“Oh! I’m sorry,” Remus gasped as his thoughts were drawn from the lady awaiting him.

“It’s okay Professor,” the student replied.

“Ron? When are you going to start calling me Remus?”

“Right after I’m sure my mother won’t hex me for being disrespectful,” Ron replied.

“Right then. Professor it is,” Lupin said flatly. Ron sniggered as he collected his bag and dusted it off. “Where’s the other two thirds of you?” Remus asked.

Ron chortled. “If I know them, they’re probably off snogging somewhere,” he replied. Remus’ face fell as he gazed at Ron inquiringly.

“How are you?” Remus asked pointedly.

Ron looked up to him and smiled. “I’m fine with it,” he said. “Really,” he added. “I do feel a bit left out, but I’m getting over it.” He looked around at the passing students. “I guess it’s just…different…than it was. All of us are different. I don’t know that I’ll ever be used to it.”

“You’re growing up Ron. All of you are. Things won’t stay the same from one place in your life to the next,” Remus said softly. “But, just because something is different, doesn’t mean it’s worse than it was. It could be better.” Remus smiled at him warmly. Ron remained silent for a moment, appearing to contemplate his words before catching onto the bigger question.

“What are you doing in Hogsmeade?”

Remus blushed visibly, realizing his eyes had drifted back to Three Broomsticks’ bustling entrance. “I, er – am meeting a friend for lunch,” he said, tripping over his words. Ron’s eyes gleamed as his face broke into a wide smile.

“A friend?”

“Yes, Ron, a friend,” Remus emphasized.

“I guess different can be better can’t it?” Ron said spryly. “Well, I’d better not keep you waiting from your…friend.” Remus felt his face flush similarly to the times he’d been caught in other compromising situations.

“Really Mr. Filtch, these are not my dungbombs. I merely found them lying in plain view and thought to bring them to you before some misguided students thought to set them off.”

He cleared his head of the memory, and Sirius and James’ strangled laughter under the invisibility cloak, and nodded to Ron in agreement. They exchanged a few parting pleasantries and Remus set off for the Three Broomsticks, anxiously checking his wristwatch to ensure he wasn’t too late…or too early.

***

Ron watched Remus walk up the street toward the tavern, momentarily forgetting where he’d planned to go before literally running into his former Professor. As he watched him disappear into the Three Broomsticks he smiled weakly.

Well, if anyone deserves to be happy it’s Lupin.

What about you?

I’m happy.

Right. That’s why you’re standing in the middle of main street Hogsmeade …alone…planning to buy Christmas presents for your two best friends, who by the way, are blissfully happy with each other.

Ron looked around to the passers by. He saw every variety of witch and wizard imaginable. Some were short, some tall, some stout, others lean. He saw the old and the very young. But most of all, he saw his own classmates. They were everywhere. Girls giggled over Christmas secrets, boys followed along behind – whispering intently and pointing to the witch of their choice. Some walked hand in hand, some arm in arm. Others laughed as they disappeared into Hogsmeade’s many alleyways for a clandestine snog. Everything seemed to move in slow motion. Floating laughter and sweet smiles mingled with the enchanted bells playing festive Christmas tunes.

This was life. He stood there, drawn up his full seventeen years, realizing he’d never had occasion to pull a girl into one of those oft-sought alleyways. Ron realized he hadn’t really started his own life.

He sighed audibly and thought to drown his self-deprecation in that which made him most secure….Quidditch. Fred and George owled a few weeks prior to the Hogsmeade weekend to announce Quality Quidditch Supplies had opened another location in Hogsmeade. As a congratulatory overture for being named Gryffindor captain, they’d sent along a certificate confirming an account in Ron’s name. He pulled the parchment out of his cloak pocket and inspected it suspiciously as he walked to the new store.

The bell to Quality Quidditch Supplies was enchanted to mimic the sound of the crowd after a goal. Something about that didn’t comfort Ron. He weaved his way through the racks, looking wonderingly around the store, and made his way to the counter.

“Good afternoon!” A middle-aged wizard (which is to say he appeared to be about 75) sat behind the counter in a faded Chudley Canons jumper and dusty jeans, hidden behind a recent edition of Quidditch Quarterly.

“Hi,” Ron said hesitantly. “I was wondering if you could check on something for me?”

“Of course, when did you place the order?”

“No, it’s not an order. I was wondering if…” The wizard’s head popped out from behind the magazine and Ron, looking quizzically at his expression, stopped speaking.

The wizard’s eyes lit up as he looked at Ron properly for the first time. Upon his apparently silent realization he burst into hearty laughter. His portly belly bounced happily as he stood up from the stool he’d been perched on.

“What?’ Ron asked defensively. He was becoming rather agitated that the man found him so amusing. The longer the wizard laughed the more certain Ron became that he was hiding a “Weasley is our King” badge behind the counter for posterity.

“Oh, nothing,” the shopkeeper said, regaining control of himself and wiping a stray tear from his eye. “They said you’d never believe the account was real. They even sent me a duplicate copy of the confirmation. They were sure you’d set it ablaze, convinced they’d hexed the parchment.” He pulled out a duplicate copy of the certificate Fred and George had sent to Ron and waved it in the air in front of him.

Ron relaxed significantly and grinned. “Can you blame me?”

“Not at all Mr. Weasley,” he replied. “They hexed mine,” he said deadpan. “My hand was blue for a solid week.” Ron couldn’t help but chuckle. “Have a look around. Here’s an account statement for you.”

Ron took the parchment from the shopkeeper. When he saw the account balance he nearly fell out. “Is this accurate?” he asked incredulously.

“Entirely,” the wizard said, settling back onto his stool. Ron could feel his gaze on him, but his eyes were firmly glued to the parchment in his hand. The shopkeeper laughed again. “Would you expect anything less from the most lucrative entrepreneurs in Diagon Alley?”

“I, just…” Ron tried to find the words.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say they were just a trifle proud of their little brother.”

Ron looked up to see the shopkeeper smiling and nearly felt the tears well in his eyes. Not only had Fred and George opened an account for him at Quality Quidditch Supplies, they deposited 500 galleons as a gift. For the first time in his life, Ron was speechless.

He wandered aimlessly around the store. He debated the variety of things he could get for himself against the nagging compulsion to use the money wisely. A huff of air escaped his lips as he realized that nagging voice sounded exactly like Hermione Granger’s. It wasn’t long before he found himself standing in front of an array of new broomsticks. His eyes floated over the display as he brushed his fingers along the smooth handles of several models. For once in his life, he had the money to buy something ridiculously expensive. He stopped in front of the Firebolt.

It might’ve been the same model as Harry’s, but it looked entirely different to Ron. He ran his hand over the handle and pulled it off the rack, inspecting it as though he’d never seen it before. His eyes crawled across the engraved production number and perfectly arranged twig configuration.

“Be careful not to drool, Red,” a voice crashed through his musings and he snapped his head toward the intruder. He wasn’t entirely prepared for who was standing in front of him.

“Hi,” he said quietly. The embarrassment he’d felt the last time he’d spoken with Merc Thompson came rushing back and he placed the Firebolt back on the rack.

“Are you looking for a new broom?” she asked simply.

“Yes, actually I am,” he said brightly as he slipped the parchment into his cloak.

“You’re not considering a Firebolt are you?” she said with a furrowed brow.

“Well, it is a bit expensive, but I can afford it,” Ron said smugly. He never thought he’d feel that good again. He could afford a Firebolt. He returned his attention to the broom on display, inspecting it carefully.

“Well, I’m quite sure you can afford it Ron,” Merc said flatly. “It would just be a significant waste of money.”

“Are you mad? This is a Firebolt!” Ron scoffed.

“I know that.”

Ron puffed his chest in preparation of giving the “Ravenclaw” a lesson in quality broomsticks. “This broom is state of the art. It’s so well-designed they haven’t had need to improve on it in four years! This is the premier international standard racing broom in the wizarding world. Every World Cup Quidditch team rides a Firebolt!” Ron finished his lecture with an incredulous look toward Merc. She was supposed to be a Ravenclaw and she claimed to play Quidditch since he was barely old enough to walk. Certainly she should’ve known the finer points of this particular model.

“Not exactly,” she said as her eyes searched the array of broomsticks in front of her.

“Excuse me?” Ron asked with wide eyes.

“World Cup chasers and seekers ride the Firebolt. You’re a keeper Ron. What possible benefit could you derive from an international standard racing broom?”

It was the second time he’d fallen speechless. He couldn’t determine exactly what bothered him most, the fact she questioned his knowledge of the Firebolt, or the fact she might have a point.

“If I may?” she asked timidly. Ron stepped aside, mouth still agape, as she passed in front of him down the display racks. She stopped in front of a broom Ron had paid little attention to and pulled it down. “This is the newest model in the Galactic Phantom line.” She handed it to Ron. “It’s the Quasar Mark V. It, unlike the Firebolt, is not designed for speed.” Ron looked hesitantly between the broomstick and the girl in front of him. “It’s designed for agility.” She smiled, her eyes twinkling mischievously. “You might not catch Harry Potter in the open stretches, but you’ll out-corner him in every turn.”

Ron couldn’t help but smile at the mere suggestion. He refocused his attention on the broom before him, looking at it with renewed interest. “If it actually does what you say it does, I’ll bet you don’t score twenty-three goals on me again.”

Merc scoffed.

“What?” Ron said taken aback.

“Your broom isn’t the reason I could score on you.” Ron could feel the heat rising to his face. He opened his mouth to speak but she interrupted him before he could start. “Calm down, Red. I have no intention of getting into a verbal volley with you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Merc sighed and leaned against the broomstick rack. “I mean, don’t take everything so personally. You know you might actually learn something from talking to a chaser who’d beaten you before. I just might be able to help you improve.”

“Improve?” Ron said incredulously.

“Yes, improve.” Ron stared at her disbelievingly. “I only scored those goals because you told me where to throw the Quaffle.”

“What?” Ron barked.

Merc rolled her eyes and crossed her arms simply. “Ron, calm down. I’m not going to argue with you.” Something about her flat refusal to engage in a verbal attack took the wind out of Ron’s sails. “You know as well as I do that half of goalkeeping in Quidditch is anticipating where the chaser will go before they do. It’s educated guesswork.” Ron nodded in agreement. “I only scored those goals because I waited until after you’d made your decision. You list, albeit slightly, toward the goal you’ve ‘guessed’ I’ve chosen. After you tell me where you think I’m going, it’s not hard for me to go the other way.”

Ron’s jaw was planted firmly on the floor. He had no idea, as a keeper, he had any “tells.” No one on the Gryffindor team either noticed or bothered to inform him of such. In thinking back over his games, he still had a difficult time believing he did what Merc said. But it explained her success against him perfectly. As Ron thought through his technique, Merc suddenly found interest in the floor.

“Well, I um, have to go,” Merc said uncomfortably. “Good luck with your broom shopping.” She gave him a short wave and turned for the door.

Ron finally found his voice. “Wait,” she turned, the slightest tint of pink staining her cheeks.

Merc shuffled from one foot to the next and stared at the floor. “I’m sorry. I’m a bit outspoken. It’s one of my greatest flaws I dare say I have a habit of making people furious with me.”

“No, I appreciate it. No one ever told me that before,” Ron said sincerely.

“Well maybe, if you’re not opposed, if I happen to run into you on the pitch I can show you what I’m talking about.” She met his eyes briefly and looked at her watch. “I really need to go. I’m meeting someone.”

The smile in Ron’s eyes disappeared entirely as he remembered the exchange between Merc and her teammate the day after Halloween. “Oh, yeah. I’ll see you around.”

They exchanged a simple good bye and Ron watched her sweep from the store, the Quasar still gripped in his hand.

***

“I don’t mind telling you this is the first time in ages I feel like things are back to normal,” Harry said, briefly kissing the back of Hermione’s hand. Her fingers had been firmly laced through his for the past thirty minutes. They sat quietly, nursing their butterbeers and watching the scene before them. They had been lucky enough to score the corner table at the Three Broomsticks. It was secluded from most of the tavern and afforded them the opportunity for a little privacy in an otherwise maddeningly public place.

She sighed and took another sip of her butterbeer, leaning into Harry’s chest as he released her hand and wrapped an arm around her securely. “Me too,” she said quietly.

“This is a question I really should know the answer to,” Harry began. Hermione rolled her head up on his chest and looked expectantly toward his emerald eyes. “How are you? Really?” he asked.

She closed her eyes momentarily and drew a breath. “I’m okay.” She smiled at him. “Really, I am. I just take life one day at a time. At first it was a struggle to get through minutes. Then it was hours. I’m looking at things in terms of days now.” Harry nodded supportively. “But, I couldn’t have gotten even this far without you and Ron. I know I’ve said it before, but thank you Harry, for everything.”

He responded with a lingering kiss to her temple.

“This whole experience has given me a new perspective on life though,” she continued. Harry pulled his lips from her head and looked toward her curiously. “Life is so short. You never know what will happen from one day to the next. For all my planning,” she scoffed. “I could get impaled by an errant broomstick and leave nothing behind but a planner filled with the things I wanted to accomplish.”

“Hermione,” Harry began as he pulled away from her to get a better look.

“No, seriously Harry.” Hermione turned her body toward him and looked to the ring on her hand. “What is this for?”

“What do you mean?’ Harry asked, the fear evident in his voice.

“I mean this ring. Last year you asked me to marry you. I agreed. And we’ve never discussed it again.”

“Hermione, I told you. It’s enough for me to know that we are forever. The rest are just details,” Harry reiterated as Hermione kept her eyes fixed on the ring he’d given her. Feeling the need to continue he added, “I know our age is an issue for a lot of people…maybe even us. But, time means nothing to me. All that matters is you.”

“But time does matter Harry. When you boil everything down to brass tacks, time might be the only thing we really have.” She looked up to him, her eyes glistening. “And I don’t know how long I’ll have you.”

She didn’t need to say anything else for Harry to know what she was referring to. Aside from the mounting pressure to find a viable means of defeating Voldemort, the prophecy had begun to weigh on him. Everyone seemed in agreement that the prophecy (for better or worse) would be realized by the end of term, and the year was half past. He pulled her into a near crushing embrace, hoping beyond hope if he held her tight enough any possible evil that might befall them could be repelled. Although he knew that was impossible, there was something else he was more certain of.

“I love you, Hermione.”

She fisted her hands in his shirt and mumbled what he only assumed was a reciprocal sentiment. He kissed her on the top of her head, something that had become rather habitual with him lately, and she drew back.

“Did you hear me?”

“What?” Harry asked.

“I said I want to get married.” Harry’s stomach twisted into a knot.

“What?’ he asked again.

“I don’t want to wait,” she replied. “We’re not that young. We’re adults in the wizarding world already. In a few months we will be out of school and working toward careers, living on our own and all that. Your parents got married right out of school. They were only eighteen.” Her voice softened significantly. “Think what would’ve happened if they’d decided to wait.” Harry closed his eyes to the thought. “Harry,” she whispered. “Our world is so uncertain; our future so unsure…I don’t want regrets. I don’t want ‘should have’ and ‘would have.’ I want to be your wife, and I don’t want to lose a single moment with you because people might think we’re too young.”

Harry couldn’t stop the tears from welling in his eyes. He’d felt this way since the end of last year. It’s why he’d been compelled to ask her in the first place. But, he’d also been scared to death that he’d made the biggest mistake of his life. That he’d gone too quickly and frightened her off with his forwardness. As a result, he’d taken the exact opposite position and tried desperately to convince her he didn’t want to marry her the second their time at Hogwarts was through. In truth, he laid awake nearly every night. He thought about their house in Godric’s Hollow. Although he’s never seen the interior, he’d redecorated every room in his mind, some twice. He’d imagined walking in the front door to the sounds of his own bushy-haired green eyed children and scent of supper wafting through the house. Some nights his thoughts wandered (as they are prone to do for any seventeen year-old hormonal teenager) to the variety of places he’d imagined consummating their marriage. He also thought of the ways to do so. Frankly, he had no experience in that department at all, and Hermione would be totally flabbergasted to know he’d been clandestinely reading up on the subject. Truth be told, for all the reasons she just listed, he didn’t want to put off marriage any longer than she did. But, somewhere inside, that ten year old boy, locked in a cupboard beneath the stairs, couldn’t believe his own ears.

“Are you sure?”

He felt her hands softly turn his head toward her and he opened his eyes. She caught a single tear with her thumb as trickled down his cheek. “I love you, Harry.”

He curled his hand through her hair and crushed his lips against hers. She leaned into him bodily and returned an equally passionate kiss. Neither seemed to mind the glaringly obvious display of affection, or the looks they’d begun to attract from other Hogwarts students. They saw nothing, heard nothing, and felt nothing – except the love they felt for each other and the sounds of their own hearts, beating as one.

***

Hermione drew back at the weak sound of someone clearing their throat expectantly. She looked up and remembered the invitation she’d extended. Suddenly realizing more eyes than Merc Thompson’s had been watching the scene, she inconspicuously dabbed her mouth with a napkin and offered Merc a seat.

“I can come back,” Merc said hesitantly. “I really don’t want to interrupt.”

“Nonsense,” Hermione replied, feeling Harry’s shoulder slump against hers. She glanced at him warningly as Merc settled into a chair. The awkward silence was broken quickly as Madam Rosmerta arrived at the table.

“Well, I should thank you for interrupting our young couple. The tavern was becoming far more interested in the happenings at this table than ordering more spirits from the bar.” She winked at Merc and smiled brightly. “What can I get for you?”

“I’ll have a butterbeer, please,” Merc replied. With an affirmative nod Madam Rosmerta made her way back to the bar to fill her order. Hermione could barely contain the blush erupting on her cheeks. She nursed her butterbeer embarrassedly as Merc addressed them both. “Oh, please. It’s about time you both found some happiness again. There’s nothing to be coy about.”

Harry and Hermione exchanged a blushing glance and he looked at Merc Inquisitively. “So, what brings you to the Three Broomsticks?” Merc, apparently taken aback, looked at Hermione.

“I invited her to meet us.” Hermione smiled. “I thought a more formal introduction might be in order for you and…”

“Hi, Ron,” Harry interrupted. The exuberant smile slid from Ron’s face as he realized who was sitting at their table. Hermione could feel the confusion wafting from him but it was tangled among a variety of other emotions she couldn’t disseminate. In either case, neither Harry nor Ron masked the disappointment stamped across their features.

“Really, Hermione. This isn’t one of your better ideas,” Merc said with an obviously forced smile. “I should go.”

“You will not,” Hermione declared. “Ron, sit down. What kept you?”

He looked at the packages in his hand and held them up. “I also ran into Ginny outside of Honeydukes. I, er- lost track of time.” Ron looked between the three and dropped into the chair adjacent to Merc. He dropped his packages on the floor next to them and placed a long wrapped package against the wall.

“Ron?” Harry’s eyes widened with comprehension. “Did you get a new broomstick?”

The exhilaration Ron sported as he entered the tavern came back in full measure. His eyes sparkled and his face brightened like a child who’d just heard the faint music of the ice cream vendor in the distance. “Yeah, I did!”

“Wha..how?” Harry stammered.

Ron shot Harry a derisive glare as he inclined his head toward Merc. Hermione looked between the two wonderingly. “Well, my Cleansweep was getting a bit dodgy and I thought I might replace with something a bit more suited to my position.”

“You never mentioned your Cleansweep was giving you fits,” Harry said with concern.

Ron cleared his throat and waved Madam Rosmerta to the table. “Well, it’s been kind of recent.” Madam Rosmerta set a butterbeer in front of Merc and smiled at Ron. Before she could ask the question, he answered it for her. “I’ll have a butterbeer as well, please.” She nodded and made her way through the crowd. “So, did you see who’s over there?” Ron began, appearing desperate to change the subject.

Merc turned around and scanned the tables where Ron had pointed. “Is that Professor Lupin?” she asked.

“Yes,” Harry replied.

“I haven’t seen him in years,” Merc added as she turned back to the trio. “Until Professor Tonks, he was the only Defense teacher that was worth his salt.”

“You think Tonks is better?” Harry asked, fixing his eyes on Merc.

“I don’t know. They’re different. But, they’re both good.” She turned back to catch another glimpse of them. “I didn’t realize they knew each other,” she said wryly. She turned back to the table and sipped her butterbeer.

“So do you like Defense Against the Dark Arts?” Ron asked.

“Not particularly. That, among other things, is the reason why Hermione was never able to persuade me to show up for that ill-fated meeting at the Hog’s Head.” Merc winked at Hermione.

“It wasn’t for lack of trying. You’re as stubborn as a mule,” Hermione joked.

“Not unlike you, dear,” Merc replied. They laughed together and Hermione felt the tension ease.

“So, what is your favorite subject then?” Harry continued.

Merc dropped her eyes and shrugged her shoulders. “Well, for the bunch of Gryffindors that you are, you’ll probably think this is incredibly boring,” she began.

“History of Magic,” Ron interrupted. Merc looked at him squarely for the first time since he sat down.

“History of Magic,” she affirmed.

Ron scoffed. “That is incredibly boring. At least Defense class can get your adrenaline pumping.” He gratefully accepted the butterbeer Madam Rosmerta handed him and took a sip.

“Well, I’m not as much for adrenaline-pumping classes as you all might be. Professor Lupin’s class might’ve taken years off my life, rather than adding to it,” Merc said quietly as she glanced over her shoulder at he and Tonks.

Ron narrowed his eyes curiously and turned to her. “So what was your boggart?” Silence stifled the air. Hermione felt the discomfort flow from Merc. However, she noted impressively, Merc’s demeanor didn’t change in the least. She remained silent for a moment longer and slowly turned to face Ron. Harry and Ron leaned on the table awaiting her answer as her eyes gleamed mischievously.

“Which broom did you get?”

Now Ron was the uncomfortable one.

***

One thing about a good supper is its propensity to keep conversation to a minimum. That was one of the things Ron cherished about dining in the Great Hall. Frankly, he’d had enough conversation today to satisfy him for months. He’d planned to ramble on to Harry and Hermione about Fred and George, Quality Quidditch Supplies, and his new broom until he realized who had joined them at the Three Broomsticks. Suddenly he’d felt the nagging compulsion to avoid the subject entirely. He’d been rather pleased with his ability to steer the conversation away from his shopping trip until Merc asked him the one question he was hoping she’d forget. Although Harry and Hermione had no idea why his face caught fire with his answer, the smug grin from Merc Thompson was enough to boil the very blood in his veins.

Merc Thompson, there’s someone I’d prefer not to talk about.

“So,” Hermione’s voice floated across the table. “What did you think of her?” She looked between Ron and Harry as she took a bite of her corn.

“Who?” Harry asked as he scooped another helping of mashed potatoes on his plate.

Hermione glared at him. “Harry, don’t be daft.”

“Oh.” He smiled. “You mean Merc,” he answered, winking at Ron. “She seems nice.”

For an insufferable know-it-all.

“Ron!” Hermione barked. Ron’s head snapped up from his dinner. Judging from Hermione’s reaction, he’d made his last comment aloud. He dropped his eyes back to his plate as Hermione’s glare bored a hole through the top of his head. “Well,” she scoffed. “You think I’m an insufferable know-it-all too,” she said flatly.

“It’s not the same, Hermione,” Ron clarified. He looked across the table and saw Hermione studying him with a look he’d not seen before. “What?”

“Ron, can I ask you something?” she said softly.

He looked at Harry hesitantly and replied, “Go ahead.”

“I spoke to Merc the other day about what happened on Halloween,” she began.

“Hermione, I already told you about that. I really don’t want to get into it again,” Ron said warningly.

“No. That’s not what I’m getting at. She told me what happened. It was basically the same story you told me. But she told me something else. Something you left out.” If Ron could’ve crawled under the table he would have. This was not a subject he was eager to revisit. “She said you apologized to her.”

That’s exactly what he thought was coming. He had a feeling he’d have to explain himself to Hermione sooner or later. “Later” always seemed more appealing. “Yeah, so,” he responded nonchalantly.

“It’s just that,” Hermione stopped. “We’ve argued for years. We’ve had some terrible rows before.” She stabbed a kidney bean with her fork. “You’ve never apologized to me.”

Ron drew a deep breath and put his fork down. He’d thought about this very thing for weeks. He still wasn’t sure he’d come up with a suitable answer, and whatever he said probably wouldn’t suit Hermione. He pushed his plate away and crossed his arms on the table. “I don’t know, Hermione.”

She put her fork down and leveled her eyes at him. He looked to Harry for support, but he seemed as interested in the reply as Hermione. “It’s was different,” he began. More thinking aloud than spouting a canned answer, Ron began to talk. “I was really horrible to her. I said things I don’t think I would’ve said to anyone; things I shouldn’t have said to anyone.” He ran his fingers over the roughened table as he continued. “It wasn’t the same as fighting with you. She didn’t fight back. She didn’t scream. She didn’t yell. She didn’t try to hurt me the way I hurt her. I think that’s how I knew I had hurt her in the first place.” Harry and Hermione were staring at him, silently urging him to continue. He looked at Hermione directly. “We have a line Hermione. I almost see it like rules for our rows. Although we’ve come close, we’ve never crossed it. No matter how terrible our arguments are, I know I’m not going to lose you as a friend. I know that whatever we say will be forgotten in a matter of minutes and things will go on as normal. It wasn’t like that this time.” Ron noticed Hermione’s brow furrow. “I might feel depressed after arguing with you Hermione, but I’ve never felt guilty.” He looked back to the table. “I’ve never felt so guilty in my life. I couldn’t stop thinking about the look on her face. I had to apologize.” He took a sip of his pumpkin juice as looked over the goblet. “What?”

Hermione was smiling.

“Nothing Ron,” she replied. “It would sound rather condescending if I told you I was proud of you.” She fell silent and looked between them both. She drew a breath and lowered her voice. “Er - about our project,” she said quietly.

“What about it?” Harry responded quizzically.

“Well, you know we’ve not gotten anywhere in the last several weeks.” She looked around the Great Hall. “Even with Professor Dumbledore’s help, we’ve not come any closer to a defense yet.”

“I know,” Harry said heavily.

“Well,” Hermione began hesitantly. “I was thinking about Merc…”

“You can’t be serious,” Ron interrupted.

“Why not?” Hermione said exasperatedly.

“Hermione, I can’t be in the same room with that girl without feeling like a complete idiot! What with Quidditch, and what happened on Halloween, and…I don’t know…everything, she just makes me thoroughly uncomfortable,” Ron snapped.

“Aside from that, Hermione,” Harry added. “This project isn’t something we’re doing for extra credit in Binn’s class.”

“Exactly,” Ron chimed.

“She can help without knowing about the prophecy,” Hermione clarified.

“How?” Harry said incredulously.

“I don’t know.” She slumped her shoulders defeatedly. “You both think I’m the smartest witch in the school.” She looked at them decidedly. “I’m not. Merc is a lot smarter than I am. What I slave hours for, comes to her in minutes. History is her favorite subject. Ancient history fascinates her. You should hear all the anecdotes I’ve sat through during our study sessions!” Ron rolled his eyes. The mere thought of Hermione being bored by someone else’s knowledge was a bit incredible to say the least. “I just think she might be able to help us, that’s all.”

“Hermione,” Ron felt the need to point out the obvious. “Dumbledore is working on this with us. I hardly think the addition of Merc Thompson would make a significant difference.”

“I have to agree, Hermione,” Harry added.

Hermione crossed her arms. “Well, if you’re waiting for me to suddenly find the silver bullet it’s not going to happen!” she said hotly. “I need help!”

“What are we?” Ron retorted, feeling the heat rise under his collar.

“You can research and look in the books with the best of them Ron, but you aren’t analytical. I need someone to debate theories with, to analyze what we’re looking, at and theorize how to make effective use of it!”

“We can do that!” Ron felt his voice rising.

“Shhhh,” Harry hissed looking around to the attention they’d started attracting. Hermione gave him a fleeting glance and dropped her voice.

“No, you can’t Ron.”

Silence fell between them. For as angry as Ron wanted to be, he knew somewhere in the depths of his soul, Hermione was right. The mere thought of engaging in that type of conversation, not only bored him to tears, but made him feel thoroughly inadequate. He wasn’t one to analyze anything more than a chessboard or a Quidditch strategy. He looked at Harry inquiringly.

Harry sighed. “Hermione, I trust you completely,” he said quietly. “If you can find a way to include her, without telling her about the prophecy or the Order, then I’ll agree to it.” He looked at Ron questioningly. “What about you?”

“I don’t know. I’m still leery of including anyone else in this. Like Harry said, this isn’t some extra credit project.” Hermione slumped her shoulders and gave Ron the one look he could never stand up to. Nearly chastising himself for being weak, he continued, “But, if Harry is okay with it, I guess I am too.”

Hermione nearly leapt the table to hug him. As she couldn’t reach Ron, she settled for Harry. He clutched her tightly and mouthed, “thank you,” to Ron over her shoulder. He gave him a simple nod as he felt the third-wheel syndrome wash over him again.

“Hermione, what’s wrong?” Harry asked with concern. Ron looked up to see Hermione stiffen in his arms. She pulled back, staring over his shoulder. Both Ron and Harry craned their necks to see what had caught her attention. Ron was at a loss. The only thing he saw was Ginny dropping onto a bench a bit farther down the table. He watched her scoop some food onto her plate just as the desserts were replacing the entrees on the table.

“Hermione?” Harry reiterated.

“Er, it’s nothing,’ she replied, innocuously waving her hand. Ron wasn’t sure about Harry, but he wasn’t convinced. It also hadn’t escaped his attention that Hermione’s eyes were still fixed on his sister.

***

“So are you going to tell me what that was about at dinner or not?” Harry inquired as he and Hermione patrolled the corridors.

“What do you mean?” she replied.

You know what I mean.

Hermione stopped in her tracks leaving Harry to walk a few more paces before realizing she had not kept pace. He turned to see her standing rooted to the spot. Something about the look on her face humored Harry. “Did you forget we used to do that?” He sauntered back to her and wrapped his arms around her waist.

“Honestly? I think I did,” she answered. Harry chuckled briefly and kissed her on the forehead. “Harry?”

“Hmmm?” he mumbled, his lips still pressed to her skin.

“How do we do that?”

He pulled away and studied her expression. “I think it’s like Dumbledore told us when we first arrived this year. I think its both of us. I can say for my part I haven’t really tried since everything has been so…well…complicated this year.”

Hermione laced her arms through his and curled into his chest. “Thank you,” she whispered.

He kissed her lightly on the top of her head and replied, “Among everything else you had to deal with, I figured you might like to keep your thoughts to yourself.” He could sense her smile against his chest. “Come on, we’ve got loads of homework to finish after our rounds.”

She pulled away from him as they turned to walk the staircase to the sixth floor corridor. They laced their hands together relying on the fact all students were supposed to be in their houses over an hour ago. “Something is going on with Ginny,” Hermione said suddenly.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. I’m still so unsure if what I think I’m feeling from them is actually what they’re feeling,” she answered.

“They who?” Harry asked.

“Ron and Ginny,” Hermione replied. “I’ve been getting something from both of them. I just don’t know what to make of it, or if I’m interpreting any of it correctly in the first place.”

“Have you asked Madam Pomfrey?” Harry offered, he was trying his best to be supportive. In truth he was dead interested in what Hermione could do, if only for his own benefit in their relationship. Somewhere down the road he was sure he’d want to know if Hermione could feel what he was feeling – for better or worse.

“It’s really been something I’ve worked on only recently,” she said.

“So what are you getting?” Harry inquired. Hermione slowed to a stop and leaned against the corridor wall. She crossed her arms and seemed to process her thoughts. After a moment of thoughtful silence she answered Harry’s question. “Well, Ron has been very uncomfortable at any mention of Merc Thompson. I’ve never known him to be so out-of-sorts over a simple argument. I know he said some awful things to her but I get a variety of things from him. He feels guilty about it; he’s completely self-conscious around her. More than anything I get streams of confusion from him. I don’t think he knows why he’s so uncomfortable around her. He just is.”

“Is that why you were smiling at him at dinner?” Harry prompted.

“Yes,” she said with a giggle. “In part, I was happy to have some of my inclinations validated…especially his raging guilt complex. But also because I’ve got other speculations about his behavior,” she added wryly.

“He fancies Merc,” Harry said flatly. Hermione’s eyes snapped to Harry’s and she looked at him questioningly.

“What? So now my inner monologue is open for discussion?” Hermione said scathingly.

Harry let out a burst of laughter. “No,” he walked to where she stood and leaned against the wall with her. “Hermione, everything you just mentioned about Ron is exactly what I went through with you at the Burrow last summer.” Her eyes softened at his words. “Do you agree he’s got feelings for her?”

“Yes,” she said reservedly. “I also get the same mix of emotions from her.”

“Really?”

“Well, she might act tough on the exterior, but she wears her emotions on her sleeve. She gets completely discombobulated when he’s around. It’s not like her at all. What’s more she’s doing her dead level best to ensure no one sees it.”

“I don’t see it,” Harry replied.

“Neither do I,” Hermione said. “I feel it.”

“Okay, so that’s Ron out of the way. What is the matter with Ginny?” Harry asked.

“That is a bit more difficult,” Hermione said quietly. “I can’t help but get the feeling she’s hiding something.” Harry’s brow furrowed at her concern. “I don’t mean hiding the fact she failed a test, or that she’s gotten a body piercing behind Molly’s back,” she looked at Harry and raised an eyebrow. “Both of those I suspect by the way. I think she’s hiding something big.” Harry searched his own thoughts for a manufactured list of things Ginny Weasley might be hiding. However, nothing of importance came to mind.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. When she came into the Great Hall tonight I caught her eye. She had been staring at Ron and I was overwhelmed with a sense of betrayal. Not lies, or deceit…betrayal. It was so strong it nearly took my breath away.”

The corridor fell silent as they both processed Hermione’s words. Harry didn’t know what to make of it. Ginny had become a good friend to all of them. He trusted her as much as any other member of Ron’s family. Sometimes when he looked at her, he saw the sister he never had. It was a lot for him to accept the fact she might be hiding something from Ron. But then again, he’d never had a sibling…and for the record neither had Hermione. Who’s to know if such feelings weren’t just par for the course? Who’s to say a sister wouldn’t feel like she’d betrayed her brother by misplacing his favorite jumper she’d nicked from his closet?

“We’d best get moving if we’re ever going to get through Snape’s essay tonight,” Hermione’s voice drew him from his thoughts. They walked off in silence, fingers intertwined in each other’s. They followed the normal route they’d set up for their rounds and eventually made their way back toward Gryffindor Tower. Harry was just about to comment on the lack of students they’d caught in the hallways after hours, when the sound of hurried footsteps approached from an adjacent corridor.

As they turned the corner they were greeted with a gasp from an unsettling source. “Ginny!” Hermione exclaimed. “What in the name of Merlin are you doing out in the corridors? You know curfew was well over an hour ago!”

Harry couldn’t help but notice how Ginny looked. She was normally a very well assembled witch. Not that he’d ever let Hermione know it, but she had grown into a rather stunning young lady. She took quite a bit more care with her hair, make-up, and wardrobe than Hermione ever did. Not that Harry minded Hermione’s girl-next-door quality. Frankly, he thought Ginny might bee too ‘high-maintenance’ to have ever been compatible with him. However, given her current state of dishevelment, he had to admit his concern. Her hair was haphazardly thrown in a clip on the top of her head and her clothes were hanging sloppily under her robes. She looked as if she hadn’t slept in days and it didn’t take an empath to know she was hiding something.

“Where have you been?” Harry asked, feeling the need to assume the role of her brother in Ron’s absence.

She looked at him scathingly. “If you want to give me detention then go ahead, Harry. But, where I’ve been is not your concern.”

Hermione was visibly taken back by her words. “Ginny, we’re worried about you. You were late for dinner and now you’re skulking about the corridors after hours? What’s going on with you?” she asked.

Ginny barked a laugh that was nearly reminiscent of Sirius. “That’s rich. Like the two of you have never been late for dinner and out in the corridors after hours!” Harry resigned himself to the fact he couldn’t comment on that. She was right. Their escapades after hours were as much a part of Hogwarts history over the last seven years as treacle pudding and Quidditch. “Listen, if you’re not giving me detention, I need to get back to the common room before Filch or that blasted cat finds me,” she said as she pushed past them.

Neither Harry nor Hermione moved from their spot. They merely watched her disappear around the corner. After returning to his senses, Harry looked at Hermione. “Same thing?” he asked.

“Yes,” she muttered. “But there’s something else as well. She’s scared to death about something.” With a heavy sigh, she and Harry looked at each other and finished their rounds of the castle.

16. Et Tu Brute

A/N: First – and as always – big thanks to CC for cleaning this one up for me. My canon Queen has kept me afloat again J

A few points to note: First , and most importantly, there’s a magical plant in here I borrowed from another fic. The entire idea of grapevines being enchanted to either give or receive communication is based on Lori’s use of them in PoU.

Second: there is a HUGE, and I mean gaping black hole, of a spot for a cookie between two of our shippers here. I may or may not be inspired to write it later. If I do, it will obviously fall in the NC-17 range-If it comes to fruition look for it in my “cookie jar” on the Yahoo site.

Third: There is a (what I hope is a classic) VLeigh action scene here. I hope you enjoy it!

Last: Quite a bit will be revealed? Or will it be brought into question? I’m not sure, but the chapter title seemed fitting….It’s obviously from Julius Ceaser.

Chapter 16 – Et’ Tu Brute?

George looked at his watch anxiously awaiting his brother. In truth, his mind was not entirely focused on the task at hand. “Was this all the intelligence Riley was able to gather?” Arthur Weasley asked as his eyes floated over the scrolls of parchment laid out on the kitchen table.

“Yes,” Severus Snape replied flatly.

Most of the members of the Order were assembled at Grimmauld Place for a briefing. “Operation Ferret” was scheduled for this evening and they decided to eat a meal together while they finalized their last minute plans. Molly was flitting about in the kitchen, generally mumbling to herself while making dinner. Arthur, Dumbledore, Snape, Mad-Eye, and George were already reviewing the plans they’d established thus far.

Parchments were spread along the table showing the floor plans of Malfoy Manor; glowing in different colors to denote security wards. While they looked at the drawings before them, George conjured a simulation model that hovered above the table. It spun slowly so that all members of the assault team could get a panoramic view of their target.

“This intel is accurate as of four hours ago,” George affirmed. “Riley has outdone himself this time.” George waved his wand over the simulation and readjusted the security wards to coincide with the latest information. He studied it carefully, inspecting the spinning apparition for anything he might’ve missed. At the mention of Riley’s name Mad-Eye grumbled aloud and stalked off for the kitchen. He might’ve been the best, if not the only, source the Order had high enough in the Ministry to get the information they needed. But Mad-Eye was still weary of any snitch he hadn’t met – and questioned thoroughly.

“Dinner is almost ready,” Molly said as she stood in the doorway, seemingly mesmerized by George’s activity. “Who are we missing?”

“Remus, Tonks, and Fred,” Arthur replied. “Minerva is filling in for Albus at Hogwarts.” He looked between his watch and the hallway leading to the front entrance. He looked to George questioningly and asked, “Where is your brother, George?”

George hesitated noticeably and then buried his eyes in the parchment before him. “He’ll be along shortly.”

“George?” Molly asked warningly.

“What?” he replied with manufactured innocence.

“Where is your brother?” The tone of her voice clearly demanded a truthful answer.

“Well, er- he,” George fumbled over the words.

“He’s right here,” Fred said as he walked quietly into the room from the entrance hall. He gave his mother a short hug and took his place next to George, studying the simulation as it turned.

“Never mind, I don’t want to know,” Molly replied exasperatedly as she returned to the kitchen.

“That’s well put,” George muttered quietly to Fred. They broke into identical grins, which quickly slid from their faces as they locked eyes with their father. Fred cleared his throat loudly.

“So what did I miss?”

“Nothing yet,” Moody growled as he walked back into the room. He commandeered an upholstered chair sitting unobtrusively in a dark corner of the room. George wasn’t sure if it was his generally amiable demeanor or the fact the firelight cast a single beam of light across his eyes – effectively making his magical eye glow ominously – but something about Mad-Eye always seemed more sinister than friendly. He, for one, was happy Mad-Eye was on the Order’s side.

“Clear off that table,” Molly bellowed from the kitchen. “We have plenty of time to talk strategy after we eat.” The men assembled around the table did as instructed. With a wave of his wand George sent the simulation floating lazily to the ceiling. The other parchments were quickly rolled and stacked in a vacant chair by the fireplace. Dumbledore waved his hand toward the kitchen and an array of dinnerware flew from the kitchen as set themselves on the table. Molly followed shortly behind with several steaming dishes levitating in the air behind her.

“Brilliant!” a new voice called from the hallway. “We’re just in time,” Remus declared. He and Tonks walked into the kitchen hand-in-hand to an obvious eye roll from Severus Snape. Apparently relishing in “old times,” Remus took the opportunity to respond. “What’s the matter Severus?”

“From what I hear from the seventh year students, you had quite an afternoon in Hogsmeade,” he replied flatly.

“That we did,” Tonks replied brightly as she looked toward Remus with a warm smile. In response, he leaned into her and kissed her softly on the cheek.

“Wonderful,” Mad-Eye growled, throwing up his hands in disgust. “Now is not the time to lose focus!’

“Oh, settle down Moody,” Tonks said laughingly. “We’re as focused as that magical eyeball of yours.”

“Yeah, well this magical eyeball can tell your knickers are on inside-out.”

Tonks scandalously raised her eyebrow and replied, “Exactly my point.”

George suddenly realized Fred was slapping him on the back as he choked on his butterbeer. When George regained proper respiration he joined the laughter that accompanied the flaming red face sported by Remus Lupin.

“Tuck in,” Molly said, wiping a tear from her eye and settling down to the table. The table fell silent, save for the sounds of clinking silverware and quiet chewing. George filled up on the variety of foods his mother had cooked. He knew, from experience, that stress brought out the chef in Molly Weasley. Her role in this evening’s mission was to coordinate the operation from Grimmauld Place. Although that kept her safely out of harm’s way, it placed her husband and two sons directly within the path of several Death Eaters. George knew her silence was indicative of her valiant attempt to hold herself together.

Sometimes the anticipation of what they did was worse than the reality of it.

***

“We’ve got approximately one hour. Let’s go through it one more time,” Moody said curtly.

The supper dishes had been cleared nearly an hour before and the team had reviewed their plan twice already. George’s simulation hovered over the table in front of them.

“All right,” Arthur sighed as he picked his wand up from the table. “These are the schematic diagrams of Malfoy Manor. Based on the information from Riley…”

“…or lack of it,” Moody interrupted.

Arthur hesitated before continuing,”…or lack of it. We all know Voldemort and his cronies are planning a major attack. The problem is, for all of our speculation, we are no closer to determining what it is, where, or when it will happen.” The Order listened attentively as if they’d never heard the information before. In truth, this was the third iteration this evening. However, no one seemed to mind.

“It doesn’t take much to figure out that Lucius Malfoy is Voldemort’s right hand,” Remus added.

“If he’s the right, then Bellatrix is the left,” Tonks said with mirth. Remus nodded silently, as did several others.

“Voldemort has never been one for strategy. His many failed attempts to vanquish Harry have proven that his abilities in organizing an assault are deficient to say the least,” Dumbledore said quietly over the parchment he was inspecting.

“So, it stands to reason that any plans they are preparing would have to be organized by someone other than Voldemort. Riley all but confirmed this with some of the intelligence he gathered from the Ministry. We know Lucius Malfoy has a broad influence with the upper echelon in the Ministry, if only for the galleons he’s thrown at them to buy his way in,” Arthur continued.

“So how are we sure that the information Riley gave us proves Malfoy is the one planning the next attack?” Molly asked.

“We aren’t,” Moody growled.

“It’s a gut instinct Mum,” George replied. “Malfoy has been scratching around for a lot of information that he shouldn’t be interested in. He’s gathered information about Hogwarts and he’s thrown an exorbitant sum of money at Minister Fudge to solidify his access. He’s even gone so far as to gather intelligence on the very people in this room. What’s more, we’ve tailed him to an increasing number of disturbing dark wizarding establishments. We’ve even heard suspicious conversation in our own shop.”

“There’s a sense from Riley that he’s had contact with Damien Keres,” Fred added.

“And Malfoy Manor might have more security wards than Hogwarts at this point,” Remus said darkly. “No one needs that kind of security unless they’re hiding something.”

Molly nodded weakly. “Alright. Since I’m coordinating the operation from here, let me ensure I have it right.” They nodded their assent and George sent the spinning simulation down the table toward his mother. She raised her wand to stop its motion and began talking through the plan. “Everyone will apparate just outside the wards. Remus and Tonks will go here.” She pointed to an area west of the manor and two figures glowed with a blue light. “Severus and Arthur will go here.” She repeated the motion and two figures appeared in green. “Fred and George will go here,” she tapped the simulation and their representative figures glowed red. Mad-Eye and Albus will command the operation on site, from this point to the south. Each of the teams will manage their own warded entry. As we figure it, there are seven different wards protecting the grounds. However, the front door is relatively unprotected.”

“That basically leaves each team two wards to circumvent,” Fred muttered.

“Yes, but you have the counter spells from Albus and he will remain in his position should you need any assistance,” Arthur reminded him.

“Riley has it on good authority that Lucius and Narcissa will be at the Ministry fundraiser the evening. Draco is not due home for the holidays until tomorrow afternoon,” Molly continued. “That leaves only the servants and house elves to consider.”

“The Manor is warded against disillusionment charms, so Mundugus creatively acquired several invisibility cloaks for our employ,” Fred offered clearly avoiding his mother’s gaze.

“We are not expecting any additional Death Eaters. This Ministry gala is big enough, most of them will be in attendance,” Arthur interjected. “However, should any of us encounter an issue, stun first and ask questions later.”

“The teams will have three minutes to make it to the front door after Albus and Moody give the signal. You’ll meet at the front door and make your way to the third floor study, located here.” Molly continued to reiterate the plan and tapped the simulated mansion, illuminating the room. “Are we sure about this room Severus?” she added.

“Yes,” he replied without embellishment.

“Each team has several rolls of parchment Fred and George supplied from their store. When you find the plans, roll the parchment over them and they will appear on your scroll; return to the safe point here.” The area denoting Dumbledore and Moody’s location sparkled brightly. “Should you have any unexpected issues, contact Moody, Dumbledore, or myself with the grapevines Albus brought from the greenhouse. We’ve set up surveillance charms within the past two days that are operating well.” She muttered an incantation and the simulation showed several purple beams of light, boarding a carriage and heading off the grounds.

“Imagine that. They’ll be fashionably late,” Tonks said sarcastically.

“We should be hearing from Riley soon,” Remus added. As they watched the purple light disappear from the floating simulation they began pulling on black clothing, gathering their invisibility cloaks, and holstering their wands. George elbowed Fred in the side as they watched Mad-Eye prepare for battle. He had no less than 4 wands holstered on his body, a variety of potions corked in small vials wrapped around his midsection, and a handful of enchanted dragon flies with rather imposing teeth bottled and strapped to his outer thigh. Both Fred and George stopped their inspection abruptly as Mad Eye’s magical eyes spun wildly and fixed on them.

Molly organized the parchments on the table as she reset the colored images floating before her. Tonks kept one eye on the fireplace as her stomach rumbled gently.

“Hey.” A quiet voice sounded in her ear. She turned her head toward Remus with a smile.

“Hi,” she replied.

“Are you all right?” he asked with concern.

“Yeah.” She waved her hand nonchalantly. “I’m fine, I always get a little nervous before an operation.”

“I’ll be right next to you,” he said softly. She studied his face for a moment and turned to him fully.

“For how long?” she asked. The double meaning of her question was apparently not lost on Remus.

He pulled her around the corner to a darkened hallway. “For as long as you’ll have me,” he replied, his eyes wandering noticeably toward her lips. Whatever malady had invaded her stomach prior to this conversation invaded southward now. She closed the mere centimeters separating them and pressed her lips to his. She raised her hand to his cheek as he opened his mouth to her advances and they lost themselves in a private moment. Tonks thoughts drifted to the hour they’d spent prior to arriving at Grimmauld Place. Remembering the softness of his touch and the passion she scarcely realized he was capable of, she melted against him, moaning softly. Just as he deepened the kiss, wrapping his arms around her, a bright flash emanated from the kitchen fire and, even though they’d stepped out of the room, it nearly blinded her.

“Blast! Can someone tell Riley we have to be able to see to invade the Manor?” Fred barked as he rubbed his eyes.

“That’s the signal,” Arthur added needlessly. “They’re at the gala.”

Without additional conversation, the Order walked through the back doors to the warded apparition point in the back garden. Two by two, they disapparated to their assigned locations around the Manor.

Tonks grabbed Remus’ hand as they apparated together. As the grounds of Malfoy manor became clear, she regained her footing and sunk behind a large evergreen a few feet away. Remus followed suit. She handed Remus her wand as she pulled the charmed chronograph from her pocket. She flipped it open and kept an eye on the hands. When they spun to 12:00, it would indicate all members of the team were in position. At that point, they would have three minutes to make it to the front door.

“It looks quiet,” Remus said.

“Molly will tell us if we have any uninvited guests,” Tonks said softly. She looked back to the chronograph. This was the part of any mission she hated most…waiting. Part of her consistently urged her body forward, only to be reigned in by the sensibly trained side that required prudence. So she passed the time the way she always did – revisiting her mission. “What wards do we have to counter?”

“Hang on,” Remus said looking through a pair of enchanted glasses. They were none too stylish. They had large imposing black frames and were as thick as a butterbeer bottle. The left side was adorned with a conspicuous sparkling butterfly, nearly half as large as the lens itself. Tonks was quite sure they’d been nicked from Rita Skeeter at some point. But since then, Dumbledore charmed them to sense potential security wards. “There are two in our path.”

“And?”

“One is a simple infrared ward that will trip with our body heat. The other looks like a magical mass indicator.”

“Well, the first is easy,” Tonks said as she took her wand out of Remus’ hand. “Occulto fervefacio.” Tonks felt her body turn cold as she cast the charm over them both. This was one of the things about being an Auror she never liked. These missions couldn’t be conducted without putting yourself through some manner of discomfort and she hated being cold. “If the second is a magical mass indicator, it will detect our invisibility cloak, wands, chronograph, even ourselves. That is unless you can make yourself a muggle in the next thirty seconds.”

“Not hardly,” Remus said, pulling the glasses from his face and pocketing them. But I’ve gotten around this one before. “Celo magicus.”

“How do I not know that spell?” she said rubbing her forearms rapidly.

“You’ve never been a Marauder,” he replied with a smile. She barely had time to smile back when the chronograph spun to twelve o’clock. “That’s it, let’s go!” she ordered.

Having circumvented their wards they needed only to make it across the rather vast grounds and to the front door in three minutes. That wouldn’t be an issue if they could run. However, they would have to be huddled underneath an invisibility cloak to mask their approach. Remus swung the cloak over them both and they set out across the open lawn. She could only assume the other teams, hidden under their own cloaks, were approaching as well. She looked at the chronograph, now acting as a stop watch and muttered, “45 seconds,” as they picked up the pace.

They were within a hair’s breadth of the front entrance when all hell broke loose.

“Get down!” she heard Remus shout as he pushed her to the ground. A stream of red light shot over her head and exploded into a nearby tree. She pulled her face from the lawn and looked up to see several Death Eaters approaching in the shadowy distance. “Don’t move! We’re still under the cloak,” Remus whispered. Tonks pulled the grapevine from her pocket and listened for any traffic between the teams. There was none. She assumed they were remaining silent as well. That was until she heard Molly’s voice.

“What’s going on? Why have all of you stopped?”

Suddenly several whispered voices erupted over the grapevine together. Each of them asked some version of the same question…how many are there, and where did they come from?

“Them who?” Molly said, the frustration evident in her voice. “There’s no one there!”

“Oh, bloody hell!” Remus said aloud next to her. Tonks snapped her head in the direction he was looking. She, essentially, had the same thought. The Death Eaters emerged from the shadows with strange-looking eyewear. It instantly resolved the only question still plaguing her about that stunner they’d dodged.

“They can see us!”

Apparently, the other teams determined likewise as Tonks saw Fred and George leap up from the ground, the cloak forgotten behind them. Remus and Tonks followed suit and ran for the nearest cover they could find. Multi-colored streams of light were searing the air around them. It didn’t pass her notice that some of those spells were the same chilling green hue she’d seen at Privet Drive; the same green hue she’d seen hit Kingsley on Halloween. They dove behind a stone wall and Tonks snapped the grapevine to her ear. “Molly! We need an exit strategy now!” Amid the cacophony across the grapevine and the sound of spells crashing around her it was hard to hear the answer, but she heard it.

“I don’t know! I can’t see any of the Death Eaters! Our surveillance charms have been disarmed!”

“Damn it!” Tonks yelled as she threw the grapevine down. She turned to face the fight with Remus. “We have to get beyond this apparition ward! We’re sitting ducks out here!” From the grapevine, now lying inertly on the ground she could hear Moody barking the order to fallback. She only hoped everyone heard it.

“We’re going to have to make a break for it! There are too many to try and make a stand,” Remus shouted. He pushed her head down as a purple stream of light crashed into the wall in front of them. “Nymph!” she heard him shout as she managed to blast a Death Eater off his feet with a well-placed stunner. She turned to see him looking over his shoulder, staring through the butterfly glasses. “Third Hemlock to the right of the drive! If we get there, we can get out!”

“On three!” she replied. He nodded and she counted aloud to three as she threw a final spell over the wall at the approaching Death Eaters. “Go!”

She didn’t think she’d ever run so hard in her life. This was one of the times she wished she had Mad-Eye’s magical eye. At least he could see what was behind him. She had to rely on her ability to hear the spells coming. Frankly, the blood was pounding so quickly in her ears it was hard to hear anything but the sound of her own rapid breathing. A spell burst on the ground at her feet, nearly toppling her into the hole it blew in her path. Remus grabbed her arm to steady her as they continued to run flat-out for the fast approaching hemlock.

Just a second longer.

She blindly threw a few more spells over her shoulder as the shouts of those chasing them heralded the end of the apparition ward. She drew a breath to summon her escape as she heard Remus wail in pain beside her.

For as fast as she had been running, she was sure the earth never moved slower. Remus’ face was engraved with an agonizing expression. She could hear the breath escaping his lungs. As a matter of pure instinct she lunged for him, draping her arms around him as they fell toward the ground. With the little breath, and coherent thought, she had left, she shouted the incantation to apparate them to headquarters. Although she recognized the familiar dizzing sensation that accompanied apparition, she knew it wasn’t over. They still had to stop.

She and Remus slammed into the back garden of Grimmauld Place. Her head collided with his and stars erupted behind her eyes. She rolled off of him, trying desperately to clear her vision and keep from throwing up on the lawn. The sound of multiple voices let her know they were the last to return.

“Tonks! Remus!” Fred called. Or was it George? She opened her eyes and decided it didn’t matter, she saw four of them anyway. “Get Poppy!” he called again. Suddenly, the reality of what happened hit her. She rolled on her side, blinking furiously as her hands found Remus.

“Remus?” She called wearily. He didn’t respond. Understanding that the immediate threat had been averted, the panic began to rise in her chest. “Remus, please?” she called again, shaking him. She looked up, despondency consuming her, and looked upon the sight before her. George was lying on the ground, clutching his arm; Molly was smothering Arthur who appeared nearly ready to pass out. “Operation Ferret” was a complete debacle.

She saw Poppy Pomfrey fly from the house, floo powder marring her ivory complexion. “Out of the way,” she barked as she pushed Fred to the side. She dropped to her knees and wrenched open the bag she’d brought with her. Three talismans flew from the bag and circled his body furiously. Poppy studied them silently, and pulled the wand from her holster. From what Tonks could see he didn’t appear injured. There was no blood; there was no real sign of injury. That’s what scared her most. She knew what someone looked like after being hit with the killing curse. She’d seen it all too recently. In a way she was ecstatic to see what came next. “Turn him over!” Poppy ordered, while pushing up on Remus’ side. Tonks helped to pull him over and realized his entire back was covered in blood.

Madam Pomfrey muttered a few incantations Tonks really didn’t hear over the pounding of her own heart. The wounds on his back closed quickly, and Poppy drew a deep breath. “We should get him inside,” she said calmly.

Looking to Dumbledore, who had raised his hand to levitate him, Fred said, “We’ve got him,” as he slipped his arm under Remus’ right shoulder and Mad Eye took the left. Tonks’ breath caught in her throat as Remus grimaced and began to stir as they walked him inside. She followed closely behind and sat on the couch next to where they placed him. He opened his eyes and slid across the couch until his head was pillowed in the crook between her neck and shoulder. Tonks wrapped him in her arms and let her hand play in his hair.

“What the hell happened?” Remus said painfully.

“That’s exactly what I’d like to know!” Moody barked. “Some great source; I never trusted this Riley character! How do we know he’s not some dark wizard in his own right?” Moody was pacing back in forth in front of the group. Madam Pomfrey was attending to George’s broken arm and Arthur’s head.

“We don’t know it was Riley,” Arthur’s voice wavered as Poppy looked him over.

“Who else could it be?” Moody roared. “We made it a point to ensure no one knew about this operation at all! The only person who had any information about any of this, was Riley! Unless one of us is working for Voldemort, no one else knew we were coming!”

Tonks buried her head in Remus’ hair. His injury gave her a welcome excuse to look preoccupied. She barely maintained the maelstrom of fury boiling in her veins. No one in the Order had told anyone their plans…except her.

***

“At least its double Defense today,” Harry said brightly. “One more double potions and I’m likely to indulge in a skiving snackbox.”

“Not if I get there first,” Ron replied with a chuckle. The trio entered the classroom and took their regular seats. Hermione arranged her textbook and parchment neatly on the table and examined her quills before choosing her weapon of choice for the afternoon. Harry couldn’t help but smile at the entire process. He’d watched her do it so many times he was finally conjuring the courage to rearrange everything when she was distracted. However, he always thought better of the idea. He wasn’t sure Godric Gryffindor himself had enough courage to do that.

“I wonder what’s keeping Tonks?” Ron mumbled as he looked at his watch. Tonks was generally on time for class, but they’d sat there long enough students started debating the age old question of how many minutes late a Professor could be before the students could leave without penalty. Harry always relished in that discussion. It usually took place among the Slytherins that were too scared to leave anyway. They merely debated the topic until the Professor came in, and quietly admonished themselves for not having left thirty seconds before.

A slam of the classroom door drew every bit of conversation to an abrupt halt.

Tonks swept into the room, the clicking of her heels against the flagstone floor was the only sound contained within the four walls. As she passed between the trio (Ron at one table and Harry and Hermione on the other side of the aisle at another) Harry watched Hermione gasp and draw her hand to her chest. She looked over to him with a shocked expression.

Before Harry had the ability, or inclination, to ask what the matter was, it became thoroughly clear.

“Take everything off your desk, save for a parchment and quill. It’s time to find out what you lot actually know about defense.”

Harry and Ron exchanged a puzzled look while Hermione hurriedly gathered her things and placed them on the floor. Tonks began stalking around the room, showering student tables with parchment. She seemed especially enthusiastic when she reached their tables.

“Profess-“ Ron started.

“Mr. Weasley I would expect you would do me the courtesy of raising your hand,” Tonks interrupted. Ron looked at Harry and awkwardly raised his hand.

Harry was as confused as Ron appeared to be. The prospect of raising your hand in Tonks’ class was preposterous. It was the most casual of any course taught at Hogwarts, and Tonks liked it that way. She’d once gone so far as to threaten a Ravenclaw with deducting house points if she raised her hand one more time.

Either she wasn’t used to it, or she was ignoring Ron completely. He sat with his hand cautiously in the air as Tonks merely turned her back and swept to the front of the room. She dropped the remaining parchment on her desk and turned to the class. “You have thirty minutes to complete the quiz. There will be no discussion or I shall deduct house points immediately. You may begin.” She flipped an hourglass over and crossed her arms, staring at the students warningly.

Harry met Hermione’s eyes briefly and heard her thoughts echoing his own.

What in the name of Merlin is going on?

“Ten points from Gryffindor,” Tonks said curtly. The collective heads of the class snapped up and followed Tonks’ seething gaze - right to Harry and Hermione.

“But, Professor,” Harry began. He knew without question neither he nor Hermione had spoken a word. He just wasn’t sure if Tonks heard it anyway.

“Ten more,” Tonks interrupted. “If you should care to argue any more, Mr. Potter, I’ll happily make it fifty.” She remained stalwart, as if begging Harry to call her bluff. After all, there weren’t many Hogwarts students responsible for the loss of as many points as Harry Potter. Had this been Delores Umbridge he would’ve taken her challenge willingly. But this wasn’t Umbridge. This was Tonks, and he was seeing a side of her he’d quickly decided he’d rather not see again. Accepting defeat, he dropped his eyes to the parchment and began working on the quiz.

Hermione’s quill was scratching furiously as the enchanted hourglass began to grow clear. Harry finished the questions five minutes before, but he had to admit he was no where near as verbose as Hermione. He smiled as he remembered a conversation they’d had to that effect.

“Hermione, the answer to this question doesn’t require four rolls of parchment.”

“I’m just being thorough,” she replied, not raising her eyes from the parchment before her.

“Fine. So tell me your incredibly thorough answer,” he requested laughingly.

She looked at him briefly and sat upright, smoothing the parchment in front of her. “Okay,” she began. “The ancient wizard Gunderoff fought valiantly against his nemesis, the evil Warlock Trunglebuff. However, despite his concerted efforts, Trunglebuff was well versed in the art of deception. He lured Gunderoff to a remote cavern in the mountains of Ryre. The weather was bitterly cold and foreshadowed the end result with chilling clarity. Gunderoff, upon entering the cave, was set upon by Trunglebuff’s compatriots, and sadly did not survive.”

Harry would’ve looked to see her triumphant smile after she finished, but he was too busy rubbing the tears from his eyes.

“What?” Hermione barked.

Regaining his composure, Harry looked across the table and picked up his own parchment. He cleared his throat and read, “Trunglebuff killed Gunderoff.”

“Time has expired,” Tonks cold voice echoed in the room, dragging Harry back to the present. “Should any of you care to attempt it, you can answer this question for additional points. You have five minutes.” She flipped over the chalkboard standing at the front of the room to reveal another question. Harry couldn’t help but notice her eyes hadn’t left the trio as he read what was inscribed on the board.

“Explain the magical theory behind the Fidelius Charm (its absolute reliance on character, honesty, and trustworthiness) and its importance to the deterrence of Dark Magic.”

Hermione snapped out another scroll of parchment and set to work immediately. Harry gave a fleeting glance to Ron, who was returning the favor in kind, and shrugged his shoulders confusedly. Tonks cleared her throat loudly, drawing Harry’s attention back to his paper and he began working on the question.

“That was without doubt the longest Defense class we’ve had in years,” Hermione muttered as the class began packing their belongings. It didn’t pass Harry’s notice that most of the students we’re essentially running for the door. In total, Gryffindor lost 45 points, or more specifically Harry, Ron, and Hermione lost 45 points. Hufflepuff lost only 10.

Tonks mood did not improve as the class had progressed and most of their lesson was found in the textbook. In all honestly, Harry was relieved for that. Given her mood, he shuddered to think of the ramifications of the practical application of defensive spells against a rather celebrated, and thoroughly unhappy, Auror.

“Do you think we should ask her what’s wrong?” Harry mumbled thoughtfully.

“Are you mad?” Ron replied, stepping to their table. “I think I’d rather ask one of Hagrid’s pets for their last bite of dinner. Let’s get out of here before we lose any more points for Gryffindor.” Deciding Ron was right; Harry picked up his bag and began to follow Ron and Hermione from the classroom.

“You three,” Tonks said sharply. The trio stopped in their tracks as several other students rushed past them toward the door. “We have something to talk about.” Ron gulped audibly as they turned to the front of the class and walked to her desk.

“I thought it was rather clear that what is said between us stays between us,” Tonks hissed. Harry and the others exchanged dumbfounded looks and waited for an explanation. It didn’t look like it was coming.

“What are you talking about?” Harry asked sheepishly.

“What am I talking about?” Tonks blasted. The simple question seemed to open the floodgates to the fury she’d been damming up all class period. “I trusted you! All of you! No one was supposed to say anything about Operation Ferret and no one did! No one but me!” she roared. Harry’s expression changed rapidly from inquisition to apprehension.

“Did something happen?”

“Happen? Yeah, I’ll say something happened!” She barked. “We’re lucky Remus isn’t dead.” She looked at Ron and jabbed a finger in his chest. “Your brother and father were both injured.” Ron’s face fell to stone.

“Are they…” he began.

“They’re fine,” she snapped. “George broke his arm and your father sustained a rather nasty concussion.” She began pacing the floor in front of them and talking, seemingly, to herself. “They knew we were coming. They were ready for us.” She stopped pacing and turned to face them. “We intentionally kept this confidential so there would be no leaks! Except I’m apparently not smart enough to keep my mouth shut!”

“You don’t think we told anyone?” Hermione asked incredulously.

“Well, none of the Order did! The leak had to come from somewhere outside our team. The only other people that had knowledge of the operation are the very three people I’m staring in the face.” Her voice dropped to a chillingly cold decibel. “Who did you tell?”

Harry was astounded. He looked among his two best friends and saw similar expressions. Hermione’s jaw was firmly planted on the floor and Ron sported a look of complete astonishment. Harry found his voice first. “I don’t know what you think, but we would never tell anyone something like that.” Hermione’s head shook furiously.

Tonks face was as dark as he’d ever seen it. “Never say never, Harry; one of you did.” With that, she swept from the classroom leaving only the crash of a slamming door behind her.

“Great gods, I’ve never seen anyone that angry,” Hermione whispered. The trio stood silently in the empty classroom, looking toward the door where Tonks had exited. Harry was at a loss. He would never tell anyone about the Order, let alone any clandestine plan they’d organized to infiltrate Malfoy Manor. But that wasn’t what bothered him most. He was completely floored by the fact she’d questioned his integrity. He felt confidant, after all his years at Hogwarts and the experiences he’d had, that his character was generally well established. He certainly would never endanger the lives of Lupin or the Weasleys. Still, she had a point. If no one in the Order told anyone of the operation, then where did the leak come from?

“Hermione,” he began quietly.

“Don’t even ask me, Harry. You know I would never tell anyone,” Hermione interjected. “None of us would.” Harry nodded in agreement and looked to change the subject. His stomach was starting to overtake his brain and the smell of a hot supper was wafting through the castle.

“Come on. Let’s get some supper. We have to meet Professor Dumbledore tonight,” Harry suggested. They complied silently and left the classroom together.

“Ron, I’m sure they’re all right,” Hermione said knowingly as they made their way toward the Great Hall.

“What?” he replied.

“It’s just that I can tell you’re very concerned about something. I thought it might be over George and your father,” she answered.

“I am concerned, but not over them. She said they were fine and I believe her. Mum would’ve owled if anything was seriously wrong,” Ron said flatly.

“Then what is it?” she asked.

Ron’s footsteps drew to a halt. His shoulders dropped noticeably as he appeared to resign himself to some decision. “We need to talk.” He looked around suspiciously and pulled them both into an empty classroom.

“Ron? What’s the matter?” Harry asked, closing the door behind them.

“I told someone,” Ron said suddenly.

“You what?” They barked together. Ron spun around and pulled a chair from under a table. He flopped down in it and buried his head in his hands.

“Who did you tell?” Harry demanded.

“It doesn’t really matter. I trust her like I trust you. She wouldn’t have told anyone,” Ron said dismissively.

“Ron,” Hermione said, voice rising. “Who did you tell?”

“I ran into Ginny in Hogsmeade. She mentioned how out of sorts Fred and George had been and it just slipped out.” He looked between them both as Harry tried to erase the shocked expression from his face.

“She wouldn’t tell anyone. She’s not the leak.” Ron added quickly. Harry couldn’t help but remember his second year at Hogwarts. With an uneasy glance to Hermione, they followed Ron out of the classroom and toward the Great Hall.

***

After an uneasy dinner, the trio commandeered their usual table near the restricted section of the library. Hermione flopped into the worn leather upholstered chair and aimlessly picked at the assortment of books in front of them. Silently, Harry and Ron took their seats as well, no one seeming the least bit motivated to begin working on a solution. They exchanged a few defeated glances as Hermione pulled out a quill and some parchment.

“I wondered how long I’d be working alone this evening. It appears, from the looks of you, longer than I expected,” Professor Dumbledore glided around the corner holding a worn book in his hand.

“Good evening, Professor,” Hermione said emotionless. She noticed Harry and Ron nod silently as Dumbledore took the last open seat.

“Forgive me for intruding, but you appear a bit vexed to say the least,” he said softly. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Hermione, suddenly realizing they were sitting before a key member of the Order, perked up quickly. “Thank you, Professor. I think we’re just a bit knackered is all,” she said, looking at the other two pointedly. She already felt like Tonks had lost all faith in them. She didn’t want that mistrust to spread to the Headmaster. She was relatively assured Tonks hadn’t told the Order she’d compromised the mission. In the face of Professor Dumbledore, she felt the need to steer the conversation away from Operation Ferret…and quickly. She looked across the table to Harry and narrowed her eyes.

Play along!

At first, she wasn’t entirely sure he’d heard her. He stopped running his hand along the spine of a book and looked up to her, comprehension in his eyes.

“Yeah, I’ve always wanted to ask you if the House elves put a sleeping draught in the pumpkin juice at dinner,” Harry said with a weak smile.

For a moment, Dumbledore looked suspiciously between Harry and Hermione, then appearing to shrug off his concern, smiled at Harry. “I shall make no comment in the affirmative or negative.” His levity breaking the tension in the air, he looked to the books in front of them. “Let me show you what I’ve found so far,” he said softly.

Interest peaked, the trio sat up around the table and listened as Dumbledore flipped through a few pages and showed them the notes he’d made thus far. “There are several possibilities here that, if combined, might prove an effective defense against some of his more lethal spells.”

“Combined?’ Ron said quizzically.

“Well,” Dumbledore began. “If you look at the theories behind these particular enchantments, it would seem logical that blending them might prove helpful.” Hermione slid the book toward her and began reading the paragraphs he’d marked earlier.

“You’re talking about writing new charms,” Hermione said skeptically.

“Well, I dare say if any existing charms worked, we wouldn’t be having this conversation Ms. Granger,” Dumbledore replied. He pulled an ornate timepiece from the fold of his robes and flipped open the top with a grimace. “I, unfortunately, have some other duties to attend to.” He stood up and looked at each of them in turn. “I’ll review your notes tomorrow morning.” He winked at the trio as swept gracefully from the room, leaving them with the stack of dog-eared books he’d perused already.

Hermione pulled the open book closer to her and settled in to read Dumbledore’s markings more closely when she realized Harry was looking at her. She looked up, and was startled by the look in his eyes.

“That was not the smartest thing you’ve ever done, Hermione,” Harry said flatly. Hermione glanced to Ron’s confused expression before returning her eyes to Harry.

“What?” she said dumbfounded.

Harry simply cocked his head to the side and looked at her knowingly. She suddenly realized what he was referring to and dropped her eyes to the table. He was right. Dumbledore was the greatest sorcerer of the age. Was it even remotely possible that among his many talents (Legilimancy being one) that he didn’t hear Hermione order Harry to “play along” with her story? She gave a nearly imperceptible nod of her head as Ron scoffed beside her.

“Did I miss something?” he said pointedly.

Harry looked between Ron and Hermione. She knew what he was contemplating but wasn’t any more confident in the answer than he appeared to be. Neither of them had really told Ron that they’d discovered the intermittent ability to communicate telepathically. Honestly, she wasn’t sure how he’d take the news. Their relationship had progressed so far, so well, since their break down at the Burrow, she wasn’t ready to test it. However, she couldn’t escape the feeling that in order for that progress to continue they needed to be honest with Ron. Harry apparently came to the same conclusion.

He drew a deep breath and looked at Ron. “Hermione and I,” he hesitated, looking toward Hermione helplessly. “We’ve sort of developed the ability to talk to each other,” he said resignedly.

“I talk to you everyday, so what?” Ron said nonplussed.

“Not like that,” Harry added.

“It’s more…telepathic,” Hermione interjected. She studied Ron’s expression, waiting for some emotion to boil over and ruin the progress they’d made.

“Oh, well I knew that already,” Ron said nonchalantly and returned to the book in front of him. Hermione and Harry looked at each other in shock.

“What do you mean, you knew?” Hermione asked.

“Last year, when you told him Krum dragged you off to Hogsmeade. Isn’t that what you were doing then?” Ron asked interestedly. In fact, it wasn’t what they had been doing at that time. Being able to expressly communicate their thoughts evolved after that time, but she didn’t feel the need to go into the details. In actuality, she was completely relieved their newfound ability wasn’t another sticking point for Ron. From the looks of him, he didn’t seem to care in the least, nor did she get the sense he’d felt any different.

“Close enough,” Harry said laughingly. He flipped open another book and continued working. It wasn’t long before the levity wore off and their conversation drifted back to the subject they’d ardently avoided before Dumbledore’s arrival. It had been driving Hermione mad. She had to talk about it, whether Ron wanted to hear it or not.

“Ron, we need to talk about this,” she said quietly. Harry stopped writing immediately and looked up.

“There’s nothing to talk about Hermione,” Ron said, clearly irritated the subject had sprung up.

“Ron,” Hermione began.

“I said there’s nothing to talk about Hermione,” Ron’s voice rose audibly. “She’s not the leak.”

“But, if no one in the Order said anything, and none of us did, it doesn’t leave too many prospects,” Hermione whispered.

With that, Ron slammed his quill on the table, the echo of his outburst trailing around the bookshelves. “I thought you were her friend, Hermione!” Ron hissed.

“I am her friend! And I’m very concerned about her! Even you have to admit she’s been acting odd,” Hermione snapped in return.

“I don’t have to admit anything. She’s my sister and she’s not…” he trailed off looking around the library, “…she’s not feeding information to dark wizards!” he finished quietly.

“What if she doesn’t know she’s doing it,” Harry interrupted simply. Both Ron and Hermione snapped their attention to Harry. He returned their questioning looks with a shrug of his shoulders. “It’s happened before, Ron.”

“Oh, not you too!” Ron scoffed. His voice carried loudly enough to turn a few heads.

“Shhh,” Hermione hissed as she grabbed Ron’s arm. It was clear to Hermione this conversation had reached an impasse. Ron was firmly entrenched in his position and wouldn’t listen to the slightest inclination that Ginny might have let something slip as he had. She didn’t like the prospect of it any more than Ron did, but she couldn’t escape the feelings she’d been getting from her. She’d felt Ginny’s betrayal; her guilt. She’d seen her out well past curfew with no reason as to why. If her activity had anything to do with the failure of Operation Ferret, everything made perfect sense. And to Hermione, something that made logical sense was as close to “engraved in stone” as one could get.

“Ron,” she began hesitantly. “When Ginny came into the Great Hall last night she was feeling horribly guilty about something. It was worse when she looked at you.”

“Aside from the fact she was late to dinner,” Harry mentioned quietly. Hermione nodded, feeling emboldened by the support Harry was giving her theory.

“And later last night, we caught her hurrying back to Gryffindor Tower nearly an hour past curfew,” Hermione added. Ron was shaking his head silently, blindly staring at the books in front of him. “Ron, she wouldn’t tell us where she was or what she’d been doing. She was acting very strange.”

“That’s the same night the Order tried to get into Malfoy Manor,” Harry said regretfully.

Ron suddenly looked up. His eyes shot between Harry and Hermione. “There are a million reasons why Ginny might be out after hours, and who knows what girls feel guilty about! None of this proves anything! She promised me she wouldn’t say anything to anyone, and Ginny would never lie to me. I refuse to believe any of this. Ginny is not the leak!” Ron reiterated icily.

Silence fell among the trio. Hermione could feel her mouth gaping open. She’d given Ron all the evidence she had and he’d flat refused to consider any of it. She looked to Harry desperate for reinforcements. But his expression was as clear as the voice in her head.

Leave it alone, Hermione.

Her mouth continued to bob open and closed as Harry indiscriminately shook his head. Feeling completed deflated, she slumped her shoulders and snapped open the book she’d closed earlier.

“Well, that’s a look of frustration if I ever saw one,” a bright voice chided from behind her. She spun around with a scathing glare to inspect the intruder. “Whoa!” Merc said as she threw her hands up in front of her. “Someone has her knickers in a twist.” Hermione turned back to her book and flipped the pages loudly.

“Can we help you with something?” Ron asked coldly.

Merc considered him for a second before responding. “I thought I was here to help you.”

“I asked her to come,” Hermione said, still fuming.

“I’m sorry I’m a bit late. I waited at our normal study table for a while. It wasn’t until I heard a familiar sound that I thought to look for you elsewhere,” she replied.

“What was the familiar sound?” Harry asked, not seeming heartily interested in the answer.

Hermione saw Merc’s eyes float over Ron quickly before she answered. “It’s not important.” She looked at the trio in turn. “If this is a bad time, I can come back later.” Hermione’s suddenly felt her eyes brighten. She looked up to see additional reinforcements, rather than study partners. Merc was logical, she was intuitive. She’d have to be on her side!

“No, I think you’re perfectly on time. Perhaps you can act as an objective third party,” Hermione said hopefully.

“Perhaps she can’t,” Ron snapped as he threw a scathing glare in Hermione’s direction.

“Okay,” Merc said hesitantly as she lowered herself into the chair Professor Dumbledore had vacated. Hermione drew herself up and crossed her arms on the table. She was quite sure it didn’t take an empath to feel the waves of anger coursing off of Ron; but she was undeterred.

“Ron and I are having a difference of opinion,” Hermione began.

“Hermione,” Ron warned.

Ignoring his admonition, she continued. “He seems to think it’s not possible that someone can make a poor decision, or be otherwise influenced to breach his trust. I think under the proper circumstances such a thing is possible. What do you think?”

“Well, I think that’s the vaguest question I’ve been asked in a long time,” Merc responded. Hermione waited for a complimentary answer. “I guess,” Merc continued, looking warily between the three sets of eyes focused on her, “it depends who the person is and what breach of trust occurred.”

“Both of which are private matters,” Ron said flatly.

“Fair enough,” Merc responded pulling a roll of parchment from her bag.

“Alright, what if I phrase it this way,” Hermione continued over Ron’s seething glare and Harry’s rolling eyes. “You have a brother,” she declared.

“Yes.”

“Do you believe it’s possible for him to break your trust, even if he didn’t know he was doing it, or never thought harm would come from it?” Hermione asked pointedly.

“Well…” Merc drew herself up for a proper response just as she was interrupted.

“Bloody hell, Hermione! Why don’t you just tell her you think Ginny lied to me?” Ron blasted. Hermione snapped her head to Ron.

“Ron, you have six siblings! If you hadn’t opened your mouth she’d have no idea which one I was talking about!” Hermione argued. She couldn’t help but feel proud of that remark. It completely stopped Ron in his tracks. Triumphantly, she turned to Merc and awaited the answer she’d started to give. However, when her eyes fell across Merc, it became obvious to Hermione something had changed.

“This is about Ginny?” Merc asked warily. The silence appeared to be enough of an affirmation for her. She busied herself with her quills and ink wells, clearly uncomfortable with the conversation.

“What is it?” Hermione asked.

Merc smiled with false enthusiasm. “Nothing,” she said brightly. “I think Ron is right, this sounds like a private matter. So, tell me about this project of yours,” she replied in an obvious attempt to change the subject.

Hermione half expected Ron to leap on the table and perform a victory dance, however, she didn’t have to look his direction to know that wasn’t going to happen. She was immediately bombarded by intense emotions she wasn’t prepared for. She drew a deep breath, propped her elbows on the table, and sat her forehead in her hands.

“Hermione, are you okay?” Harry’s voice echoed in the distance. She drew several more breaths, nodding her head affirmatively, and worked to separate what she was feeling. Merc was highly uncomfortable, nearly panicked. Ron, while still angry, was boiling with several emotions, ranging from despair to concern.

He had been listening to Hermione; he just didn’t want to admit it. With Merc’s sudden change of position, his interest seemed as peaked as hers was. “Merc, tell me the truth. What do you know about Ginny?” Hermione said quietly. Again, she felt her friend’s panic rise.

“Well, she’s a Gryffindor. She’s got red hair. I hear she has a lovely singing voice,” she responded with a forced laugh. Hermione drew her forehead from her palms and leveled her eyes across the table. Merc smile faded almost instantly and she dropped her eyes to the table. “Listen, I really don’t know that it’s my place to say.”

“If you have something to say about my sister, you’d best do it now,” Ron said shortly. Merc’s eyes floated to his for the briefest of seconds before she returned her eyes to the table in front of her and drew a breath.

“How did Ginny spend her summer?” she asked quietly.

Hermione, for one, couldn’t figure where Merc was headed with this. They’d talked about Ginny’s internship a few times during their study breaks. Surely, she didn’t forget.

“She worked an internship at Witch Weekly for the relationship columnist,” Ron answered.

Merc simply nodded her head and innocuously picked at the finish on the mahogany table. “And you’re sure of that?” Merc replied even more softly.

“Of course I’m sure of that,” Ron said, his voice rising with each word. “She was there all summer. Great gods, she wrote all three of us during the summer to tell us about her job. She used her contacts there to renew Mum’s subscription for another five years!” he said incredulously.

“What is it?” Hermione asked Merc, not entirely sure she wanted to hear the answer.

Merc dropped her hands from the table. “They only award one of those internships each summer,” she began.

“We know! Why do you think we were so proud of her?” Ron interrupted.

A grimace darkening her features, Merc slowly said, “It wasn’t awarded to Ginny.” Hermione felt her heart drop to her stomach. She looked at Harry, who appeared equally as stunned.

“What?” Ron asked, voice rising to publicly audible levels.

“Orla Quirke is a 4^th year student in my house.” Merc said looking directly at Ron. “It was a bit of a farce to us, really. Her mother works for Witch Weekly and the appointment had nepotism written all over it.” She scoffed. “Imagine a third year student getting that position.”

Ron stood up from the table, his chair flying out from beneath him. Hermione startled and prepared for the shouting match that was destined to ensue. Remembering the story of their last row, she hoped to intercede on Merc’s behalf, if only to take the punishment on herself. Hermione looked to Ron, preparing to throw herself in the line of fire, when she realized, with some astonishment, she didn’t need to.

He was seething, shaking even, but when he spoke his words were as quiet and steadfast as she’d ever heard them. She knew from the fury he felt resonating from him that he must’ve been holding himself together with every ounce of strength he had. When he spoke, Hermione had to strain to hear him, but the cold fury in his voice was evident to all.

“You’re wrong, and I’ll prove it.”

He turned on one heel and stormed from the table. They didn’t have to guess when he’d reached the library doors, the echo of slamming mahogany let them know he’d gone.

Hermione turned back to face Harry and Merc. Merc’s head was in her hand and Harry was staring blindly back toward Hermione. It seemed like ages before anyone spoke. Harry’s voice was the first to sound.

“If she wasn’t at Witch Weekly, where the hell was she all summer?”

17. Christmas at Hogwarts

A/N: As usual a big thanks to CC (the now completed author of BBB – I’m so jealous) for the many copy/pasted IM conversation about this chapter, and her brilliant insight. If you’re not reading PS’s Lily Stories – and why you are not I simply don’t know- there’s a flashback to the Marauders in this chapter I can only hope lives up to her standard. I also left a plot hole for her – that she is aware of – perhaps she will tell us what happened in a later installment of Lily. There will be a bit of technical information in this with regard to the Japanese artistry that is Mokume Gane metalworking. I did not invent any of it, merely used what history and Samurai craftsmanship left for the world. If you haven’t figured it out yet - I have a degree in History and love science, I’m pretty sure that comes through in some of these updates. At the end of the chapter I’ll give you a link to a mokume gane designer so you can see if what I described met with the picture in your head. Chapter 17-Christmas at Hogwarts

“Harry!” a voice blasted through his subconscious, lodging a thumping heart in his throat. He snapped his eyes open and bolted upright. It didn’t take long to determine what the matter was. In fact, there was nothing the matter at all. It was Christmas morning, and Ron and Harry sported the grandest collection of gifts they’d ever received. “Look at this!” Ron continued happily.

Harry couldn’t help but smile. He never truly experienced Christmas until his arrival at Hogwarts, yet Ron was the one who would nearly combust at the prospect of brightly wrapped packages. His gifts stood no chance; Ron was ferocious in his assault. The remains of the meticulously wrapped gifts showered the dormitory as Harry mused. This was the one time of year Harry always pondered the importance of family, friendship, and love. Interestingly, those thoughts always shanghaied his consciousness at the one moment Ron could never understand.

“Aren’t you going to open yours?” Ron said incredulously.

Harry turned his attention to the weight of gifts sitting on his legs. The pile did seem more impressive this year. The remaining thoughts of Christmas sentiment evaporated as he joined Ron in the destruction. They rifled through their stack together, both showing the other each successive gift as they opened it. They received the traditional knitted jumper from Mrs. Weasley. Additionally, they received matching scarves, hats and gloves as well. As was her tradition, each of the pieces was emblazoned with their first initial. As Harry looked over the pile, he realized many of the gifts were from the Weasley family.

“Ron?” he asked holding up two more packages in question.

Ron laughed. “I guess mum is feeling a bit guilty for having to spend Christmas working for the Order.” He scrutinized his remaining presents and looked back to Harry. “I didn’t have the heart to tell her Ginny and I were more than happy to stay here.” He wiggled his eyebrows mischievously. However, an odd silence fell between them at Ginny’s name. Harry picked at the wrapping of Dumbledore’s gift – undeniably a book of some sort – before Ron continued. “I got something for you,” Ron said triumphantly.

Harry looked up just in time to catch the gift Ron tossed between their beds. Ron sat up on his knees as Harry looked over the small box. He waved his hands impatiently, urging Harry to dispense with the standard decorum. He willingly complied. He tore the wrappings off to reveal a simple velvet box. He flipped open the lid and stared, dumbfounded, at the gift.

“Do you like it?” Ron asked excitedly.

“Like it?” Harry replied in a stunned voice. “Ron, it’s bloody fantastic! But…”

Ron released the breath he’d apparently been holding and interrupted him. “I was a little worried, I’ll admit. That’s about as close as a guy gets to buying jewelry for another guy; but when I saw it; I just knew you had to have one. All the World Cup players have them.”

Harry hopped from him bed and waltzed to his trunk. He rummaged through to the bottom, where his Quidditch robes were folded neatly. He pulled them out and popped the clasp off the front, tossing it aside mindlessly. Ron looked over Harry’s shoulder as he replaced the clasp with the one from the box. It was an ornate gold double locking clasp. The left side depicted a roaring lion head while the right showed a seeker in pursuit of the snitch. “Heart of a Lion” was inscribed around the Gryffindor mascot, while the inscription on the right, not only denoted Harry’s name, but appeared to be charmed to keep a running tally of his record. Harry held the robes in front of him allowing the morning sunlight to sparkle against the clasp.

“Ron,” Harry sobered, the grin sliding from his face. “How did you…I mean where did you get…”

“…the money?’ Ron finished the sentence for him. Harry, thoroughly relieved that Ron saved him from having to ask the whole question, nodded in agreement. This was the second major purchase he’d known Ron to make. His new Quasar was more expensive than the latest Nimbus. Harry, always concerned about flaunting his fortune in front of his best friend, had avoided asking him how he’d come to pay for it. In this instance, the words leapt from his mouth before he’d had the chance to stop himself. “Let’s open the rest while I tell you the story,” Ron said brightly.

***

Hermione had waited long enough. Best friends or not, she was not going to hang around in the common room all morning while breakfast grew cold downstairs. She entered the Great Hall to find it nearly deserted. Hogwarts was always devoid of most students during the holiday. This year was no exception. Staying over for the holidays was not a new experience for Hermione. She had done so during their second year and again last year. But, the cause for her attendance was markedly different.

It had been nearly two months since her parents were killed. Everyday was slightly easier than the one before. But some days her heart ached with the loss. Regardless of the gifts heaped at the foot of her bed, she knew upon waking this morning – this would be one of those days. Attempting to shake the thought from her head, she examined the table and picked up a fork. She was so engrossed in preparing her Belgian waffles with precisely the right fruit and cream topping, she didn’t notice Harry and Ron enter the hall.

“Happy Christmas, Hermione,” Ron said brightly as he kissed her on the left cheek.

“Happy Christmas, Hermione,” Harry echoed as he concurrently kissed her on the right.

“Happy Christmas,” she replied with a warm smile. She might have been the empath, but her best friends always seemed to know exactly what she needed.

“Did you open your gifts?” Ron asked excitedly.

“Yes, thank you for the book, Ron,” she replied sincerely.

“Are you going to read it?”

“Have you forgotten who you’re talking to?” Ron and Hermione laughed together as the boys loaded their plates. Hermione hadn’t been surprised that she’d received a book from Ron, but the book itself was exquisite. It was leather bound and exceeded 500 pages. The parchment was adorned with hammered gold leaf filigree. Even if “A Comprehensive History of Quidditch” was not atop her reading list, the stunning appearance of each page would ensure her interest in finishing the content. “It really is beautiful, Ron. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Hermione,” Ron replied warmly. “What did you get from Harry?” he said, inclining his head in Harry’s direction.

“Well, I-er,” Hermione began.

“I haven’t given it to her yet,” Harry interjected flatly. Hermione caught Harry’s eye and smiled. She’d been a bit concerned. After rummaging through the mélange of gifts on her bed, she had not happened upon one from him. She’d gone so far as too look under the bed and between the sheets, but still came up empty. He matched her grin and she felt her cheeks blush inexplicably.

“Never mind, I don’t want to know,” Ron said dismally. Harry’s head snapped in his direction and he rolled his eyes. When Hermione’s gaze fell upon Ron, now solely interested in his porridge, she realized his insinuation.

“Wha-Ron!” she scolded, feeling the heat of embarrassment rising in her cheeks. He looked up, clearly attempting to contain his laughter. It didn’t last. As soon as their collective eyes met, they dissolved into laughter together, Hermione harmlessly slapping both Harry and Ron on the arm. They tucked in to breakfast together, avidly discussing their Christmas plunder and their plans for a holiday devoid of classes and professors.

They’d sated their hunger and engaged in a rather animated conversation over the remains of their breakfast when the discussion took a noticeable turn. “Happy Christmas!” Ginny sang as she took a seat next to Ron. The rather obvious, and abrupt, cessation of their conversation was replaced with friendly, but guarded, reciprocal sentiments. Ginny hadn’t missed the awkwardness of the situation. She looked to each of them speculatively as she buttered her toast.

“Is something wrong?” she asked cautiously.

“Well,” Hermione began unsteadily.

“No. Nothing’s wrong Ginny,” Ron interrupted. He shot Hermione a nearly instantaneous, and threatening, glare as he sipped his pumpkin juice. While she hated to admit it, Ron was probably right. This was not the place to have this conversation. They were in the Great Hall, and while sparsely attended, there were others about who might hear their conversation, and frankly enough of that had been done already. Hermione donned a manufactured smile and continued, “Well…we were just trying to decide what to do with our holiday; especially since we’re all together.”

“What about that project you’re working on with Dumbledore? You should have loads of time to work on that,” Ginny offered simply. Hermione looked suspiciously toward Harry and back.

“Perhaps,” Hermione replied. Ron shuffled along the bench and pushed his plate away hastily.

“I need to go.” He rose from the bench decidedly.

“Where are you going?” Ginny asked.

“Down to the pitch,” Ron replied, giving a fleeting glance to Harry and Hermione. “I’ve got an idea for a new strategy and want to work it out on the board before I lose it.” He didn’t wait for a reply. He turned as quickly as his sentence ended and made his way from the Great Hall.

“He’s acting a bit odd isn’t he?” Ginny asked, shrugging her shoulders and reaching for the marmalade.

“Yeah,” Harry said warily. Hermione didn’t have to see the look on his face to know what he was thinking – or feeling for that matter. Harry’s trust in Ginny was as tenuous as Pansy Parkinson’s chances at winning a beauty contest.

***

“Do you think he really went to the pitch?” Hermione asked as she and Harry climbed the stairs to their dormitory.

“If he’s not here, then yes,” Harry replied. He believed it too. He’d known Ron too long, and too well, to not understand him. Not unlike Harry, a jaunt on a broomstick was all the elixir they needed when faced with a dilemma. Ron faced one now.

Harry had no siblings, so he didn’t truly understand the function of that relationship any more than he understood how real families are supposed to interact. Intuitively, he knew that the entire situation placed Ron in an impossibly difficult position.

On one hand he had his sister. He probably knew her better than anyone in the world. He knew what she was and was not capable of. He also loved her, and if anyone understood how that emotion could taint one’s rational thought, Harry did. On the other hand, he had the closest thing to hard evidence a group of disjointed 17 year-olds could manufacture. If he was to believe his friends, and one seemingly reliable, and unbiased source, Ginny lied. And what’s more, she was the prime and most obvious suspect, for a rather egregious miscarriage of loyalty.

Harry knew Ron well enough to know he did not think his sister was capable of that. But he also knew Ron. Part of Ron believed it. It made too much sense. The problem lie in the fact Ron didn’t want to believe it, and from his behavior at breakfast appeared to be digging in his heels.

Harry pushed open the door to his room and found it empty. Confirming his suspicions, he stepped to the window and peered out toward the pitch. Ron was there. The singular form peeked out between the stands as he flew in repetitive circles around the circumference of the stadium.

“So what did you get me?” Hermione whispered in his ear. Harry felt a shiver slip down his spine as her warm breath played at his neck. She slipped her arms around his waist and laid her head between his shoulder blades. He’d been looking rather intently out of the window, but suddenly couldn’t remember why. “Do you remember last Christmas?” she said dreamily. Harry turned in her arms and wrapped his around her shoulders.

“How could I forget?”

“Prove it.”

Harry lowered his head and captured her mouth with his. He pulled her tightly to his chest and ravaged her lips with a passionate kiss. He tangled his fingers through her hair, keeping her lips firmly pressed against his and deepened his advance. Their tongues danced with each other as he began walking her backward toward his four-poster bed. As the back of her legs gently brushed against the warm mahogany frame, she whimpered almost inaudibly. Without forethought of consequence, he pressed her back until she was lying under him.

“I don’t remember it quite like that,” she said cheekily, gasping for breath as she broke the kiss.

“I do.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Harry smiled broadly. For as much as he loved kissing Hermione, he was an insufferable gift giver. He’d given so few gifts in his life; he’d always taken significant pleasure in watching people open them. Last year, he lasted only seconds past the stroke of midnight before presenting Hermione with her Christmas present. He’d at least extended that to a few hours this year. He kissed her quickly as hopped up from the bed. After foraging in his trunk, he produced a simply wrapped package and walked back to the bed. He sat down on the bed and handed it to her expectantly.

She turned it over in her hand, inspecting its edges and guessing at its content. “Gee, I’m going to make the wild assumption that this is a book,” she said nonplussed. Harry chuckled.

“It’s a special book.” She looked at him questioningly and returned her attention to the package. With a few swift movements the wrapping was discarded and she turned the book over to reveal the title, “Fairy Tales Do Come True; a Modern Witch’s Guide to Planning the Perfect Wedding.”

For a few torturous seconds, Harry thought he’d made a terrible mistake. Hermione didn’t say anything. She looked at the title, her mouth agape, and ran her fingers over the sparkling lettered title. It was only after she looked up, and he looked into her glistening eyes, that he realized he’d hit the proverbial home run.

“Oh, Harry,” she said, her voice wavering.

“I promise it won’t make a single snide comment about procrastination.” She snapped her head to his, making a futile attempt to look annoyed with the insinuation. “You haven’t bought a dress; your hair’s a mess!” Harry chirped in a sad imitation of his homework planner. Hermione giggled. “Less is more….expensive,” he continued. She laughed heartily and pushed him over on the bed, tossing the planner aside. She straddled his legs, attempting to tickle him, and for the most part he allowed her to think she was getting the better of him. But there was one devastating flaw in her plan to tickle him into submission, he was stronger and faster than she was.

“Ah!” she yelped as Harry flipped her suddenly onto her back. He had reversed their positions and Hermione quickly found herself in the situation she’d been before asking for her gift. Interestingly to Harry, she didn’t find any reason to stop him this time.

She snaked her hand around the back of his neck and pulled his head down. She didn’t protest as he allowed his body to press fully against hers as their lips locked in a fiery kiss. They wrapped themselves together so tightly, Harry had a difficult time comprehending where one body stopped and the other began. He could feel the pounding of her heart through both of their chests. Interestingly, it seemed to beat in time with his.

A familiar sensation began to rise through him. He couldn’t stop his hands from roaming over her skin. He couldn’t stop his head from spinning. He couldn’t stop the desire he had to explore her body in a way he never had. For all these things, she didn’t seem to mind.

Not once had she broken their embrace. If anything she’d curled herself around him tighter and more passionately than she ever had. She didn’t protest when he slid his hand under her jumper, and the gasp that caught in her throat only served to encourage him forward as his hands found her breasts. She arched her back against his hands and slid her own hands under his shirt, dragging her fingers along his back. He wasn’t sure if her fingers made his skin stand at attention, or if the mere heat of the situation was to blame, But had he been so inclined, he could’ve felt each hair on the back of his neck tingling from her touch. They rolled together toward the foot of the bed and Harry smiled inwardly as she gasped again.

He quickly realized this gasp was different. She broke the kiss and winced.

“What’s the matter?” Harry asked, fully terrified he’d done something wrong. “Did I hurt you?”

“Not you,” she replied, shifting around on the bed and pulling something out from under her. Harry leaned up on his elbows and furrowed his brow. She was holding another Christmas gift addressed to Harry.

He rolled off of her, sliding to her side as he studied the package. It was small and he didn’t remember seeing it among the pile from the morning. It was a simple antiqued box. Its clasp had long-since oxidized and the dry brown leather cracked at nearly every corner. In all, it was a rather unimpressive trinket and Harry’s attentions were far more consumed with other matters. He carelessly tossed the box to the side and intended to resume his prior engagement.

Hermione stopped him with a swift motion of one hand. “What are you doing?” she asked incredibly as she planted her palm in his chest.

Harry wiggled his eyebrows playfully. “Just picking up where we left off,” he said wryly.

“You’re not going to open it?” Hermione asked.

“I find you a bit more interesting than an old leather box,” he said, unable to keep his eyes from gazing along her exposed skin. He didn’t have long to soak in the sight of her. She placed one finger under his chin and forced his eyes back to hers.

“Harry, open the box,” she demanded. Harry’s shoulders slumped and he sighed dramatically.

“This is going to drive you around the bend until I open it, isn’t it?” Hermione nodded feverishly. “All right, but for the record, I’d rather be opening something else.” He ducked as best he could to avoid the playful smack that was already careening toward him before he finished his sentence. He smiled broadly as he realized his comment left Hermione speechless for one of the few times in her life. He flopped onto his back and reached across the bed where he’d tossed the box. Hermione propped herself on her elbow and watched him closely.

With one last smile to Hermione, Harry popped the small latch on the box and it creaked open. The first thing he noticed was a hand-written note that had been rolled tightly and fell from the box as he lifted the lid. Absent-mindedly he placed the box to his side as he unrolled the parchment that sat on his chest. The smile slipped from his face immediately as his eyes crossed the first line of text. He knew this handwriting too well.

“Harry, what is it?”

“It’s from Aunt Petunia.”

Hermione shuffled along his side until she could peer across his shoulder to read the note. She fell silent as they read the note together.

Harry,

I thought it only appropriate to send these to you. I won’t say how I managed to get them to Hogwarts only that I had a bit of help. I would love to tell you a wonderful story of how they came to be in my possession. However, I don’t have such a story to tell. I can tell you only that these arrived on my doorstep the evening after you did. I know they were theirs only because I remember her describing them to me. She wanted so desperately for me to be a part of their day and I was too stubborn to oblige. Sadly, I never saw them exchanged.

I imagine you’ll find good use for them.

Petunia

Harry stared at the note, reading and re-reading it until he’d nearly memorized the words. It was easier to read this note than look in the box. It didn’t take a nuclear physicist to figure out what Petunia had sent him. In all honesty, he wasn’t sure he wanted to see them at all.

His life had never been easy. It some instances it was purely terrible. But, after coming to Hogwarts seven years ago, learning who he was, and even what he had to do. He’d grown accustomed to himself. Since falling for Hermione, his self-esteem had improved as never before. Whereas his first eleven years (and arguably a few more) were replete with a longing for parents he couldn’t remember, his most recent months had found him accepting of his fate, and theirs. He’d come to terms with his loss and become more independent in his thoughts and actions than he ever had. He’d finally felt like, “Harry Potter” rather than “The Boy Who Lived” for months, and he’d grown familiar with it.

“Harry?” Hermione said cautiously. “Are you okay?”

He nodded his head in assent and dropped the note back to his chest. He searched his mind for an appropriate response. He wasn’t sure how to put any of it into words. “Just when I think I’m over it,” he said quietly, his voice trailing into silence.

Hermione nodded her head as her fingers played with the thread of his jumper. “I know,” she whispered. He turned his head to look at her properly and saw the same look reflected in her face as must’ve been plastered across his.

“I know you do,” he replied honestly. He trailed a finger along her jaw line, finally allowing it to play in the few strands of hair that had escaped her plait. Her eyes connected with his and she cast a furtive glance to where the box laid abandoned at his side.

“Can I?” she asked respectfully, inclining her head to where it sat. Without removing his eyes from hers, he grasped the box in his hand and gave it to Hermione. She took it from his hand reverently and pulled up the protective silk cover. She gasped audibly. Her hand flew to her chest and her eyes glassed.

Harry hadn’t been the least bit interested in seeing what was inside the box. Conversely, he was rather glad Hermione asked to see it first. It was somehow easier to have her unveil his parent’s wedding bands than to do it himself. However, her reaction peaked his curiosity. They were either horribly ugly and she was dreading the prospect of being asked to wear one, or they were beautiful and she was about to descend into one of those “girl” moments he’d only seen the likes of Pavarti Patil and Lavender Brown embrace. Either way, having seen her reaction, he was compelled to look inside as well.

Of the two possibilities, it was the latter.

Two bands, equal in width, but sized for a man and woman, sat next to each other in the box. They were not so much identical, but mirror images of each other. The design was unimposing. As a matter of fact, the rings had little “design” to them at all. They were simple, rounded edge bands, with no adornments or filigree. Any such additions would’ve detracted from the beauty of the metal itself. Simple rivers of colored metal danced together in a mirror imaged pattern flowing straight through the band itself. Harry could make out the color of at least three different metals all harmoniously connected to each other, yet standing individually enough to draw its own attention. They had a very natural, earthy, quality to them. Although obviously made of some forged metals, the pattern nearly approximated that of a smooth wood grain. Harry had never seen anything like them, apparently Hermione had not either.

“They’re beautiful,” she whispered. Harry nodded silently. He sat up alongside Hermione and reached for his mother’s ring. With a simple tug, it pulled out of the box and rolled it around between his fingers watching the soothing streams of metal continue to trail out of sight endlessly. He broke the trance to look at Hermione. She was intently studying his activity and awoke from her reverie when he took her hand in his.

“No!” she gasped. “I couldn’t. Harry, this was your mother’s ring,” she argued.

“Yes,” he affirmed quietly. He grasped her hand firmly, not allowing her to pull it from his, “and I don’t think there’s anyone else in the world she’d most like to have it but you.” He slipped it on her finger, amazed at the perfect fit. She raised her hand in front of her, completely mesmerized by the look of it, and oblivious to what Harry was doing. She didn’t startle from her abstraction until his fingers, clad with matching metal, laced through her fingers. He pulled her hand down, feeling the cool metal of her ring against his hand; hearing the musical sound of the metals brushing against each other as they hadn’t done in years. When her eyes finally drew from their hands and locked with his he noticed the chocolate hue of her eyes glisten from her welling tears. He wasn’t one to be overtly sentimental, but something about this moment encouraged the words to leap from his mouth without reserve. “I love you so much,” he said softly.

“I love you too,” she replied hoarsely as the tears slipped down her cheeks. Harry wiped her cheek with the back of his hand and they both returned to their previous endeavor with renewed enthusiasm.

***

Harry and Hermione, hands intertwined, walked into the Great Hall for Christmas dinner. Although she’d done her best to tame it, Hermione’s hair was as disheveled as Harry’s always seemed to be. They didn’t have much time to right themselves before heading to the Great Hall and Harry, for one, couldn’t decide if he was happy with Dobby or angry with him.

Both he and Hermione had completely lost track of time. Good intentions aside, amid the passion of the moment, no doubt encouraged by rogue teenage hormones, they’d nearly broken their promise to wait until their wedding night to consummate their relationship. Harry had reached the point of no return, at least that’s what he thought it was, when two gigantic green orbs and wildly flapping ears appeared at their bedside. He would’ve never guessed someone so small, could ruin something so good, so quickly.

It took Harry nearly ten minutes to stop Dobby from throwing himself against the wall in self-punishment before he finally calmed him enough to talk, Dobby merely indicated that the elves had prepared a special meal and he wondered where “Mr. Harry Potter” was. When he’d gone to Gryffindor tower, Harry was sure he’d gotten an eyeful more than any other house elf in Hogwarts history. He was also convinced the blush, still not faded from Hermione’s cheeks, might be emblazoned there forever. Neither Dobby nor Hermione could look squarely at each other after the encounter. Dobby merely snapped his fingers and vanished as Hermione hastily grabbed Harry’s jumper and pulled it over her head – eyes tearing.

A smile broke across Harry’s face as he looked over the guests for Christmas dinner. He had a feeling Remus would be there – and he was – sitting next to Tonks at the large round table that replaced the conventional house tables during the holidays. While he and Hermione had replaced the rings in the aged leather box, Harry couldn’t bear to part with it. If Petunia couldn’t tell him the story, he was relatively assured the last of the famed Marauders could.

Harry knew nearly everyone at the table. As usual, very few students had remained. Aside from those he already knew about, he was surprised to see two others in attendance. Merc Thompson was talking animatedly with Professor Flitwick and a face he’d nearly forgotten silently caught his attention from across the table. Mark Evans was loading his plate and talking to Professor Dumbledore.

“’bout time you two showed up,” Hagrid said brightly. Hermione’s face reddened even more as she and Harry settled in next to Ron. Although several of the guests were suppressing obvious grins, Harry noticed Ron’s expression remained as stony as it was when they’d arrived.

“Now that we are all in attendance, let me be the first to wish everyone a happy Christmas,” Dumbledore said warmly. Everyone raised the glasses in front of them and toasted the sentiment. After the formalities, the conversation became casual and light.

“Merc, you didn’t tell me you were staying over. Where’s your dad?” Hermione inquired.

“Alchemy convention,” she said flatly. “If he could invent a charm to allow him to work 24 hours a day, he’d have done so already.” She smiled.

“What about your brother? Didn’t he ask you to spend the holiday with him?”

“I didn’t ask. My niece or nephew is due any day and I didn’t want to intrude. Besides, as I understand it, very pregnant witches don’t make for amicable company.” She chuckled to herself and returned to her potatoes.

“What about you Mark?” Ginny asked casually. Harry’s ears perked up and he focused his attention on the first year student.

“Oh, well…” he began. “My family doesn’t really understand me these days.” He looked around the table and clarified. “They’re muggles.” Harry’s interest grew. “So I thought I would stay here and catch up on some homework.”

“I didn’t know you were a muggle-born,” Hermione interjected.

“I don’t know that I am,” Mark replied nonchalantly. “I’m adopted. I never knew my birth parents.” That stopped the conversation cold. Luckily, Dumbledore was quick to step in.

“Mark is also the oldest first year student we’ve had in years. Unfortunately, even Hogwarts must maintain some standards of enrollment. Mark’s birthday falls only one day beyond our cutoff.”

“You’re from Little Whinging aren’t you?” Harry blurted out. Mark nodded.

“I’m the same one from the park your cousin used to beat into oblivion,” he said embarrassedly.

Harry’s heart went out to him. That was something he could relate to. “Well, don’t feel bad about that. I spent ten years of my life being beaten up by him.” Mark snapped his head up with a curious expression on his face. Harry stifled a chuckle. It constantly surprised him that people thought he was invincible just because he was the “Boy Who Lived.” He leaned toward him covertly and continued. “When you go home this summer, tell him I said hello and show him the handle of your wand. I promise he’ll never bother you again. If you’d like to see him run, just mutter a few nonsensical words that mean exactly nothing.” Mark smiled brightly and Lupin nearly choked on his pumpkin juice.

“Remus are you alright?” Tonks said as she slapped him on the back. He nodded, coughing the juice from his windpipe.

He wiped a tear from his eye and cleared his throat. “Sorry, If I didn’t know better I could’ve sworn James Potter just possessed Harry.” That comment got a laugh from nearly everyone at the table except Snape.

“He did have a way with boosting morale,” McGonagall said thoughtfully.

“Usually at someone else’s expense,” Snape derided.

Dumbledore interjected before Snape could continue. “I’m afraid Hogwarts cannot withstand another invasion of practical jokes such as occurred during your time here Remus. However, I am concerned about the students. Since I have students and professors present from every house, I’d like to ask for your advice.” The table grew quiet and everyone focused their attention on the headmaster. “I feel a lack of morale among our students that I’ve not felt since the dark times. It seems everyone is on edge. I wonder if any of you have noticed the same?”

Many of the professors nodded silently; Madam Pomfrey the most vigorous in her response. The students didn’t appear to know what to say. Harry certainly felt on edge, but he, Hermione, and Ron (and arguably Ginny) were privy to far more information than the scant others surrounding the table. He wasn’t sure if his stress was merely attributable to the prophecy or if it was part of a great school issue. His answer came from another source.

“It’s noticeable in Ravenclaw,” Merc said unequivocally. “I think,” she looked at Harry regretfully, “that everyone understands this is Harry’s last year. I don’t mean to be insensitive Harry, but everyone seems to be holding their breath until June.” Harry didn’t know what to say.

“Way to not be insensitive, Thompson,” Ron said simply. Her expression didn’t change in the least as she locked her eyes on Ron, silently challenging him to a war of willpower. Ron broke first. He turned his eyes back to his plate and snatched another roll from the basket in front of them.

“I do not believe you’re being insensitive Ms. Thompson. I think your sentiments are shared by a greater number of students than you know,” Dumbledore said encouragingly. “So the question becomes, what can we do to alleviate some of the stress?”

“Cancel exams!” Ron piped up excitedly. Nearly every professor at the table glared at him in response.

“Do something fun!” Ginny said brightly. “Something to take everyone’s mind off of what’s happening out there.”

Harry and Hermione looked at each other questioningly. He wasn’t entirely sure about Hermione, but he was having a hard time deciding what to make of Ginny. She was acting no differently than she had been all year. That led him to believe that Ron had not said a word to her about their suspicions. He didn’t want to believe that she could lie the way Merc insinuated; but at the same time, all the evidence, for as circumstantial as it was, pointed directly to Ginny as the leak. He shook his head, trying to clear the thought as Dumbledore continued.

“I believe you are right Ms. Weasley. I was considering reinstating an old tradition Hogwarts has not embraced in years.” He looked around the table, a twinkle returning to his eyes. “The Valentine dance.” Tonks began slapping Remus on the back again as he choked on his juice for the second time that evening. After he cleared his throat, he looked around sheepishly.

“Sorry,” he said embarrassedly.

“That’s quite all right Remus,” Dumbledore said. “I think its rather fitting that you attend the dance, given the fact you’re part of the reason we stopped having them.” All eyes fell on Lupin who shuffled in his seat uncomfortably.

He looked at Tonks innocently. “I promise I had…practically…nothing to do with it.” The table burst into laughter such that no one seemed to notice Snape toss his napkin on his plate and leave the room.

***

“One day you’ll have to tell me what that was all about,” Tonks said as she and Remus traversed the hallway toward her room.

“I don’t know that I have the strength to tell you that story,” he said laughingly.

“You wouldn’t be worn out would you?”

“I might be.”

They reached the door together and Tonks turned to face him. She kissed him softly. “Thank you for walking me back.”

“Anytime.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said, turning to unlock her door. He grabbed her around the waist as she pushed it open. Burying his face in the crook of her neck he nibbled on the warm skin of her shoulder. He felt the goose bumps break out along her arms and smiled.

“Just a little something to remember me.” She turned her head along his chest and giggled softly. “Good night,” he said releasing her.

She walked into her room on unsteady legs and turned to face him. “Good night,” she replied with a lopsided grin. He winked at her impishly as the door clicked shut and he was left in the hallway alone. He turned around and leaned against the wall, thinking briefly about the strange normalcy of his life, before another voice caught his attention.

“Remus?”

He opened his eyes and looked to the intruder. “Harry!” he replied brightly. “You know, Head Boy or not, you don’t need to do rounds when there’s no one here.”

Harry laughed. “I’m not doing rounds. I wanted to talk to you.”

“How did you know I was still…wait… never mind. That was a stupid thing to ask,” Remus said, answering his own question before Harry could manage a word. The Marauder’s Map, sticking out of his back pocket was answer enough. He pushed off the wall and began walking the corridors with Harry. “So what did you want to talk about?”

“I was wondering if you could tell me a bedtime story,” Harry said with a smirk. Remus, thoroughly confused, stopped in the corridor and looked at his former prodigy.

“A what?”

Harry chuckled. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist. I never had a bedtime story before.” They resumed their walk through the corridors. “I received a gift from Aunt Petunia today. I was hoping you could tell me about it.”

Remus stopped. Several things about Harry’s last sentence caught his attention. Not the least of which were the words Aunt Petunia and present appearing in the same statement. Moreover, he wondered what Petunia could’ve sent him that Remus would know anything about. It all left him with only one conclusion, if had to be something of the Potters. He was about to ask the obvious question when Harry pulled a familiar box out of his pocket.

Thankfully respiration is an involuntary system, if left to his own accord, Remus would’ve suffocated, having completely forgotten to breathe. He reached out and took the box from Harry’s outstretched hand. He knew what was in it. He’d been with James when he bought them. Although part of him dreaded the memories that would undoubtedly bombard him, he was compelled to open to the box.

It creaked open to reveal Lily and James’ wedding bands and a menagerie of memories galloped through his consciousness. Interestingly, Remus’ first reaction was not one of sorrow, or loss, but of pride and happiness. “She was right,” he whispered softly.

“Who was right?” Harry said curiously. Lupin looked up to Harry and shook his head.

“Lily. Not unlike your Hermione, she tended to be right most of the time. I must say your father and Sirius didn’t appreciate it as much as I did.” Remus chuckled under his breath.

“What can you tell me about them?” Harry asked, looking into the box in Remus’ hand.

“It’s a bit of a long story.”

“I’ve waited a lifetime to hear it.”

Remus looked into the familiar green eyes of his best friend’s wife and thought back to their seventh year at Hogwarts.

“Come on!” James hissed as he waited by the common room door, invisibility cloak in hand.

“Hold on to your knickers, Prongs!’ Sirius chided as he appeared at the bottom of the dormitory staircase. “Are we ready to go?”

“Ready? Moony and I have been ready for ten minutes! You spend more time on your hair than the ‘princesses’ combined!” James snapped.

“Well I’d hate to leave the tower with my hair looking like yours,” Sirius replied.

Remus cleared his throat. “Might I remind you we’ll be under an invisibility cloak and no one will see you leave the castle, let alone the tower. That’s if we ever get moving.”

“Too right!” James said throwing open the portrait hole door and climbing to the corridor entrance. He stopped, surveying the corridor, before motioning Remus and Sirius to join him. After each had clamored through, James threw the invisibility cloak around them and they took off for Hogsmeade.

“Now tell me again why Peter didn’t join us?” Sirius said, biting the head off of a chocolate frog as they waltzed through Hogsmeade.

“He said he some moonlight catch-up work to do, if you get my meaning,” Remus replied solemnly.

“Right,” James said sarcastically. “He thinks we’ll get caught.”

“We are walking right down the middle of main street Hogsmeade at night. We should at least use the cloak if we intend to not draw attention to ourselves,” Remus suggested.

“Bullocks. It would be more conspicuous if strange voices floated by these people when they couldn’t see us,” Sirius said throwing a grand smile to a young witch walking by. He spun on his heel to watch her pass entirely before falling back in step with the others.

“Well, we won’t be in Hogsmeade for long,” James said, his steps drawing to a close in front of the Hogsmeade floo stations. James pulled out a bag of floo powder and they each took a pinch. With a sly grin to his friends, he threw the powder into the fire. The simple dancing flames erupted from their resting place and turned green as James shouted “Diagon Alley” and stepped in. Remus and Sirius quickly followed behind.

“So where is this guy?” Remus said, coughing and brushing the soot from his robes.

“It’s this jewelry shop across from Florean Fortescue’s,” James said excitedly. “Today is the only day of the year he leaves his shop in Japan. I nearly fell out when I heard he was coming to Diagon Alley!”

“And here you deride my attention to personal grooming, Prongs. You know more about this jewelry maker than is allowable for the male gender,” Sirius said sarcastically.

“He’s not a jewelry maker. He’s a master sword maker in the Japanese samurai tradition. He just realized his metalworking techniques could bring in quite a bit of money in the private sector,” James replied knowingly.

“And you would have this money?” Remus asked guardedly.

“I have my own means,” James replied, eyes twinkling, as they bell to the jewelry shop heralded their entrance. They walked in together amid the crowd of perusing witches and wizards. Several cases were set up along the east wall displaying the unique style of jewelry created by the small Japanese artisan set up at the back corner of the shop. Upon seeing him speaking to a gathered crowd, James swiftly moved in to listen.

“I invented this technique to adorn the weaponry of the samurai. It is called Mokume Gane. Literally translated, it means ‘wood eye metal.’” The assemblage of wizards leaned in to see the finished product.

“It looks like wood grain,” a graying wizard remarked.

“How do you get the different colors?” another asked.

“I use different metals – gold, silver, platinum, titanium, even copper. They must be non-ferrous metals in order to blend properly.”

“How do you get them to blend?” Sirius asked, surprising Remus with his interest in the subject.

“Muggles must use pressure and heat to laminate and solder and fold the layers together. It is why they’ve never perfected the technique as I have. Being a wizard affords certain luxuries they do not possess. However, my exact process is a well-guarded secret.” The artisan explained.

James, Sirius, and Remus leaned in closer, as did the other spectators, as the artisan tapped the laminated bar stock with his wand. It sliced through the middle and splayed open to reveal a unique blend of swirling, complementary metals. Remus ruffled his brow as he inspected the two halves of the segmented bar stock.

“They’re mirror images of each other,” he observed.

“Yes,” said the artisan with a smile. “Not only are they mirror images of each other, each piece is entirely individual – like a human fingerprint. There will never be another like it.”

“It’s perfect,” James muttered reverently. Slowly the artisan shifted his eyes until they lay upon James. His face broke the simplest of grins.

“You are interested in wedding bands are you not?” James’ eyes flew from the metalworkers hands to fix on his face. Remus stifled a laugh. It was the same look James showed every time he was nearly caught Marauding by Filtch.

“I, er,” he stammered.

“Mokume gane rings are soul mates – fired from the same combination of material, virtually identical, yet entirely opposite.” James continued redirected his stare to the metal as the artisan spoke. “Tell me about your soul mate.”

James looked up startled. He looked between Remus and Sirius. Remus waited to hear his answer. In all their discussions, marauding, prank-playing, they’d never really had a serious conversation about their feelings. What seventeen year old boys do. Yet something about their purpose there, the wonderment in his eyes, and the atmosphere of the shop told Remus he was about hear James speak from the heart – possibly for the first time in his life.

“Well, she’s about five and a half feet tall and has fire red hair and green…”

“No,” the artisan interrupted. “Tell me about her,” he emphasized. James took a deep breath and a dreamy look overcame his features. Remus noticed the glassy look in his eyes as he began to answer the metal smith.

“She is my soul mate,” he said quietly. “She’s the strongest person I’ve ever met, strong enough to stand up to me. She has never let me out the easy way, nor has she settled for anything less than what she knew I was capable of. She’s stood in a ring of fire with me and never once been burned.” Remus’ eyes were fixed squarely on James while the man behind the counter seemed to only pay partial attention while collecting metals from the table. “She’s the most beautiful and intelligent person I’ve ever met –except for when she’s screaming at me.” James stifled a laugh. “And we can explode at each other, like fireworks hailing the New Year.” Sirius nodded silently. “But amid all that, she’s changed too. She’s grown, she’d adapted to me and the incredible circumstances we’ve faced together. Above all, she’s never complained. She’s never backed down. She’s never pre-judged anyone or failed to offer the benefit of the doubt. She’s the most noble person I’ve ever met.” The artisan pulled another piece of stock from under the table. “I’ve been completely mesmerized by her since the day I first saw her. She’s magnetic – my polar opposite – and I don’t want to imagine a single day without her.”

Remus felt the heat prick the corners of his eyes. He had never once heard James speak so eloquently, he’d really never thought it possible. But then again, he never asked the question. In all honesty, it made him a bit jealous of James, and a bit sorrowful for his own situation. Who could ever think to love someone like him – like that?

He looked past him to Sirius who appeared similarly touched by the sentiment. But his expression changed the instant he realized Remus was looking at him and a grin crept from the corner of his mouth. “Tell us how you really feel, Jamesy.” James shot him an exasperated look while Remus stifled the impulse to join in Sirius’ barking laughter.

“If I may?” the artisan said, drawing their attention back to the bench and waving his hand over the assortment of metals he’d collected while James spoke.

“What’s that?” James inquired.

“This,” he picked up a gleaming silvery stock of metal, “is platinum. It is one of the most beautiful of all metals. It is exceptionally resistant to wear, yet is curiously malleable. This is titanium.” He pointed to another raw metal. “It is a brilliant metal and is most commonly used in fireworks. This one is white gold. Gold is among the most noble of all the metals. It does not react to other metals and is therefore among the most stable. And this,” he produced a grayish metal from a hidden drawer in the table. “This is cobalt. When combined with the others, especially platinum, it produces a magnetic charge. When the bar stock is divided they become polar opposites.”

“So the rings will be attracted to each other?” Sirius said incredulously.

“Decidedly so,” he replied. He looked back to James, asking permission to begin his work. Remus, like his friends, couldn’t speak. James merely nodded his head in assent as the metal smith set to work. Nearly an hour later, they were leaving the shop together. James stumbled out of the doorway, nearly sprawling into the street.

“Prongs, haven’t you memorized what they look like by now?” Sirius asked. James did not reply. He merely continued to gaze into the antiqued box. Remus looked at Sirius knowingly and they laughed as they began walking to the Diagon Alley floo station. They were so enraptured with the experience they never noticed who was standing in front of them until it was too late.

“Oh! I’m sor-“ Remus’ voice quickly stopped. The trio was staring directly into the glittering eyes of Albus Dumbledore.

There was no way around this one. The Marauders (at least three of them) had been caught. Remus racked his brain quickly trying to devise some plausible excuse for why three Gryffindors, one of which was head boy, would be in Diagon Alley when they were supposed to be tucked in their beds at Hogwarts.

He wasn’t coming up with anything.

The heat was burning his face and he glanced sideways toward Sirius, hoping he’d have conjured the answer by now. If it was possible, Sirius looked more translucent than Sir Nicholas. Remus couldn’t raise his eyes to the headmaster and he didn’t want to face the nagging I-told-you-so that was destined to echo from Peter’s mouth. He shuffled his feet from side to side, feeling the seconds of awkward silence stretch into an eternity.

“Well,” Dumbledore said serenely.

“Er,”

“Well,” Remus and Sirius spoke simultaneously.

“I trust your business here is done Mr. Potter.”

“Yes, sir,” James said in a peculiarly bright voice. Remus looked at him inquiringly and was met with the oddest expression. James was beaming. In his confusion he drew his eyes to Dumbledore who seemed strangely pleased as well.

“It has been a long time since I’ve laid eyes on Denbei Shoami’s work. May I?” Dumbledore asked, looking furtively toward the box in James’ hand.

“Certainly.” James handed over the box immediately and peered over the top to catch another glance.

“Magnificent. I expected nothing less.”

“Thank you, sir – for everything,” James said quietly.

“It was my pleasure. I saw you take such little interest in magical history. I could hardly pass up the opportunity to introduce you to Denbei after you showed such attention to the Akita prefecture and samurai weaponry. His talents in folded metal are among the most prized in the wizarding world,” Dumbledore explained as Remus’ surprise increased.

“And the most expensive,” James replied sheepishly.

“I do not doubt the time it will take you to repay your debt.” Dumbledore smiled warmly. “But, I think I’ll know where to find you.” He winked. “Now, I suggest you return to Hogwarts while Mr. Filtch is still detained by that unfortunate outbreak of rhinotitus. It will be wearing off in less than fifteen minutes.” He acknowledged the boys warmly and breezed past them into the shop.

“Dumbledore gave him the money?” Harry said incredulously.

“It turned out to be more of an advance,” Remus clarified. “You can imagine the questions we had on the way back – not the least of which was why your father led us to believe we were pulling off the greatest escape yet.”

“What did he say?’

“He didn’t have to say anything. It was clear to both Sirius and myself, that he’d done it merely to prank the both of us; and a bloody good job he did too. I nearly went into cardiac arrest when I saw Dumbledore.” Remus laughed at the memory. “He went on to tell us about the Order. Being head students, James and Lily saw a bit more of Dumbledore than we did. He’d already described the organization to them and extended an invitation to join upon the conclusion of their studies.” His eyes trailed into the distance and his face grew solemn. He turned to look at Harry properly. “I’ve never forgotten how he described your mother. I’ve never forgotten his speechlessness at the finished product. He was as in love with those rings, and everything they symbolized, as he was with Lily.”

Harry looked back to the box. After studying the rings for a moment, he snapped his eyes back to his former mentor. “Earlier you said my mum was right about something? What was it?” The smile evaporated from Remus’ face and the twinkle in his eyes extinguished on cue. Unlike the last, he didn’t seem eager to answer this question. “Please,” Harry prompted.

Remus took a breath and slid his hands into his pockets. “Lily was a seer.” Harry didn’t respond. In the awkward silence, Remus felt compelled to continue. “She once told me she’d seen that Halloween.” His voice grew dark. “It was shortly before we learned of the prophecy, just after they were married. She never told James; she didn’t want him to worry. But she assured me, if that day bore the slightest resemblance to what she’d seen in her visions, she’d find a way to safeguard their wedding bands before nightfall.”

Remus shook his head and closed his eyes regretfully. “I always thought she’d had it wrong. I figured since they didn’t come to me, she wasn’t as prepared for that night as she thought.” He looked back to Harry. “I didn’t figure on her sending them to Petunia.” His faced ruffled into a painful smile. “But I guess it makes sense; those rings are a symbol of their love and commitment to each other.” Harry looked away. “So are you, Harry. It was only right to keep you both together.”

***

“So you did go with the Quasar,’ Merc shouted up from the snow-dusted pitch. Ron was putting his broom through a rather rigorous series of tests but stopped at the sound of another voice. He looked down, hovering over the pitch, to see Merc standing beneath him, broom in hand.

“What are you doing here?”

“Apparently, we had the same idea for this balmy Christmas evening,” she said looking around at the empty stadium. The sarcasm was not lost on Ron, he was freezing.

“I’d planned to be here alone.”

“I can leave,” Merc turned and looked toward the stadium entrance. “But, we might be able to help each other if I stay.”

Ron furrowed his brow and looked at her incredulously. “What? You plan to teach me all the finer points of Quidditch?” Merc mounted her broom and floated up next to him.

“Are you quite through?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“There’s no one here to impress, Ron. You hardly know me and I hardly know you and we’re clearly not interested in each other. So you can stop playing Captain Machismo anytime,” Merc said with growing frustration in her voice.

“You’ve got some nerve,” Ron said, his voice colder than the biting air.

“And you’ve got a choice,” she replied. “I intended to get some practice this evening. Obviously, so did you. I’m a chaser, you’re a keeper. You can either send me out – and I’ll go since you claimed the pitch first – or you can knock that chip off your shoulder and beat the hell out of Slytherin next week.” Silence hung in the air. “Your decision.”

He couldn’t remember ever being spoken to that way. Nor could he really remember someone pinning down his exact purpose with such a fine point. She’d called his bluff and he knew it. With a gravid heart, Ron agreed to the company. As much as he hated to admit it, it was far more difficult to defend the hoops by enchanting the quaffle yourself. He also had the nagging compulsion to ask her about his “tells” as a keeper. After her fifteenth goal he finally did just that.

He was quite impressed with her demeanor. She was able to score on him rather easily, but had no qualms in explaining exactly how she was beating him. She had no pretense of withholding information or trying to maintain the upper hand. He figured the only justification she could’ve made to herself is that Ravenclaw had already beaten Gryffindor – so she didn’t need to keep it secret. They were both in their final year and would never meet in organized competition again. That, and she appeared to loathe Slytherin as well, Ron couldn’t help but warm up to her with that realization. After ninety minutes of drills, discussion, and strategy, Ron finally outlasted her.

“Well,” she began. “Thanks for letting me hang around. This was fun. I’m dead tired though. I should head back.” Ron dropped to the pitch beside her and dismounted his broom.

“I think I’ll do the same.” He looked at her apologetically. “Thanks for staying.” She smiled warmly.

“Care to walk me back?”

Ron grabbed his bag and threw his broom over his shoulder. “Lead the way.”

They walked in silence for a few minutes, quietly trudging up the path to the castle. “So, I have to know,” Ron began.

“Ah, I wondered how long it would take,” Merc interrupted knowingly.

“It’s driving me crazy thinking about it.”

“He thinks about me?” she said almost inaudibly.

Ron stopped in his tracks. “No, I don’t!” he retorted.

Merc stopped a few steps in front of him and turned – her face alight with embarrassment. It became rather evident to Ron that he was never intended to hear her last comment.

“It’s just your name,” he softened. As quickly as he recognized her humiliation, it was replaced with something more familiar.

“It’s a well guarded secret,” she said sarcastically.

“It’s your name.” Ron rebuffed.

“And I’ll be forced to memory charm you if you ever find out what it is.” She cocked her head to the side and looked him over. “I must tell you charms are not my forte. How do you feel about believing you’re a Peruvian fruit bat with an inferiority complex?”

“What?” he asked confused.

“Let’s change the subject,” she replied hastily.

“Fine.” Several things about this conversation were bothersome to Ron. Primary among them is why he always seemed to trip over his tongue or say something wrong in her presence. It wasn’t this hard to talk to Hermione. Why should her friend be any different? Yet, he invariably ended up saying something he shouldn’t, or something he felt terribly guilty over. He searched for a neutral subject to continue the good humor they’d left the pitch with. “So your dad is an alchemist. What’s your mum do?” Ron resumed walking toward the castle.

Merc’s footsteps fell in line with his. “She passed away.”

Well, that was a cheerful change of subject!

He searched for the appropriate words to say aloud while chastising himself for not having thought there may be a reason why her mum was never mentioned. As it was, both of his best friends were without their parents. It would seem he’d grow accustomed to the idea that not everyone’s family is as decidedly traditional as his.

“It’s okay. She passed away a long time ago; during the dark times, just after I was born. I don’t remember her. My brother is a bit older than me, so I was essentially raised as an only child.” She giggled. “He only had experience with boys, bless him. But I can’t complain, I’d never have learned to play Quidditch or collect mud slugs without him.”

“You played with mud slugs too?” Ron said disbelievingly.

“Doesn’t everyone? You know if you squish them below the thorax…”

“Their heads explode!” they chimed together laughingly. Ron spent the next few minutes reminiscing over childhood activities in the back garden as they began climbing the steps to the castle. Even he had to admit, the evening, although unexpected, was rather enjoyable. He was just about to say something to that effect.

“So have you spoken with Ginny about her summer?” she asked guardedly. Ron’s head snapped to attention and he looked at her without responding. “I guess that’s a ‘no,’” she whispered.

“I have no intention of speaking with Ginny about her summer. She’s my sister and I refuse to think about her like you do,” he said scathingly. He looked down the darkened corridor toward Gryffindor tower feeling inordinately guilty yet again. He wasn’t being entirely truthful. In matter of fact, he had spoken to Ginny just after breakfast when he’d returned to the tower to change. It was a brief conversation he’d not even shared with Harry or Hermione, but the compulsion drove him to the question when they ended up alone in the common room.

“Ginny I need to talk to you,” Ron said flatly.

“What about?”

“When I told you about Operation Ferret, you promised me you wouldn’t say anything to anyone.” Ginny’s expression became noticeably perplexed.

“I didn’t,” she replied. Ron looked at her skeptically. “I didn’t!” Her voice rose angrily. “Why would you think I would do that?”

“Well, someone leaked that information and it nearly got Fred and dad killed!’ Ron bellowed. Ginny backed away from her brother, shaking her head in amazement.

‘And you think I am the leak?” she said disbelievingly

“Well, the three of us certainly didn’t say anything. I’m the only one thick enough to have talked about it!”

“You talked about it to me!”

“And apparently that was my mistake,” his voice grew distant. Ginny’s composure began to melt and Ron saw the tears spring to her eyes.

“I’m telling the truth,” she reiterated with an unsteady voice.

“Really, Ginny?” The sarcasm was dripping from every word. “If you’re so keen to tell the truth, why don’t you tell me how you really spent your summer.” If Ron didn’t know better he’d have thought a Dementor swept into the room. Ginny grew as white as the drifted snow and the breath seemed to escape her lungs entirely. She stared at Ron, her mouth was hanging open and the silence between them was deafening. However uncomfortable the situation was, it didn’t last. Although obviously caught off-guard by his question, she regained her composure quickly. Her face grew dark and her voice chilled the room.

“Why should I tell you? You wouldn’t believe me anyway.”

With that she stormed up the dormitory tower and disappeared. He didn’t know what to think. He wanted to believe her, but something inside him was nagging at his subconscious. He left for the pitch shortly thereafter to either figure it out, or drive it away.

“Ron? Are you alright?” Merc asked quietly, drawing him from his thoughts.

“I’m fine. I need to go. Good night,” he said with finality. He turned and walked off, his footsteps echoing along the stone walls and drowning out the sound of her reciprocal farewell.

A/N:

If you’re interested in the inspiration for the wedding bands…it comes from what my husband wants for our 10 year anniversary. This is a link to the designer our jeweler carries…I hope I did them justice:

http://www.georgesawyer.com/html/colorpallet.htm

Vleigh

18. The Winds of Change

Hello all of you in ToR-land. I’m sorry this has been so long in coming. I might’ve set my own record for time between new chapters. However, the life of a High School assistant principal at the end of the school year is less than accommodating for free time. Put a summer school principalship on top of that and you get….well…about a month (or more) between chapters.

I hope you are not disappointed with what you got for as long as you waited. I want to thank Soch for a great IM session that managed to shatter a bit of writer’s block for the Quidditch scene. Neither CC nor I are guys, so I trust you’ll let me know how I did with that Soch!

As always, big props to my “semi-colon princess” and adverb-killer extraordinaire. You all should thank Cheering Charm for her quick returns on these chapters…thankfully she takes practically no time compared to me J

I’m still thinking this is 25 chapters with an epilogue-however my June target for finishing seems to have been a bit….optimistic. Especially now that these chapters have gone from 12-15 pages a piece to what they are now…this one is 27.

(FYI - This is one of those “enhanced chapters” the scene with H/R in the library is not included on the snitch).

All hail the Triumvirate of Verbosity.

(PS This chapter has now been edited to reflect some constructive criticism from Soch-it’s better for it!)

Chapter 18 – The Winds of Change

Harry scanned the shelf, looking for a book that would call out, “the answer is in here!” He attended a school of witchcraft and wizardry and often wondered why the books weren’t enchanted to do that very thing. In actuality, he wasn’t entirely sure what he was looking for.

That’s probably why you can’t find it.

He stepped back from the shelf and took a breath to clear his thoughts. The Christmas holidays had flown by and classes resumed faster than ever. Aside from this “project,” as they dubbed it, he was swamped with homework. He needed to be in the Common Room with Hermione and Ron, working on Snape’s latest foray of assignments. However, procrastination had gotten the best of him. He smiled inwardly, wondering if it was possible to channel the living. He’d had a compulsion to go to the library that Hermione would’ve been proud of.

So here he stood, staring at a dusty rack of books in the restricted section of the library, trying to remember why he’d come here.

You remember him…heir of Slytherin…killed your parents…would really like to see your head mounted on the London Bridge…

“I’m never going to find the answer,” he mumbled under his breath.

Given the weight of the prophecy on his shoulders, he’d tried to maintain a positive outlook on the situation. But he couldn’t fight the relentless onslaught of time; it marched on, whether he was prepared for the future or not. He was far more concerned about finding a viable defeat for Voldemort, than studying for his N.E.W.T.s. Hermione either understood this or was too encumbered with her own studies to mention it. If there was anything Harry was grateful for, it was that. The first two weeks of January had already slipped by and the last thing he needed was a lecture from her.

His eyes stopped on a vaguely familiar book – Magical Myths and Legends; A History of Ancient Familial Rivalries. He furrowed his brow and gently slipped it from the bookshelf. When he turned it over, examining the front cover, he suddenly remembered where he’d seen it before. This was the book Professor Dumbledore gave him for Christmas.

Admittedly, Harry hadn’t cracked it open. He was rather convinced Hermione gave it to him, until he read the card. He read it so many times he memorized its brief inscription.

Dear Harry,

I thought you might find the information in this book of some interest. I hope you enjoy it.

Sincerely,

Professor Dumbledore

He’d become increasingly worried about the Headmaster. He looked older than Harry had ever seen him and he seemed less erudite in their conversations. Dumbledore worked with the trio frequently, usually leaving at curfew, claiming the necessity of a warm blanket and his bed. Now, he’d sent Harry a book for Christmas – and a history book at that. Short of scheduling him into additional potions classes, Harry couldn’t think of a gift that might excite him less.

However, as he looked at it now, the book suddenly became more intriguing.

Why would a history book be in the restricted section? Moreover, why would Dumbledore send me a restricted book for Christmas?

He looked quizzically at the book when a crash from just outside the gate roused him from his thoughts. He absentmindedly reshelved the book to investigate the disruption, making a mental note to give his Christmas gift a thorough once-over that evening. As he reached the gate, he saw a young Gryffindor, with his belongings strewn about the floor. He was scrambling after an ink bottle and trying to collect his parchment at the same time. His bag lay on the floor with a torn shoulder strap. Harry stifled the smile brought on by the other student’s amusement, and bent down to help him collect his things.

He gathered a few spell books and reached for a quill that had slid away. Just as his hand reached it, a shoe, nearly squashing Harry’s hand, firmly planted itself atop the feather. He snapped his eyes up, knowing full well whom he would see. He drew himself up slowly, silently appreciative that although he wasn’t as tall as Ron, he was still able to look down at this git – even if he only outmatched him by a mere inch.

“Malfoy,” Harry said coolly.

“Potter,” Malfoy drawled.

“What are you doing here?”

“I thought I’d help this ickle first-year gather the rubbish he just dropped all over the floor.”

“You’ve never helped anyone but yourself,” Harry’s voice darkened.

“Tut, tut, Potter. How quickly we forget the Hog’s Head Tavern,” Malfoy said, feigning affront.

Harry didn’t respond. He wasn’t sure how to do so. It was true. Draco stood with he and Ron, against Lucius Malfoy, during their encounter last year. But, Harry was still disquieted nonetheless. He’d been programmed for years to appraise Malfoy as a self-important, egotistical, supremacist whose actions were entirely based on some inner equation that placed him ahead of everyone else. But for as eloquent as that sounded, he’d also called Hermione a Mudblood more times than Harry could count – and that was something Harry was not likely to get over quickly.

“People can change, Potter,” Malfoy said, lifting his foot and reaching down to pick up the quill.

“Despite what happened last year, I don’t believe you’re one of them,” Harry replied, plucking the quill from Malfoy’s fingers. They held each other’s venomous stare for a fleeting moment before the corner of Malfoy’s lip turned skyward and his eyes sparkled brightly. Harry wrapped his fingers around the wand in his pocket, prepared – if not anxiously awaiting – the inevitable. To his surprise, it didn’t come.

Malfoy, silently turned away and left the library. Harry watched him go, only vaguely aware of shocked eyes that had watched the entire scene.

“Wow. They weren’t kidding about the two of you were they?” Mark Evans said quietly.

Harry snapped his eyes to Mark’s. “Who wasn’t kidding?” he asked sharply.

“Everyone. You know some of my year were told their sorting test was to get you both to shake hands without hexing each other.” He chuckled. “Thank you for helping me with my books.” He held out his hands to collect his things from Harry. Harry picked up his bag and repaired the handle with a quick incantation before handing it over as well. “Thanks,” Mark replied appreciatively.

“No problem,” Harry replied.

An awkward silence befell the two as Harry searched for the next thing to say. He wasn’t sure why, but something about Mark Evans intrigued him. He’d given it a lot of though over the course of the term. Perhaps it was because they had something in common, if only their muggle upbringing and Dudley’s propensity to beat them senseless. Perhaps it was the familiarity of his last name. He knew his mother’s maiden name was Evans as well. Perhaps it was his desperate desire to find a family he’d thought he’d lost – or create one in their conspicuous absence. Regardless of the possibilities, Harry was compelled to find out as much about this young wizard as he could.

“So, you’re adopted?” he asked speculatively.

“Yes,” Mark answered without reserve.

“How long have you been with your family?” They both began walking to a vacant desk where Mark could reorganize the belongings from his bag.

“Since I was very little.” He looked at Harry appraisingly. “You and I are not that different. I don’t remember my parents either.” Harry nodded silently.

“Have you ever thought about finding them?”

“No,” Mark said flatly.

Harry’s face furrowed in confusion. He couldn’t comprehend someone not wanting to see their parents if they were given the opportunity. Mark seemed to grasp what Harry was feeling.

“You don’t have parents because they were taken from you. Mine threw me away.”

How do you respond to something like that?

“It’s okay, Harry. I’ve gotten used to it. And besides, my adopted family loves me very much – I’m really very lucky to have the family I do,” Mark said as he continued stuffing his bag.

“I didn’t think there was anyone named ‘Evans’ living in that community,” Harry responded in a futile attempt to navigate the conversation into happier waters.

“There isn’t. Evans was my birth mother’s name. My adopted family is the Smythe’s,” Mark replied nonchalantly. “They never changed my name. They said that my experience was as much a part of who I am as roots are to a tree. So, my name stayed Mark Evans,” he said somewhat sadly. After a moment, his eyes lit up and he looked at Harry. “I guess they were right. You should’ve seen them when that Hogwart’s owl arrived.” He smiled broadly. “I imagine you had the same experience with the Dursley’s,” he asked.

“Yes.” Harry laughed remembering his first impression of Hagrid and the look on Uncle Vernon’s face.

“Well, I need to get going. Curfew is coming up and I’d hate for some rule-abiding Head Boy to give me detention,” Mark said spryly.

“If I see one, I’ll let you know,” Harry replied with a raised eyebrow.

Mark chuckled as he threw his mended bag over his shoulder and swept from the library toward Gryffindor tower.

***

“Where’s the other book?” Ron asked.

“What other book?” Hermione replied without looking up from the pages she was flipping through.

“I don’t know, it was green, it had gold lettering on the front…” he remarked as he sorted through a stack of books on the table.

“What was the title, Ron,” Hermione said with growing agitation.

“If I knew that Hermione, I wouldn’t be asking about it,” Ron said flatly. He peered around at the remaining books on the table without finding the one he was looking for. It was driving him crazy. In matter of fact, this entire process was driving him crazy. He had poured over more textbooks in the last five months than he had in five years. Unlike Hermione, he wasn’t obsessed with outperforming every wizard who ever lived on his N.E.W.T.S, but he was still disconcerted that this “project” had usurped so much of his time. He felt as if every waking moment was spent in this library and his resentment was growing.

The four walls of this room were beginning to feel like a prison and the endless pages of textbooks were its guards. He looked over toward a group of giggly second year students and wondered why his life couldn’t me more like theirs. They didn’t appear to have a care in the world. He reasoned their biggest concern was which boy to attend the Valentine dance with. His eyes floated from table to table, each playing out a similar scene, and a weight lodged itself in his chest. The weight of what he was not sure, but it was stifling the very air he tried to breathe.

“Ron,” Hermione said softly as she laid a hand on his arm.

“What,” he said shortly, snapping his eyes back to hers.

“Let me help you,” she whispered.

“Help me with what? I can’t find the bloody book,” Ron hissed.

“No,” she grasped his arm tighter. “Let me help you,” she reiterated.

Staring at her benignly, he cottoned onto her implied meaning but had no idea what she was planning to do. She must’ve taken his silence as a mandate to proceed. She turned to face him fully, reaching between them, while her hand from his arm slid down to grasp his palm. She turned him in his chair and lowered her head in concentration. Ron gave a fleeting glance over the tall stack of books to catch Harry’s interested green eyes looking back. He was marginally concerned that Harry would have some issue with whatever Hermione was doing. He didn’t appear to, and Ron’s concern quickly vanished.

Without understanding what Hermione was doing, but understanding it must’ve been coming from her, he felt the tension release from his shoulders. His pounding heart tempered its stride and the heat from his angered face ebbed away. He looked back to Hermione, noticing the features of her face furrowed in concentration. It occurred to him that this time in the library was not so terrible. After all, he had no intention of spending his time with giggly girls and frankly wasn’t that motivated to study for N.E.W.T.s to begin with. If he couldn’t be at the pitch (and in the blinding snowstorm that erupted outside that was rather impossible) then why not spend this time working toward finding a way to defeat Voldemort. These were his best friends, and the only way any of them would have a “normal” life was to see this prophecy through to the end. And he would just as soon fight to the same death Harry might be condemned to if it could ensure “the happily ever after” for the people he loved.

Hermione looked up and met Ron’s eyes. They smiled warmly and she wrapped her arms around him in a supportive embrace. With a short peck to the top of her head, they returned to their studies.

***

“What did you think of the idea I left for you last night?” Merc asked quietly as she flipped through her arithmancy book. Hermione looked up from her parchment as a contemplative expression crossed her features.

“Well,” she began hesitantly. “It shows a bit of promise.”

“You said that about the last three things I found.”

“Well, I will admit this one is intriguing,” Hermione clarified.

Merc looked around the room, finding Professor Vector consumed in an equation at the chalkboard, before opening her mouth to speak. Just before it leapt from her throat, she decided better of her comment. She had been working with Hermione, Harry, and Ron for several weeks on the project they’d told her about. She knew it must harbor some matter of importance for the sheer amount of time she saw them spending on its solution. The fact that she’d seen Professor Dumbledore’s handwriting on several bits of parchment only fostered her concern. She wasn’t being told everything and it was clearly getting to her.

She understood that she was likely helping with some greater cause. Part of her felt like she should be honored to contribute. But, she wasn’t. She was angry. They weren’t telling her the whole truth and she knew it. She’d spent a great deal of her free time looking for a means to defend against the Avada Kedavara and wasn’t appearing to get anywhere. Every suggestion or hypothesis she posed never seemed to strike anyone as anything more than a “remote possibility.” She thought her latest theory might at least raise an eyebrow.

Hermione did not look impressed.

She returned her attention to the assignment in front of them, attempting to put on the façade she used with nearly everyone. It wasn’t working. She wasn’t doing an adequate job of appearing nonchalant and she knew it. Furthermore, she knew why.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this with Hermione. Distant acquaintances used her for the workhorse in a study group. Young Ravenclaws who’d procrastinated too long begged for her notes. Disinterested Slytherins willingly volunteered to be in her group so she could find the answers while they discussed their ever-impressive social calendars. Hermione was not only brilliant in her own right, but also one of the only friends she truly had. She wasn’t supposed to do this.

Merc jabbed her quill in the inkwell and scribbled down the appropriate numerical sequence for soothing a restless Aquarian during the waning moon cycle. Somewhere in her churning discontent, she’d begun chastising herself.

You should’ve known better. This always happens.

Shut it, this is Hermione. She’s not like everyone else.

Then why is she lying to you?

She’s not! I think….

So ask her.

Merc looked up from her parchment speculatively. Hermione was engrossed in the assignment. She had marked two pages in the text and methodically flipped the pages back and forth, comparing the information she’d found. Merc, a defeated expression on her face, returned to her studies.

Coward.

I’m in Ravenclaw for a reason.

Fine….Smart coward.

Sod off.

“We aren’t getting anywhere are we?” Hermione said in a distant voice. Merc looked up from her assignment quizzically. They had been working for less than an hour, but were making fine progress completing it. The progress they’d made nearly ensured she would have time for the History essays she’d not had the opportunity to complete.

“What do you mean?” Merc argued, pointing to the parchment in front of them.

“I’m not talking about arithmancy.”

The realization dawned on Merc like the morning sunlight blinding off newly fallen snow. “Oh.” She couldn’t say much more. She didn’t know where they were supposed to be going, and therefore couldn’t comment on their progress getting there. However, she did know that any expanse of time conversing about this subject was likely to light her fire. She was just about to mention that when Hermione reached across the table and laid her hand over Merc’s.

“I know you’re frustrated with this. I know you’re angry with me.” Merc suddenly hated having an empath for a friend. “You have to trust me,” Hermione said with pleading eyes. “Please.”

Merc eyed her suspiciously, took a deep breath and asked the question she’d been thinking about for weeks. “Why won’t you tell me the truth?”

Hermione pulled her hand away and picked innocuously at the table. “It’s not my place to tell you.” This was about as unsatisfying an answer as any Merc could’ve imagined.

She looked at Hermione with a dumbfounded expression. “So, you are lying to me.”

“I am not!” Hermione said, clearly taken aback by the accusation.

Merc crossed her arms on the table and looked directly at Hermione, the anger welling in her chest. “Are you, or are you not telling me the whole truth about this project.”

Hermione looked away, shoulders collapsing as she let out a captive breath. “That’s what I thought.” Merc returned to her arithmancy, if only in show, and flipped the pages in her book curtly.

“Merc,” Hermione said in a quiet voice.

“What?” she replied, not removing her glare from the parchment before her.

“Please look at me.” Although her quill stopped moving, her head did not rise. Merc silently cursed her loose tongue. She knew what Hermione was doing. Unfortunately, they had too many study breaks in the library where they did nothing but talk about…nothing. Hermione knew Merc couldn’t stay mad at someone if she had to look them in the eye.

“Please,” she reiterated.

Her desire to please her friend commanded her as the Imperius had during their fourth year Defense classes. She drew a breath and met Hermione’s eyes. Her friend said the one thing she really didn’t expect.

“I’m sorry,” Hermione said quietly. “I never should’ve brought you into this if I couldn’t tell you everything. It was selfish of me. I wanted you to help us so I wouldn’t feel as though the burden was entirely on my shoulders. I used you.” Hermione finally broke eye contact with a defeated expression. “I really am sorry.”

Merc had no idea how to respond to this. If she was angry with Hermione before, she was angry with herself now. What’s more, she was angry with herself for being angry with Hermione and sat frozen in the chair wondering how her emotions could be entirely negated in the course of five sentences. In the end, she did the only thing that felt right.

“It’s okay, Hermione.” She reached across the table and took her hand. Hermione’s eyes glistened as they smiled together. “I’m sure you’d tell me if you could. You’re just going to have to be more creative in telling me I’m two cows short of a herd the next time I find something promising.” Merc chuckled at her own joke.

“You still want to help?” Hermione asked incredulously.

“Do you still need me?”

“Yes.”

“That’s all I need to hear.”

Hermione’s face broke into a broad smile and she happily returned to her Arithmancy assignment just as the bell announced the end of class. Merc checked her watch, not believing the time had passed as quickly as it had. She stood up and began collecting her things. Before she had the chance to suggest lunch, her stomach growled maliciously.

Hermione looked up with a raised eyebrow and smirked knowingly.

“I’m starving,” Merc said, making no attempt to look embarrassed. “Let’s get something to eat before I wither away to nothing right in this room.” She threw her bag over her shoulder and started for the door. Hermione caught up with her, her face barely maintaining its composure. “What?” Merc asked, looking around to see if she’d missed something humorous.

“Nothing,” Hermione replied laughingly. “Sometimes you remind me a bit too much of Ron.”

“Oh,” Merc replied flatly.

Ron Weasley was a subject she’d rather not explore. She’d done rather well not thinking about him for the better part of at least two hours. She wasn’t even sure why she thought of him as much as she did other than to conclude he was the most puzzling individual on the Earth. The mere thought of him confused her entirely, which is why she chose not to think of him at all. However, for as much as she’d like to avoid the subject, her insidious propensity to work every problem to a successful conclusion compelled her to think of him incessantly. Until Hermione mentioned his name she’d, thankfully, not thought of him once since the beginning of class.

“Everything alright?” Hermione asked as they walked out of the classroom together.

“Fine,” Merc replied quickly. “Why do you ask?”

Hermione didn’t answer. Merc could feel her eyes on her as they walked the corridor and she quickly thought of any available topic to change the subject. Settling on the one thing nearly everyone was discussing, she continued. “So, what are you wearing to the Valentine Ball? No doubt who you’re going with I presume,” Merc asked brightly.

“I have no idea.”

Merc stopped abruptly. “What?”

“About what I’m going to wear,” Hermione said, looking at Merc amusedly. “I’m going to the ball with Harry of course.” Their steps fell in line with each other as they continued toward the Great Hall. “I really only have one formal gown, and I wore it to the Yule Ball. There’s another Hogsmeade weekend before Valentine’s,” Hermione said thoughtfully. “Maybe we can go shopping together?”

“Shopping for what?”

“New robes for the Ball,” Hermione said disbelievingly. “You are going aren’t you?”

“No,” Merc replied. She couldn’t understand why Hermione would even ask that question. They’d had this discussion before the Yule Ball during their fourth year. Although three years had passed, nothing had changed.

“For heaven’s sake, why not?” Hermione exclaimed.

Merc responded with an incredulous chuckle. “For the same reason I didn’t go to the Yule Ball.” Hermione stood in the corridor, clearly trying to remember what those reasons were. Feeling the need to alleviate the confusion, Merc continued. “No one has asked me to go.”

Hermione, appearing shaken from her thoughts replied, “Oh, that’s just ridiculous! This is the last opportunity you’ll have to attend something like this at Hogwarts.” She raised her hands to the walls around them. “All of this will be over before we know it. You have to come, Merc!”

“So I can stand along the wall, trying to look imperturbable, while blissfully happy couples snog each other senseless on the dance floor? No thank you, Hermione. I’ve been an unwilling wallflower my entire life. I’m certainly not going to look for an opportunity to be conspicuously disregarded.” Merc hadn’t expected that to come out as brutally as it had, but she couldn’t help it. She was not a social butterfly. She wasn’t even the moth beating itself senseless against the windows looking in on the party.

“What if you had a date?”

“Hermione,” Merc scoffed. “Haven’t you heard any of the conversations in this castle over the last few weeks? Everyone already has a date! If there was someone out there who actually noticed me, I think they would’ve asked by now.”

“Ron doesn’t have a date.”

“Last time I checked, the concept of a “date” was predicated on the idea that the wizard actually like the witch.”

“How do you know he doesn’t?”

“Because it’s me, Hermione. I’ve never been asked on a date in my life. I’ve never even been kissed.” Hermione’s eyes widened. “Shocking, but true. I’ve got to be the only seventeen year old girl in the world who has quite literally never been noticed by the opposite sex.” Hermione’s mouth was agape. Merc laughed imperceptibly. “Don’t give it a thought, Hermione. I’m used to being invisible,” she said quietly.

As if to prove the point, at that moment Merc was knocked to the side of the corridor by a group of passing students. She threw out her hand and caught the cool stone wall to steady herself before she turned to see who’d failed to notice her this time. When she saw him, she thought better of the situation. It’s not that he didn’t see her, he just didn’t care.

“What in the world is the matter with you, Malfoy?” Hermione hissed. “You knocked her clear across the corridor!”

“Hermione,” Merc said quietly, doing her best to intercede. Of all the things she didn’t like, confrontation was on the top of the list. It’s why she rarely argued with anyone. She couldn’t stand it. She wasn’t sure where any of it came from; she’d had a happy childhood. She’d had a loving family. Arguments, while infrequent, were certainly not foreign to her existence. But she didn’t handle them well. In some dark corner of her mind, she figured arguing with the few people that did speak to her would only drive them away. She generally settled for a well-placed insult (which, by design, most combatants wouldn’t understand) that would offer her the opportunity to exit the situation while getting the “last word.” But, even when she emerged “victorious,” the argument would plague her for days, if not weeks, following. That was the worst part about her constant musing over Ron. It wasn’t what he said to her that night outside Gryffindor tower, it was the tone of his voice. She couldn’t remember much of what he’d said, but she’d never forget the timbre of his voice as he said it.

So much for not thinking about Ron.

She was drawn from her thoughts as she realized Malfoy was looking at her scathingly. She noticed Pansy Parkinson clamoring toward them with a scowl. “There you are Draco!” She glared between Merc and Hermione. “Whatever are you wasting your time with this lot for? We’ve been looking all over for you,” she said as she fell to a stop next to him.

Pansy’s arrival also heralded the arrival of the remarkably dim Crabbe and Goyle. Given the number of people now filling the corridor around them, “flight” was definitely not an option; therefore, Merc chose the former of the mantra. She flicked her eyes toward Pansy, Crabbe, and Goyle and back to Malfoy. “I’m surprised they found you, did you have to write down the directions for them, or actually draw a map?”

“I don’t know who you think you are!” Pansy barked.

“I’d be shocked if I thought you actually knew anything,” Merc replied without hesitation.

“We were just discussing your boyfriend’s lack of manners,” Hermione added before Pansy could string together a response.

Malfoy rounded on Hermione. His eyes were flashing. He stepped toward her menacingly. Merc was duly impressed that Hermione didn’t flinch. She stood there stoically with him hovering over her for what seemed an eternity. Merc couldn’t read his expression. He was either looking for an appropriate response, or deciding if he should use the one he already had. Merc silently prepared for the hex that Hermione was bound to throw off when he called her a ‘mudblood.’ She could see the word seeping from every pore in his body. It was only a matter of time before it erupted from his mouth.

“Pansy and I are not dating…Granger,” he said through a tightly clenched jaw. “I might have thought to apologize had your friend not decided to open her mouth as thoughtlessly as you do.”

“If there’s anyone in this castle who is completely lacking in concern for another human being Malfoy, it’s you. Don’t lecture me on thoughtlessness, ferret,” Hermione said derisively. Merc gripped the wand in the front pocket of her robes, silently begging this to end now before it turned into a Filch beckoning fire-fight in the corridor.

Malfoy scoffed. “You and Potter have a memory to rival Gilderoy Lockhart.”

Back down, Hermione. Let it go.

This is Hermione Granger you’re talking about.

I know. That’s what I’m afraid of.

Hermione glowered at Malfoy, appearing to fish through a list of appropriate retorts. If there was one thing Hermione was incapable of, it was backing down from a fight. Merc tried to mention that to her several times over the course of their friendship – usually when Hermione was obsessing about the latest row with Ron – but she could never find the words, or the courage, to do so. The tension between Malfoy and Harry was legend and it translated completely to Hermione and Ron. If he didn’t back down, she wouldn’t either.

Merc held her breath, quickly glancing around the corridor for some measure of escape, or rescue, from what was quickly becoming an unnecessarily poor situation. Amazingly, the resolution was directly in front of her.

Malfoy straightened up and adjusted his robes haughtily. He glanced back toward Merc, an indiscriminate glimmer in his eyes, and returned his attention to Hermione. Without looking at his cohort, he replied, “Come on, Pansy. We’ll be late for lunch.” Not surprisingly, Crabbe and Goyle were the first to move the scrum down the corridor toward the Great Hall.

As the crowd passed, leaving Hermione and Merc alone in the corridor, they both began to speak simultaneously.

“Why do you put up with that?”

“Why do you have to stir things up?”

They both tried to answer the other’s question, each time speaking over each other once again until they finally conceded what they already knew at the outset. These were two long-standing questions they would never be able to produce satisfactory answers for. As far as Merc was concerned, that was especially true on an empty stomach. She gathered her bag from the floor and playfully bumped Hermione’s shoulder.

“Come on, let’s eat.” They walked down the corridor in silence. The duration of silence eventually strained the limits of Merc’s tolerance. “What’s the matter?”

They entered the Great Hall together. Hermione’s eyes floated to the Slytherin table where Malfoy was absent-mindedly stabbing his baked potato. “He’s hiding something.” Merc scoffed as she readjusted her bag on her shoulder.

“No offense, Hermione. I’m not even an empath and I could’ve told you that.”

“What?” Hermione asked benignly.

Merc smiled. “This is Draco Malfoy were talking about. He’s probably hiding the skeletons of small muggle children under his four-poster.” Hermione maintained her stare across the hall. Merc was decidedly underwhelmed with Hermione’s reaction to the joke. “Or he’s sporting a black leather thong under those robes.”

That worked.

Hermione looked at Merc and burst into laughter. After regaining her composure she replied, “I guess you’re right.”

Merc looked toward the Gryffindor table, noticing Ron and Harry had saved Hermione her customary seat. “I think they’re expecting you,” she said inclining her head toward the table where Ron and Harry were curiously looking on. Hermione smiled and nodded affirmatively. “I’ll see you later.”

She watched Hermione settle herself at the table and launch into an animated tale (no doubt describing their encounter with Malfoy) and chuckled to herself as she sat down at a deserted length of the Ravenclaw table and extracted a novel from her bag for company. With a sigh, she helped herself to a rather unladylike portion of mince pie and flipped the dog-eared book open.

***

“Hermione, dear! I certainly didn’t expect you today,” Madam Pomfrey said brightly as Hermione strode into the deserted hospital wing. She drew to a near immediate stop and wondered if she shouldn’t have requested an appointment.

“Er – Professor McGonagall told me you wanted to see me about my lessons,” Hermione said uneasily.

“Yes, yes…but it’s a warm Saturday, especially for early February. The sun is brighter than it’s been in months and there’s a Quidditch match today. I wouldn’t expect any student to be electing extra study time,” she replied.

“Well, I’m hardly the sporting girl. I generally only watch Gryffindor matches to support Ron and Harry. I thought my progress with you was more important than boring myself into a stupor,” Hermione reasoned.

“And you had nothing better to do with your Saturday since Ron and Harry are undoubtedly watching the match,” Madam Pomfrey said knowingly.

“Ugh,” Hermione exclaimed as she flopped onto a vacant bed. “Can you teach me how to do that?”

“Do what?”

“That? You’re omnipotent or something,” Hermione said jokingly.

Madam Pomfrey laughed aloud. “Dear, I’ve been around teenage boys obsessed with Quidditch for the better part of this century. I have no knowledge or special power that life experience has not imparted.” Hermione smiled at her. “Besides, your Harry is exactly like his father. Poor Ms. Evans,” Pomfrey chuckled. “That poor soul sat through more stupefying discussions of proper Quaffle control than any girl I’ve ever seen.”

“Except for me.”

“Well,” Pomfrey smiled as she folded a blanket and laid it on the end of the bed. “Also like his father, Harry has impeccable taste in women. You are very much like his mother was at that age.”

Hermione smiled appreciatively as she continued her rant. “And they talk about it incessantly. Especially Ron! I’m rather glad he’s found his niche with this captaincy, but honestly, does every conversation have to end with some new found technique to increase broom speed?” Hermione said exasperatedly. Madam Pomfrey merely sniggered at Hermione’s frustration and began organizing the potions in an ornate glass cabinet hanging on the adjacent wall.

They continued to catch up with each other over the course of the next half hour. Not surprisingly to anyone, Hermione progressed through her empathy lessons with her trademark feverish speed. By the holidays, she’d stopped visiting the hospital wing entirely. Madam Pomfrey changed her lessons to something more fitting of an independent study, serving only as a consultant when Hermione began new skills. In all, Hermione had done beautifully with her “gift.”

She could regularly assess the emotions of those around her. Of course, the stronger the emotion, the easier it was to discern. She spent the majority of her time recently attempting to feel beyond the obvious and into the hidden emotions. Madam Pomfrey once told her that the true impetus and motivation for any person was not in the obvious face they showed the world, but viciously guarded beneath the exterior. She’d gone so far to describe it as the “stranger” within, an image that unsettled Hermione, if only because it invariably lodged a muggle rock song in her head for hours afterward.

She’d extended her independent study to her friends first. Merc proved a difficult “stranger” to find, but she felt rather confident that she’d been successful in her attempts. Harry was an open book, at least to Hermione so there was little mystery left in him. Ron was equally as unguarded with Hermione, but she had been discomforted with how stressed he’d been of late. He had been quick to anger and generally confused most of the time. Between he and Ginny’s obvious trepidation around any of the trio, Hermione finally put an explanation to the part of empathy she hated most.

She could feel if there was a problem, but empathic ability gave her no insight into solving it.

She knew Malfoy was deceitful. She knew Ron was confused and irritable. She knew Merc was scared to death that anyone see her for who she was, and Ginny…she was a conundrum all to herself. But, for all Hermione knew, she had no idea as to why any of those emotions existed. And the answers couldn’t be found in a book. They were found within the people themselves, and Hermione’s people skills were less than legendary.

“Well, I suppose we should discuss the reason I asked you here,” Pomfrey said, walking Hermione toward her office.

“Something new?”

“Yes. You’ve done a brilliant job with reading other’s emotions, especially the most outward of them. You’ve progressed faster than I expected projecting your emotions to others.” Madam Pomfrey organized some papers on her desk.

“So,” Hermione asked hesitantly. “What’s next?”

Madam Pomfrey looked up from her desk and smiled warmly. “Now comes the difficult part.”

“Difficult?” Hermione asked incredulously. Little did anyone know she practiced these skills in nearly every interaction she’d had. It was more than difficult, it was exhausting. Certainly, it couldn’t get any tougher than it was.

“Reading the emotions of others is the spectator sport of empathy. It doesn’t require any real control on your part. You need only use your intuition, logic, and heart to read what’s being thrown at you. Imparting your emotions to others is not much more advanced. It’s not much more difficult than steering a conversation to your favor. “ Pomfrey raised an eyebrow wryly. “I dare say you have a bit of practice with winning verbal altercations.”

Hermione felt her cheeks tinge as she thought back to the maelstrom of rows she and Ron had engaged in over the years. “Sheilding is the near reverse of that concept.” Her face darkened. “I won’t euphemize this for you Hermione. It will be fantastically difficult for you, but you must master the skill.”

“Why is it so important?”

Madam Pomfrey crossed her arms over the desk and drew a breath. “Do you remember your summer?”

Hermione looked away. “Of course.”

“A lot of things happened to you that you were unable to control.” Hermione nodded. “Exploding dishes, ruthless nightmares, even the ability to apparate long before any of your classmates; each of these things were beyond your control, and caused by dark emotions.”

“Dark emotions?”

“Fear, hate, despair,” Pomfrey clarified. “And all before you, or anyone else, truly realized your empathic gift.”

Hermione stared blankly across the desk. While she understood what Pomfrey was saying, she was not able to make the connection as to its importance. Fortunately, the mediwitch didn’t make her wait long. “Imagine if the wrong people, Death Eaters for example, knew of your abilities. A wizard skilled in dark magic – and most of them are – will use your gift against you. Without shielding your emotions from them, and theirs from you, you can be controlled as easily as by an Imperius.”

“And it wouldn’t be an unforgivable,” Hermione said darkly.

“Not that a Death Eater would mind if it was, but it makes their efforts nearly impossible to trace,” Pomfrey replied.

Hermione sat up in the chair and brushed her robes needlessly. She raised her eyes to her mentor and asked, “What do I do?” Madam Pomfrey’s face broke into a wide smile.

***

“Oh, Come on Hooch! That was a foul!” Ron shouted over the angry voices of other spectators. Harry was scowling right next to him. They begrudgingly sat down together, keeping a suspicious, but innocuous eye on Vincent Crabbe. For all practical purposes, Slytherin was slaughtering Ravenclaw; in part because the snakes had not bothered themselves to play by the rules, and also due to the markedly poor showing of several Ravenclaw players – Merc among them. Crabbe and Goyle, the two beaters Syltherin chose to play whenever they felt the need to be particularly brutal, we’re doing a wonderful job of sending bludgers at the heads of every Ravenclaw they could find. Madam Hooch had apparently decided to pace herself in whistling the fouls.

“I almost wish they’d get the snitch to put Ravenclaw out of its misery,” Ron said solemnly. “This is hard to watch.”

“If they had a seeker who could catch the snitch,” Harry shouted as Malfoy glided past their seats, “I’m sure it would be over.” Harry looked at Ron and sat back in his seat. “As it is, we could be here for another four hours.” Ron crossed his arms and studied the formations the Slytherin chasers were using.

“I hope they use that pattern with us,” Ron said with a raised eyebrow. “I have got just the strategy to get past that.” Harry looked over and smiled as the Slytherins, having scored another goal, leapt to their feet again. “Bloody hell,” Ron lamented.

Harry couldn’t help but agree with Ron’s sentiment. He didn’t particularly care for any team that wasn’t Gryffindor, but watching Slytherin win was tantamount to extra detention with Delores Umbridge. He began to think Hermione had the right idea. She’d chosen to skip the match and visit Madam Pomfrey rather than surrender her day to a torturous Quidditch match. Harry buried his eyes in his hand, shaking his head methodically.

“What?” Ron questioned.

“Malfoy,” Harry replied.

“What about him?”

“Well, he’s flitting about the South end,” Harry said, throwing his hand toward the Slytherin seeker.

“So?”

Harry moved his hand quickly, clamping down on the top of Ron’s head, forcibly turning it to the space directly in front of their seats. “Oh.” The snitch was darting around aimlessly mere feet from where Harry and Ron sat. Harry had the overwhelming urge to snatch it out of the air and chuck it at Malfoy. After a few moments, it became entirely obvious that the only person who hadn’t seen the snitch was the Seeker himself.

Slytherin fans were shouting across the pitch, flailing their arms wildly in the direction of the snitch. Malfoy caught a glimpse of his quarry and darted for the stands directly in front of Harry and Ron. Not surprisingly to Harry, the snitch scampered away before Malfoy crossed half the distance of the pitch.

Harry gave a fleeting glance toward Ron before launching into a derisive comment about Malfoy’s eyesight only to be stopped short. Ron didn’t appear to be paying much attention to the game. He was staring blankly across the pitch toward the treeline in the distance.

“What is it?” Harry asked interestedly.

“Have you ever had the feeling you’re being watched?”

Harry felt a sudden tingle climb his spine and followed Ron’s gaze toward the Forbidden Forest. He scanned the tree line curiously. His stomach flipped uncomfortably. For the briefest of moments he’d expected to see a great black dog meandering among the trees. He was about to chastise himself internally for failing to remember the reality of Sirius’ death when his eyes caught a dark flutter among the distance foliage.

He leapt from his seat, crossing in front of Ron, and stepping to the edge of the stands. Ron appeared beside him instantly, looking toward the same spot. “You see it don’t you?” Ron asked.

“Yeah,” Harry replied. They squinted their eyes, both trying to make out the figure in the woods. Wild screams erupted behind them as the student commentator announced two successive goals scored by Merc Thompson. Ron glanced toward the scoreboard while Harry kept his eyes firmly locked on the forest. The dark figure hadn’t moved. If he didn’t know better he’d have thought it was staring him down. Harry blinked his eyes, adjusting his glasses in an attempt to make out the immobile shape. In doing so, he lost visual contact with it entirely. It simply disappeared into the woods. Harry scanned the trees to no avail. It was gone.

“It was probably some creature for Hagrid’s next lesson,” Ron said distantly. Harry suddenly felt a bit silly. Ron was right. There were an inordinate number of animals roaming the forest at any given time, for all he knew, it was a thestral or a centaur investigating the noise from the stadium.

“Ron!” Ginny barked. “You’re the one who demanded the team scout this match! Are you even planning to watch it?”

Harry looked past Ron and noticed Seamus and Neville whispering secretively to each other. He and Ron took their seats and returned their waning attention to the match. Harry glanced back toward the forest as he noticed Ron’s shoulders tense. He turned his head to the pitch just in time to duck as Merc Thompson careened over the stands, avoiding a well-aimed bludger from Goyle. Whereas most of the stands began shouting insults toward the Slytherin beater, Ron’s eyes hadn’t left Merc. She was hovering just a few feet away, adjusting the black leather boot resting against her broomstick.

Hermione had explained that Merc, while brilliant in academics, was less than adept in the areas of social maneuvering. At this point, Harry had to agree. Ron’s mouth was conspicuously agape as she adjusted her stride over the broom. She grabbed the end of the broomstick and pressed herself against its length, stretching her shoulders. To say it was a bit provocative was an understatement, and Merc was obviously unaware of exactly how she looked to those in the stands. It was a typical way for players to loosen the muscles that would tire after a few hours of flying; Harry had done it more times than he could count, after watching that display however, he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to do it again without thinking of the look on Ron’s face.

She sat up, ran her hands through her hair, and pulled a few loose strands into the elastic band at the nape of her neck and darted back into the game. She’d barely had time to drop into formation when it happened.

The bludger left Crabbe’s bat with a sickening smack. She’d heard it, but hesitated a moment too long before looking around. She threw a hand up in a vain attempt to stop its approach but it was too late. The bludger connected with her right side and sent her tumbling off her broom toward the grassy pitch below. The crowd let out a collective groan and Ron leapt from his seat as she fell.

Thankfully, she was less than fifteen feet from the ground and the melting snow softened the surface and cushioned her fall. But, it was still disconcerting to hear her body connect with the ground. Madam Hooch’s whistle blew immediately upon impact and several of her teammates sped to the place where she lay. The first to arrive was a tall, and rather good-looking boy who dropped off his broom and crouched on the ground next to her. From the look on Ron’s face, it could only be the same boy he’d described the day he’d apologized to Merc. She stood up gingerly and brushed the snow and mud from her cobalt blue robes. He handed her broom back, and with a grateful wave to her house, she climbed back on, rising on the pitch to the cheerful applause of the spectators.

Ron seemed to realize he was leaning over the edge of the railing and tentatively looked to see who had seen him. The second his eyes connected with Seamus and Neville they burst into laughter.

“What?” Ron snapped.

“Oh, nothing,” Seamus said with a wave of his hand. “I don’t think Thompson could get another twenty goals on our King next time,” he finished.

“What are you on about?” Ron exclaimed, temper rising.

“I’d say Merc Thompson is the only thing he has scouted today,” Seamus added.

“Well Gryffindor has nothing to fear from those long legs of hers,” Neville chuckled.

“Or those tight-fitting Quidditch pants,” Dean Thomas joined in.

“Oh, dear, my hair has fallen,” Seamus continued in a high voice, running his hands through his hair as if to straighten it out. “Let me throw my chest out and tie it back!”

Even Harry couldn’t contain the chuckle from Seamus’ melodrama. Neville, Dean, and Seamus were collapsing into hysterics while continuing to comment on the finer points of Merc’s rather athletic build. Ginny had long since rolled her eyes and returned her attention to the match, but Ron was trapped.

If he argued the point, Seamus would only take that as license to continue chiding him. If he remained silent, they would assume he was admitting defeat. Either way, he was doomed to endure whatever his fellow roommates would throw his way.

“Sod off, Finnegan.”

That’s one way to go.

“Oh, it’s okay Ron…really,” Seamus said, gathering his composure. “We know you fancy her,” he said wryly.

“I do not!” Ron retorted.

“You do to!” Seamus replied.

“I do not!”

“You talk in your sleep.”

Dead silence.

“I what?” Ron asked incredulously. He looked to Harry for some modicum of support, but Harry was incapable of lying at the moment, even if he truly wanted to help Ron save face. The situation was just too priceless. He nodded almost invisibly and the others completely dissolved into laughter. Ron flopped down onto the bench and buried his head in his hands. Harry could make out a few muffled, but scathing, remarks that certainly would’ve inspired a lecture from Hermione and felt suddenly relieved that she hadn’t witnessed the scene.

The blazing red color of Ron’s ears hadn’t even begun to fade when the Slytherins spectators erupted in applause. Malfoy finally caught the less-than-elusive snitch and the game came to an end. Ron quickly made his way from the stadium. Harry caught up with him several paces later and they walked up the sloping lawns toward the castle.

Harry was feeling rather guilty for having lost his composure with Seamus. Ron was not talking and his eyes were fixed on the ground before him as he meandered toward the doors in silence. It truth, Harry was a bit glad it happened. He’d been searching for a way to have this conversation.

“Seamus was just having a go at you,” Harry reasoned.

“I know.”

“Do you..er - want to talk about it?” Harry said awkwardly.

“What in the world did I say?” Ron asked, his footsteps drawing to a halt.

Harry tried to mask the grin. “Nothing specific, but her name has come up once or twice.”

“Once or twice?” Ron said skeptically.

“A week,” Harry added quietly.

“Bloody hell!” Ron exclaimed as he turned on his heel and walked aimlessly around the lawn. Harry stifled the chuckle that threatened to escape his throat and collected himself just as Ron turned back toward him.

“Ron, it’s okay,” Harry said simply. He had a sincere appreciation for what Ron was going through as he’d tried to reason himself through a similar kaleidoscope of confusion at the beginning of last year. Although he’d intended it, Harry never talked to Ron about the conflicting emotions he’d experienced when his heart first took notice of Hermione. His silence had been a mistake that only made the experience harder. Admittedly, he felt this entire conversation was going to be awkward – guys just don’t talk about their feelings – but if it would help Ron that was all that mattered.

Without discussion they resumed their walk toward the castle, taking a mutual detour along the edge of the woods where their conversation could be private.

Ron broke the awkward silence first. “It’s not okay,” he said quietly. Harry furrowed his brow and looked up at him in confusion. Before he could reply, Ron continued. “I don’t know what’s the matter with me.”

“What do you mean?”

Ron stopped, gazing blankly along the tall trees as a cold breeze rustled through the foliage. “I just…I don’t know.” Ron stammered, unable to put his thoughts into words. Ron kicked at the snow dusted grass in frustration and began walking away. Harry shook himself to reality and caught up with him deciding to run headlong into the conversation.

“Ron?” he began. “Would it be such a tragedy if you did fancy her a bit?”

Ron’s mouth fell open as he stopped abruptly and looked at Harry. “Fancy her?” He repeated.

“Yes.”

“But, I don’t…I…I don’t know.” Ron stammered as he threw his hands up in defeat. “I don’t know what I think about her.”

“Yes, you do.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

This was quickly becoming a “sitting down” type of discussion. Harry inclined his head toward a large tree trunk that had fallen to the ground. Ron followed him silently as they took a perch together.

“I think about her all the time,” Ron said quietly as he plucked a twig from the log. “I don’t even know why.”

“What do you think about?” Ron blushed visibly and inspected the twig as if it held the secrets of the universe. Harry smiled and thought back to his time at the Burrow the summer before their sixth year. He had a relatively clear picture of what Ron thought about. After the Quidditch match today, it seemed everyone in the Gryffindor stands knew as well. “She does have really nice legs,’ Harry said with marked nonchalance.

“And she’s tall,” Ron said dreamily. “I’m well over six feet tall and it’s rather difficult to find a girl that looks you higher than the navel. No offense to Hermione of course, but I could use the top of her head as an armrest.” Harry silently praised himself for apparently finding the right words to get Ron talking. “Aside from that, she plays Quidditch…really well. She’s not some ninety pound waif-like girl that is afraid of a proper supper. She knows about broomsticks, and technique, and did you see the quill she used last week?”

“The one with the Chudley Cannon Chaser flying around the tip?”

“That’s the one.” Ron sighed and tossed the twig into the woods. “You should’ve seen her the day I bought that broomstick. She knew everything there was to know about it.”

“Sounds like Hermione to me,” Harry chuckled.

“No, that’s just it. She’s not like Hermione at all.” Harry looked toward him interestedly. “Hermione is brilliant, there’s no question in that. She’s the cleverest witch at Hogwarts. I think Merc is just as bright. But,” he hesitated, returning his attention to the frozen ground in front of his feet. “Merc has never made me feel…”

“Inferior?” Harry replied.

Ron jerked his head in what Harry assumed was a nod. He knew exactly what Ron was talking about. They’d seen it from the moment they met Hermione. Over the years, they’d learned to accept her stubborn streak and her propensity to tell them the answers whether they wanted to hear them or not. On more than one occasion – and usually anytime Hogwart’s: A History was mentioned, Hermione behaved as if she was the only one who had any sense at all. Strictly speaking, it was one of the things that bothered Harry about her. She could be blinded to other’s feelings when she was convinced she was right. Harry’s thoughts returned that fateful night before they flew off to the Department of Mysteries.

Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.

“Hermione never needed me,” Ron said, breaking through Harry’s thoughts. “I’m not entirely sure she needs either of us.” Ron picked at the bark along the log. “She’s strong-willed, brilliant, she’s gotten us out of far more situations than we ever saved her from.”

“Merc seems to have the same strength of will that Hermione does. She’s certainly cut you off at the knees once or twice,” Harry replied.

“No. I don’t think she does. I think she does a great job of acting confident,” Ron said thoughtfully.

“Why do you say that?”

“She won’t argue with me.”

“Ron, that’s hardly a criteria for a relationship,” Harry declared.

“If she had half the confidence she claims to have, she’d never let me get away with some of the things I’ve said to her. She would’ve hexed me in the corridor after Halloween. She should’ve, but she didn’t,” Ron explained. “I saw it in her eyes. She put on a brave face, but she couldn’t hide the truth in her eyes.”

“Is that why you apologized?”

“Yes. I could’ve said that to Hermione and it would’ve been okay the next day. She would’ve yelled, I would’ve yelled, and we would’ve moved on. But I saw something in Merc’s eyes – I don’t know what – but I’ve never forgotten it.” Harry and Ron sat silently on the log, Ron’s words hanging in the cold air. “Harry?” Ron asked tentatively.

“What?”

“Can I ask you a serious question?” Given the tone of the entire conversation, Harry didn’t see fit to deny the request now.

“Go ahead,” he replied.

“What’s it like?” He looked at Harry pensively. “Being in love? Knowing you’re the one Hermione’s daydreaming about when she gets that look on her face and chews on her quill?” Ron looked into the distance. “I’m not that person for anyone. I’m not even that person for my own mother. I’ve never rated more than one-seventh of her attention.” He looked back to Harry, a smirk breaking across his face. “Maybe less with Fred and George in the house.” The smile faded and Ron’s expression grew serious. “I want to be that important to someone; not a second thought…not a hand-me-down…not the ‘reserve protector’…whoever she is, I want her to think of me first.”

What could Harry say to that? From the moment Ron described his view in the Mirror of Erised, Harry knew what Ron wanted most. He felt as though he’d finally heard Ron say it aloud and he had no response for him.

“She eats breakfast, lunch, and dinner alone, Harry. I don’t care what she wants people to think, she doesn’t have the courage or the confidence to stand up for herself. It’s like she won’t let people see who she really is,” Ron said flatly. “It’s like the damn name!” Ron stood up and paced in front of Harry. “She won’t even tell me her real name!” He shoved his hands in his pockets and stared into the trees over Harry’s head.

Harry stood up and gathered a breath. “So when are you going to ask her to the Valentine ball?” Ron’s mouth dropped open.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“Harry,” Ron said in disbelief. “Have you been listening to anything I’ve said?”

“Every word.”

“This isn’t about me asking some girl to a dance,” Ron snapped.

“It should be.” Harry threw a hand up before Ron could press the point. “Ron, whether you want to admit it or not, you fancy Merc. I understand how you’re feeling more than you realize and trust me when I say this: the only way you’re going to get through all this confusion is to jump in with both feet. If it works out – fantastic. If it doesn’t, it’s unfortunate. But you’ll never know until you try.” Ron turned away, shoulders slumping as he began to walk toward the castle. After taking a few steps, he turned back to Harry.

“We’ve not exactly gotten off on the right foot,” Ron rocked back and forth on his heels. “What if she says no?”

“Maybe she’ll surprise you. Besides, you’re the Gryffindor, not her. If anyone will summon the courage to ask, it will be you.” Harry smiled.

Ron stood in silence, appearing to contemplate Harry’s advice. After a moment or two, Harry looked skyward toward the streaming hues of pink and orange that had begun to paint the canvas of the sky. All of the students had long since left the stadium and the setting sun was chilling the already cold February air. Without doubt, Hermione would be expecting them both for dinner, if not already concerned that they’d launched into another ill-fated quest. When he looked back at Ron, he seemed to read Harry’s thoughts implicitly.

“We should head back,” Ron said solemnly.

“Yeah,” Harry replied. “It’s nearly time for dinner.”

“Harry?” Ron asked quietly.

“Yeah?” Harry responded.

“You’re not – er – going to tell anyone we had this conversation are you?”

“Are you mad? It would completely destroy our image!”

Ron sighed in relief. “I was afraid Hermione softened you up too much.”

Laughing together, they fell in step with each other and traversed the sloping lawns toward the castle still blissfully unaware of the chilling grey eyes that had watched the entire scene transpire.

19. Cherubs and Arrows

Author’s Note: In the last scene of this chapter, although the characters do not actually engage in the activity we normally associate with NC-17, my penchant for description does.

I gave serious consideration to editing that scene and adding it as a separate cookie on both Yahoo and PK. However, after some talks with my wonderful beta (CC-which by the way you had me rolling with your comments throughout this scene) we determined it best to leave it in with a warning to Yahoo and a rating change on PK (after all, It’s already R there-so few people should be excluded). As she has schlepped off to Key West, the ending of that scene will be new to her as well and I think it’s important for the plot of the story…so it’s in here – please heed the warning if you are underage.

As for the rest of the chapter…you know I rarely do fluff unless it’s related to the progress of the story…Luckily…it’s all related here, so you have 30 pages of unadulterated FLUFF. I hope you enjoy it!

VLeigh

Chapter 19 – Cherubs with Arrows

“So is he going to do it?” Hermione whispered across the table to Harry. Harry cast his eyes around the room, quickly spotting Professor Snape hovering over Neville and Dean. He looked back to Hermione and lowered his voice.

“I think so,” Harry said secretively. Hermione grinned as her eyes flicked across the aisle to the table where Ron and Seamus were looking worriedly into their cauldron. “Will she say yes?” Harry asked so quietly Hermione nearly thought he’d resorted to telepathy.

“I think so,” she mouthed in response. After they returned from the Quidditch match, Hermione learned Harry had not been entirely truthful with Ron. Although he’d promised Ron his unequivocal secrecy, he told Hermione about their conversation as soon as he’d gotten her alone. Although she felt he’d left the details out, the general picture was clear. Since that afternoon, she’d been waiting, rather impatiently, for the moment Merc would announce she’d finally been asked to a ball. However, several days had passed and it was beginning to appear as though Ron either lost his nerve or changed his mind. Neither of which was acceptable to Hermione.

“We’re all supposed to meet tonight,” Harry whispered hopefully. At that moment, a sickening pop sounded from across the aisle and purple potion sprayed across Hermione’s parchment, quickly fading to an earthy brown. Harry and Hermione snapped their heads toward Ron and Seamus to see them both fighting back laughter. Harry turned to Hermione (engaged in a rather dramatic eye roll) to keep the contagious laughter from spreading. Snape was swiftly approaching and Harry didn’t need to give him another excuse to take additional house points.

Not that it mattered.

“That will be twenty-five points from Finnegan and Weasley for their total inability to follow directions; or perhaps you don’t understand the definition of counter-clockwise,” Snape announced coldy.

Gryffindor was already behind Slytherin in total house points due to an unfortunate situation involving a few third year students and Professor Snape’s undergarments from the laundry. The lions couldn’t afford to lose another fifty. Harry gave Hermione a defeated look and began cleaning the potion from the table. Try as he might, the vanishing spell didn’t seem to be working on their parchment. “And another twenty-five points from Potter and Granger for submitting sloppy work.”

Hermione nearly leapt from her chair. “But, Professor Snape!” she exclaimed as he swept to the front of the room. Harry chimed in before she could continue.

“That’s not fair!”

“It was our mistake, Professor,” Ron added in a futile attempt to change his mind. Snape stopped abruptly and spun on one heel to face the trio.

“Perhaps I should make it fifty points each?” he challenged.

Hermione had to do something. She knew Harry and Ron too well. One of them was bound to reply and sink Gryffindor to its lowest house total in decades. As she spoke, they slowly turned around in disbelief.

“No, sir. Thank you,” she said quietly.

“Submit your vial and tidy your space. I expect each of you to complete three feet of parchment explaining Finnegan and Weasley’s error.” The collective gasp of the classroom nearly drowned out the sound of the bell. As the students clamored around their tables, stuffing supplies into their bags, Harry snatched the vial from its holder and stormed to the front of the room.

“Harry,” Hermione whispered desperately as he walked away. Rooted to the spot, she looked at Ron, whose expression was completely devoid of the humor he sported minutes ago, and returned her eyes to Harry as he reached Snape’s desk.

“Your vial, Professor,” Harry said coolly as he handed the corked glass to Snape. He raised his eyes from the papers he’d not had time to engage himself in and locked eyes with the Head Boy. Hesitating momentarily, he reached out and silently took the vial from Harry.

That’s when Hermione felt it.

She clutched the back of Ron’s robes, wanting to hide behind him entirely, as she waited for the inevitable. She peeked around his tall frame to see Harry gliding up the aisle toward them. Just as she began to doubt the emotion she’d felt from him, she noticed his eyes seem to slip from focus and his hand ball itself into a fist.

“Ah!” Pavarti Patil exclaimed as the vial in Snape’s hand exploded. The negligible amount of potion contained in the glass sprayed in nearly every direction. Harry threw his bag over his shoulder and turned for the door with Ron and Hermione following closely behind. Just before the trio crossed the threshold, he turned to Professor Snape.

“You really should take more care with that Professor. It would be unfortunate if those spots didn’t come off your face.” With that, they crossed the threshold, leaving what remained of their classmates in stupefied silence and Snape attempting to wipe the potion off on his sleeve.

“Harry!” Hermione snapped after they’d closed the door behind them. “What are you thinking? He’s bound to take more points now!”

Without turning around Harry replied in a deep and even-toned voice, “He’s going to take them anyway, Hermione. We might as well make it worth our while.” The three of them continued walking toward the common room when Ron’s resolve collapsed and he broke into a fit of laughter.

Hermione, still fuming over Harry’s disrespect, rounded on Ron. “What are you laughing at? You certainly didn’t help Gryffindor either!”

“Did you see the look on his face? That was priceless Harry, really! And the spots! He’ll look like he’s had enchanted chicken pox for days,” Ron said between chuckles. Harry’s footsteps drew to a halt and he turned around. Although his face was set in stone, his eyes couldn’t conceal an obvious pride in the situation

“Don’t be too impressed, Ron. It’s all over you too.” Ron’s smile evaporated as he began furiously inspecting himself.

***

“Are you going to stay angry all night?” Harry asked as Hermione flipped methodically through the pages of a restricted book.

“Possibly,” she answered.

“You’ve not said two words to me since this afternoon.”

“Actually, if I’ve kept proper count, I’ve said seven words to you,” Hermione replied without looking up. Harry, his temper having returned to normal since Potions class, reached across the table to quell her hand before she tore the book’s pages. As his hand closed over hers, she looked at him properly. “You’re Head Boy. You should be setting a better example.” Harry knew she was right, but his sense of outward responsibility was never as clear in the presence of Severus Snape. He knew what Hermione was going for, and he wasn’t about to give it to her.

“I’m not going to say I’m sorry, Hermione.” Her mouth dropped open. “I’m not. He got what he deserved.”

“Sometimes I don’t understand you at all,” Hermione said quietly.

“But you love me anyway,” Harry said wryly. Hermione scoffed and returned her attention to her book. Harry chuckled as she muttered something about “stupid boys” under her breath.

“Hi,” Ron said brightly as he set his bag down by the table.

“Speaking of,” Hermione muttered. Ron looked at Hermione quizzically and Harry cut off his impending question with warning eyes. Ron’s mouth snapped closed as he pulled some parchment from his bag.

“Well, are we ready for another productive night in the restricted section?” Ron said sardonically. Harry started to respond but movement from the opposite side of the library caught his attention.

“Actually, I have a book that I need to show Hermione,” Harry said quickly. Hermione looked with a confused expression, pointing at the book splayed out before her. Harry jumped from the table and took her hand, physically turning her in the chair.

“Harry,” Hermione began.

“It’s the book I told you about. I think it could really have the answer,” Harry interjected before she could continue. He pulled her from the chair and around the corner.

“Harry, what are you doing?” Hermione growled. He stopped abruptly and moved a few books aside, looking through the bookshelf.

“Look there,” Harry instructed, pointing to the opening he’d created. With an exasperated scoff, Hermione stepped to the bookshelf and peered through. Harry didn’t have to wait for her reply. “That’s what I’m doing.” Hermione’s face broke into a grin and Harry stepped up to peer through the bookshelf with her.

“Do you think he’ll ask her?” Hermione whispered.

“Whether he does or not, we shouldn’t watch.” He pulled Hermione away from the opening and readjusted the books on the shelves. Hermione’s mouth bobbed open and closed and Harry chuckled at her expression. He knew she felt as he did. He wanted nothing more than to settle in with a box of Bernie Bott’s and watch the scene transpire, but out of respect for Ron, he left him to it. This was a big step for him and he didn’t need an audience (whether he knew about it or not).

Hermione looked crestfallen. She was clearly having a more difficult time restraining the compulsion to watch. “So, I guess we should get lost for a while,” Harry said simply.

Hermione, not catching the implication merely responded, “I suppose we should.” She looked up, comprehension slowly crossing her features, and smiled as Harry wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. He grabbed her hand and led her along the dusty bookshelves. There was a spot in the far corner of the library he always checked on rounds. It was a popular spot for couples, and one he and Hermione had never explored.

***

“Hello Ron,” Merc said softly. He had been digging for a quill in his bag and her voice quickly caught his attention. She was standing next to the table with her bag slung casually over her shoulder. She was dressed in a pair of well-fitting black pants and a sleeveless V-neck blue jumper. Her hair was haphazardly clipped upside down toward the crown of her head, allowing the highlighted locks to fall indiscriminately around her face. She wore practically no make up, at least none that Ron could tell, and the color of her jumper complimented with her eyes in a way that seemed to make them glow. “Ron?” she inquired. “Are you all right?”

He suddenly realized he’d been staring at her as if they’d never been properly introduced. In hindsight, he might’ve looked more like a serial stalker than a study partner. “Er, I’m fine. Sit down,” he said quickly, pointing to the chair Harry vacated only moments before. She pulled her bag from her shoulder and sat down hesitantly, never taking her perplexed eyes away from Ron.

The table fell silent. Ron, having completely forgotten why he’d been rustling in his bag, attempted to busy himself with something – anything – at the table. He desperately awaited Harry and Hermione’s return. However, as soon as the thought crossed his mind, it became completely obvious why they’d left so abruptly. He closed his eyes and drew a breath.

“Are you sure you’re okay? You don’t look so good,” Merc said concernedly. Ron’s eyes snapped open as he searched for a response.

Have you lost the ability to speak? Answer her, you dolt!

“I’m fine, really. I’ve just got a bit on my mind.”

“I heard about your Potions class,” Merc said apologetically. “I don’t think Professor Snape gets along with anyone that’s not in Slytherin.”

“Is he awful to your house too?” Ron asked sincerely.

“Well, I think he saves the worst for Gryffindor, and especially the three of you; but I can tell you he’s certainly not my favorite instructor,” Merc answered simply. Just as Ron was becoming comfortable with the conversation it ended and they were left in silence again.

Ron could feel the heat rising under his collar. He felt like Merc knew his intentions and was letting him suffer through the inability to formulate the question without sounding like an escaped baboon from the London Zoo.

What about the direct approach? “Merc, I’m taking you to the ball.”

Great, you can drag her there by her hair.

Subtle? “If you’re not doing anything on Valentine’s…”

No.

“I don’t have a date to the…”

Did you learn nothing from the Yule ball?

Ron’s head dropped into his hands. He simply couldn’t find the right words. Anything he said was bound to come out poorly. But that wasn’t the worst of his fear, he was entirely convinced that he’d not only make a fool of himself, but end up in the same situation after his request, than before…without a date.

“I know what’s bothering you Ron. You really don’t have to be so concerned,” Merc said suddenly as she began taking books and parchment from her bag. Ron’s head snapped up and he looked at her questioningly.

She does know what I’m going to ask! Maybe she will say yes!

He gathered his composure with renewed courage to launch into the question he’d avoided for a solid week. He straightened up in the chair but couldn’t will himself to turn toward her.

“You…you know what’s bothering me?”

“It’s obvious isn’t it? It is coming up rather quickly.”

Ron’s face was on fire. It was now or never. If he was going to maintain his resolve he had to do it now, before he could talk himself out of it…again. He opened his mouth and drew an audibly shaky breath.

“Yes, well I was…”

“With Crabbe and Goyle as their beaters, Slytherin really isn’t up to scratch this year. Everyone knows it will be Gryffindor and Slytherin in the finals. The Quidditch Cup is as good as yours,” she interrupted whilst organizing her materials on the table.

The breath Ron strangled in his throat while Merc spoke, escaped suddenly leaving him thoroughly deflated.

Quidditch!

“What?” Merc asked quietly.

Ron, not understanding whether he’d made his last comment aloud or not, scrambled for some matter of response. As it turned out, he chose poorly.

“Well, after watching what Slytherin did to you, I figured our chances were pretty good.”

The silence that befell the two was rife with a tension that echoed in the very air surrounding them. Ron’s nonchalant expression darkened as soon as he realized exactly how that comment sounded.

Brilliant, Weasley.

After a few moments of stunned silence, Merc closed her mouth and shook herself back to reality. In one swift motion she swept the few things she’d gathered back into her bag and began shaking her head. “I should go,” she said, voice quaking. “I’m not feeling very well. I dare say I’ll be little help to you tonight.”

She’s leaving! Stop her!

Merc stood up quickly, her chair haphazardly rocking backward, and pulled her bag over her shoulder. Her eyes met Ron’s briefly and she flashed a weak smile. Without another word she turned from the table and began walking away. Instinct drove Ron. Without giving it a second thought he reached up suddenly and grabbed her hand, stopping her in her tracks. Merc snapped her head around, a look of complete shock etched across her face. She opened her mouth to reply but Ron was too quick.

“Before you say anything, let me apologize. I didn’t mean that to sound like it did. It didn’t come out right.” He looked down where his hand was still grasping hers. Without letting go, he continued, “Nothing is coming out right.”

“What do you mean?”

He wasn’t sure if she was being polite or was still too surprised to retract her own hand, but she didn’t. Ron toyed with the idea of having her sit down, but decided to meet her on her own terms. He rose up in front of her, her eyes following his, until he stood silently before her.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,’ Ron scoffed. “I have the best intentions and it never seems to come out right.” He was encouraged by the smile that crossed Merc’s eyes. “You’re wrong.”

“What?” The smile vanished as she become obviously confused by the apparent change of subject.

“I’m not worried about the Quidditch Cup. Oddly enough, Quidditch is the last thing on my mind right now.” His eyes drifted compellingly toward their hands as his brain raced for a suave way to broach the subject. Sadly, nothing came to mind. Ron’s thoughts were solely consumed with the elegance of her long fingers lying motionless against his palm.

“Then what’s the matter?”

Ron drew a breath and looked her squarely in the face. “I want to ask you something, and have no idea how to do it.”

“Why don’t you just ask me? I’ll try to help,” Merc said warmly.

“Okay.” Ron hesitated, the moment having thrust itself upon him. “I was wondering if you, er…wouldn’t mind going to the ball with me?” he said, thankful that his voice hadn’t given out, climbed a few octaves, or broken all together. He chanced a glance toward her, terrified of her response. She looked completely confused. Her eyebrows were furrowed, her mouth opened slightly and she didn’t seem to be breathing. “Merc?”

“What did you say?”

Oh, sweet Merlin, she’s going to make me ask again!

“Did you just ask me to the Valentine’s ball?”

Or not…thank the gods.

“Yes,” he replied, damning his voice for quivering the response. Suddenly, he realized he was still holding her hand. He became increasingly terrified she was going to lay him out, or curse him, and he awkwardly pulled his hand back, stuffing them into his pockets in a vain attempt to look casual. “You probably have a date already…I have notoriously bad timing with…”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“I’d love to go with you.” He looked at her squarely and saw a bright smile lighting up her complexion.

“You would? Well, er – good. We’ll go then,” Ron stammered as Merc stepped backward from him unsteadily.

“Er – I have to go,” she said looking quickly toward the library entrance.

“Okay.” That was as much of a reply as Ron could get out before Merc turned, nearly running, for the heavy oak doors. He stood here, watching her disappear from the room, before realizing his knees had dissolved to water and he collapsed, unceremoniously, into his chair.

***

“Harry,” Hermione asked breathlessly. “Do you think he’s asked her yet?” she continued between punctuated kisses.

Without removing his lips from the juncture of her shoulder and neck Harry replied, “I can honestly say – right now – I could care less.” Hermione’s eyes rolled back in her head as Harry suckled on the throbbing spot of her throat that always turned her legs to gelatin. She ran one hand through his unruly hair while the other arm surrounded him entirely.

“We’re going to get caught,” Hermione said quietly, not really caring whether they did or not. Harry pulled his head up and looked at her interestedly.

“We’re the ones who would catch us, Hermione,” he said with a chuckle.

“Too right,” she replied. The hand that had been playing in his locks suddenly knotted itself in his hair as she pulled his head toward her determinedly. He showed no signs of resistance as he wrapped both arms around her. Their lips met with a fiery passion as Hermione began to search for something – anything – that could keep her standing. It never seemed to matter how many times they’d kissed like this, she found herself equally unable to support her own weight nearly every time. Either Harry understood her dilemma or experienced the same problem.

He walked her backwards a few steps and gently leaned her against the wall- his hands supporting himself on either side of her head as they continued their endeavor. Hermione slid her hands under his jumper, letting them drift across his warm skin. She was just getting interested in doing a bit more when Harry stepped back. His arms were still supporting himself against the wall as he dropped his head. Hermione smiled inwardly, her breathing was nearly as ragged as his. Although thoroughly disappointed, she had the feeling he was about to end their activities for the evening. She was about to make a comment to that effect when she realized his chest was still heaving.

“Harry?” She placed a hand on either side of his head and forcibly turned his face up to his. As soon as her eyes met his she was flooded with a variety of emotions from him. She didn’t need to ask what was happening to him, the pained expression on his face, and the thinly veiled fear she could feel, was enough of an answer.

It also gave her an idea.

She continued to hold his face between her hands and looked into his eyes. “What is he feeling, Harry?” He turned his head to the side, squeezing his eyes together tightly. She couldn’t tell if he was trying to do as she told him, or trying not to. “Focus on what’s behind the pain. What’s he doing?” Harry gasped for breath, his arms shaking as he kept them firmly planted on along the wall. Hermione’s heart was breaking; she hated to see him in any pain, least of all from this source. Without thinking, she moved her hand from the side of his face and began running her thumb over his scar in an attempt to massage the pain away. To her surprise, it didn’t feel any different from the rest of him.

Harry took a few gulping breaths as she watched his shoulders relax. She’d seen this enough to know the worst had passed. She slid under his arm and walked him to a nearby chair. He sat down gratefully with his elbows propped on his legs and sunk his head into his palms. Before she could speak, he did. “I certainly know how to ruin the mood,” he muttered. Hermione couldn’t help but smile as she ran her hands through his hair.

“You don’t, so much as he does,” she replied. She knelt down in front of him and put her hands on his knees. “Did it work? Did you get anything from him?” Harry didn’t respond. “Harry?”

“A little,” he said quietly. He picked up his head and looked at her. “Where did you get that idea?”

Hermione shifted uneasily, hoping that it wasn’t a truly bad idea. She hadn’t analyzed the ramifications before telling him what to do. “I don’t know. It just seemed a bit like the empathy lessons I’ve had. If he has some magical connection to you, who’s to say it can’t work both ways?”

“But, last time we were like this, you felt it too,” Harry said quizzically. Harry was right. Last year, she had felt the pain in his scar as clearly as he had. But, she’d given Dumbledore’s comments a great deal of consideration over the course of this year. She’d come to the same conclusion he had; Hermione’s empathy was the connection to Harry. She could feel what he could, and understanding his sporadic connections with Lord Voldemort only made her more determined to practice shielding. This had been her first true test, and she was rather impressed that she’d blocked the pain successfully.

“I’m learning to shield,” she replied and quickly and redirected the conversation to the issue at hand. “So what little did you pick up?”

Harry sat up, seeming fully returned to himself, and inhaled deeply. “I’m not sure how to describe it. I didn’t hear him say anything, it’s just a feeling I have.”

“What is it?”

“They’re finalizing some sort of plan. He’s confident they can succeed this time,” he hesitated. “He’s got people feeding him information.”

“The leak,” Hermione said darkly.

“I suppose.” Harry looked at his watch and down the dusty shelves toward the area where they had been sitting. “We’ve got to find something. I have the distinct feeling that we’re running out of time.”

“I know,” Hermione dropped her eyes to the floor. In truth she’d felt like a failure for most of the year. They’d started on this path during first term. Now, it was February, and they’d not happened upon anything that seemed like a viable defeat for the most powerful dark wizard of the age. For all the lauding she’d received about being Hogwart’s best and brightest, she hadn’t come up with a single spell. She couldn’t shake the nagging voice in her head that constantly reminded her if Harry died in this fight, she could share the blame. Her eyes welled with stinging tears, as they always did when her thoughts drifted here, and the weight that had been lodged in her chest, seemed only to throb under the stress. She felt Harry’s hands touch the sides of her face as he gently turned her toward him.

“We may be running out of time, but I’m making time for us.”

“What do you mean?” A small tear escaped from the corner of her eye and slipped down her cheek. Harry wiped it away with his thumb and stood up, encouraging her to do the same.

He wrapped his arms around her and rested his forehead against hers. “No more searching; not until after the ball.”

“But,”

“No. You need a break. We all do. Let’s make the next few days ours before we give them all back to him.”

Hermione smiled as the weight in her chest lifted, if only slightly. She knew herself well enough to know she’d never authorize herself to skive off such an important task. She also knew Harry to be as determinedly stubborn as she was. If he said there would be no more nights in the library for the next few days, he would ensure that she adhere to his request. He was the one who’d have to face Voldemort, and yet he just gave her permission to take a much needed break. She was eternally grateful for his understanding and could think of only one way to tell him. She pulled her head back, closed her eyes and concentrated solely on the man embracing her.

I love you.

Harry smiled. “That was easier to do when we didn’t know how we were doing it.” Hermione laughed. She’d made progress in shielding and knew he was continuing to practice Occlumency; he was right, it used to be easier. She relaxed in his arms and put her ear to his chest. She felt his chin rest on the top of her head and sighed audibly.

“Ahem.” Someone was clearing their throat rather loudly. Both Harry and Hermione turned in the direction of the intruder, breaking into equally wide smiles. “You can come out now. Merc left twenty minutes ago.”

***

“Are you sure about this color, Hermione?”

“Even if I’m not it’s a bit late to change it now,” Hermione replied, splashing in the tub. Since neither girl could prepare for the ball in the other’s house, she and Merc chose to get ready in the Head Girl’s bathroom. It was a massive marble room. The bathtub was equally as stunning as those installed in the prefect’s bathroom, but this room obviously catered to one female occupant, rather than multiple students. There was a large upholstered chair, and a wardrobe that produced whatever toiletries and finery the Head Girl desired. Hermione had the added benefit of choosing her own password. Rather unimaginatively, she’d chosen, “Hermione Potter,” and checked the corridors, blushing furiously every time she’d said it. Until today, that password had been her schoolgirl secret, now it was tantamount to blackmail if she ever gave Merc the reason.

Merc continued to pick at the new robes hanging on the pewter hook. Valentine’s day, and the ball Hogwart’s was sponsoring, fell on a Tuesday. Therefore, Professor Dumbledore had allowed a last-minute Hogsmeade weekend so students (particularly the girls that had usurped all his time with begging requests) could purchase any last minute items for the ball. While Ron and Harry kept themselves to Quality Quidditch Supplies and Honeydukes, Merc and Hermione spent their time in Gladrags Wizard Wear with, what appeared to be, nearly every other female student enrolled at Hogwarts.

It didn’t take Hermione long to find the gown she’d imagined. It was relatively simple and understated, but it was exactly what she wanted. When she’d emerged from the dressing room to show Merc it did not escape her attention that several girls stopped to sneer at her.

It was a sleeveless, floor-length, black gown tailored in crepe-back satin. It had a plunging V-neck that she felt sure her father would’ve had quite a lot to say about. The neck was trimmed with very simple black satin cording that seemed to be encrusted with sparkling silver. That cording split over her shoulders into double glistening spaghetti straps that crossed over her shoulder blades in the back, attaching themselves to the dress along her sides and meeting together at the small of her back. There, the silver cording multiplied into several elegant glistening strands that rested along the back of the dress, which pooled in a very short train behind her.

“Excuse my language, but bloody hell Hermione,” Merc said, eyes popping out of her skull as Hermione turned around. Drifting in the bubble filled tub, Hermione smiled remembering her reaction. “I don’t think we need to go back to the library. You’re going to give Harry a heart attack in that gown!” Hermione had retreated back to the dressing room amid Merc’s mumbling that the, “Poor bloke will never know what hit him.” It had taken Hermione all of ten minutes to find, try-on, and purchase the black gown. Merc took a bit more effort.

As far as Hermione was concerned, Merc had a lot to work with. She’d played Quidditch since she was very small and had the muscle tone to prove it. She had great shoulders, long legs, and a thin waist. For all her blubbering about never being noticed, it was only because, in Hermione’s opinion, she never put forth the effort. She wore clothes that covered her entirely, often opting for jumpers and trousers more than anything else. Her hair seemed permanently charmed into a simple ponytail and for the beautiful green eyes she had, she didn’t take much time to bring them out. That was where Hermione started.

Gladrags, in preparation for the Hogsmeade weekend, had separated their stock by both size and color. Hermione pulled Merc along the racks, stopping at the circular rack containing every emerald green dress Gladrags could produce in Merc’s size. They picked through them one by one, Merc seeming equally as daunted by each successive gown. Eventually, Hermione took to pulling them from the rack and specifically ordering her to try them on. Merc did as she was told, each time emerging from the dressing room looking equally as sheepish as she had with the dress before. Hermione was sure of one thing though…green.

The emerald fabrics brought out her eyes so well at times she thought she was staring into Harry’s. Knowing how addictive his eyes were, she thought the color of the gown would have the same effect for Ron. Most importantly, green did not clash with his fire red hair like some of the pink and coral gowns Merc had pointed out.

“I’m still a bit nervous about this one, Hermione.” Merc’s voice bounced along the marble walls, drawing Hermione from her memories. “I’m just not as confident as you are.”

“Just wait until I’m done with you. You won’t recognize yourself,” she settled back into the bubbles thinking about the dress she and the Gladrags sales witch had nearly ordered Merc to buy.

When she came out of the dressing room, the sales witch stopped in her tracks. Hermione knew she’d been watching them from her perch behind the counter. She seemed genuinely interested in the goings on. Without reserve, Hermione looked to the witch and said, “That’s the one, don’t you agree.” The sales witch nodded silently, seeming to forget to blink. Merc shifted in the doorway, absently running her hands along the front of the dress and turning in the mirror skeptically.

It was a deep emerald gown that consumed the light so fully at times it appeared a rich navy blue or black. It was sleeveless with a high cropped neck that left her shoulders and well-toned arms on display. The back was completely bare, plunging nearly too low for propriety’s sake. It was fitted along her frame to the floor and had a walking slit that cut up the left side, stopping along the middle of her thigh. The front was conservatively cut out along her chest in a diamond shape, topped off in a golden jeweled and ribboned neckline that clasped at the nape of her neck and sent a few sparkling golden wisps down her back. Over any objections Merc might’ve attempted, Hermione and the sales witch put every other gown back on the rack and took this dress to the counter themselves. If Hermione was nearly speechless at the sight of her, she couldn’t wait to see Ron. He might just hyperventilate in the corridor. Hermione was secretly looking forward to his attempt to string together a coherent sentence. The thought made her laugh aloud.

“There you go laughing again. What is so funny?” Merc asked.

“Nothing. Just promise me you’ll take nothing Ronald Weasley says to heart. He’s liable to insult every living creature on two legs in the attempt to tell you how beautiful you are,” Hermione laughed.

“Beautiful?” Merc looked at her skeptically. “I think you used different bubbles than I did. Those must have some kind of potion in them.”

“Oh, sod it, Merc. You will be stunning!”

Merc looked over the cosmetics-strewn counter top and sighed. “Not if you don’t get out of that tub and help me with all this stuff. I have no idea where to start.”

“Knight to H2,” Ron said quietly as his knight began galloping toward an unsuspecting pawn. Harry raised an eyebrow as it ran the pawn through on its sword and hurled it bodily from the chess board. Harry studied the board, looking to make his next move. “What do you think takes girls so long?”

“What?” Harry replied, looking up from the board.

“Girls. Hermione left two hours ago to start getting ready for this ball. What in the name of Merlin takes a girl three hours to prepare for?” Ron asked as his eyes remained locked on the chess pieces before him.

“Ron, there are some questions we will never know the answers to. That is one of them.” He returned his eyes to the board, scanning what was left of his pieces when he felt someone arrive at his side. The croak let him know who it was without breaking his concentration. “Neville, you aren’t taking the toad to the ball are you?”

“No,” Neville laughed. “He got out of his cage, I was rounding him up.”

“Who are you taking?’ Ron inquired.

“Ginny of course,” Neville answered. “She didn’t tell you?” Harry looked up to see a scowl crossing Ron’s face.

“No.”

“I’d best get cleaned up,” Neville said, scampering off for the boys’ dormitory.

“I don’t think Ginny tells me much of anything these days,” Ron said with a tangible anger behind his voice.

“Are you ready?” Hermione asked as Merc straightened the straps along her back.

“I suppose,” Merc replied. Hermione turned around, planted her hands on Merc’s shoulders and turned her bodily toward the mirror.

“Look at you,” Hermione demanded. “You are stunning.” Merc smiled involuntarily. She’d never felt quite like this in her life. This was the first formal event she could remember going to, and certainly the most eye-catching gown she’d ever worn. As much as she hated to admit it, she did look rather inspiring.

“Thanks to you,” Merc dismissed.

“Bullocks. I did your hair and your make-up, the rest of this,” Hermione pointed to her reflection in the mirror, “is all you.”

“You are breathtaking, dear,” the mirror chimed. “As are you Ms. Granger. I certainly hope your dates are up to the task.” Both Merc and Hermione smiled together. Merc touched the stack of golden bangles on her left wrist. She’d charmed them to transfigure into a watch anytime she clasped the outermost ones together. When she removed her hand, they changed back into bangles. Currently, they were indicating that Ron and Harry should be waiting for them in the Great Hall’s main foyer.

“It’s time to go to the ball, Cinderella,” Hermione said as she picked up her matching clutch and stuffed it with a few cosmetic necessities.

Merc took one last look in the mirror. The emerald gown fit her perfectly. Hermione had taken extra care with her make-up to continue drawing out the green in her eyes. Honestly, she’d never seen them sparkle so brightly. Her hair was pulled up into and elegant twist, held together by a jeweled clip on the left side. Hermione had pulled several tendrils out, along the side and back and twisted them into bouncing curls. The finishing spray glistening with the slightest hint of a golden glitter that served to emphasize the caramel highlights in her hair. Her make up was understated, allowing her features to shine through and she was wearing a pair of high heeled shoes that would ensure she’d be the tallest girl there.

That’s okay; you’ll still be shorter than Ron.

She drew a breath and turned from the mirror, allowing her eyes to fall on Hermione. If anyone was stunning, she was. The black dress she wore, accented every quality she had. If she had any faults with her body, the dress did not violate her trust. She wore a beautiful silver pendant necklace that fell perfectly along the plunging v-neck, and a pair of strappy sandals Merc would never have the confidence to put on. Her hair was piled atop her head, leaving the excess to fall around her face in similar flowing curls. Her earrings and bracelets matched her necklace perfectly. Merc sighed as she thought about them arriving together. She almost wished she could go separately. Merc was not known to be the most feminine of girls (nor did she believe herself to be), and she couldn’t hold a candle to Hermione’s appearance. If they arrived together, Ron was likely to forget she was even there.

Well, no one will notice you if you act all sheepish. Get it together girl! Confidence!

Merc took a determined breath. She played confident all the time, why should tonight be any different. She turned on her heel, collected her bag and opened the door. Hermione followed behind her and they traversed the corridor in quiet anticipation. They arrived at the top of the stone steps, looking down on Ron and Harry below. Harry was leaning casually against the wall, decked out in well-fitting black dress robes. Ron was pacing nervously, over Harry’s irritated objections, in similar black attire.

Merc thought if anyone was stunning it might just be their dates. She looked to Hermione, whose eyes were determinedly locked on Harry, a grin peeking out of the corners of her mouth. She stepped forward to begin descending the stairs only to have Hermione grasp her arm and whisper, “not yet.” Merc, although confused, obeyed and they stood silently at the top of the stairs.

“Honestly, what is it with girls?” Ron snapped as he continued to pace in front of Harry.

“Ron, if you don’t stop flitting around in front of me I’m going to body-bind you! You’re making me dizzy,” Harry replied, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Ron continued to carry on about punctuality and how long it takes a girl to do her hair when the moment arrived. Harry dropped his hand throwing his head back with a grumble and rolling his eyes. However, as he looked up, he caught sight of Hermione and froze.

Merc looked toward her friend who was incapable of concealing the smile that erupted on her face from his initial reaction. Her infectious smile was reflected in his face and he pushed off the wall, taking slow and deliberate steps toward the staircase. As he began to approach the foot of the stairs, Hermione glanced to Merc and whispered, “wait for it.” She began a calculated descent of the stairs, her hand lazily gliding along the banister as she seemed to float toward him. Still silent, Harry put his hand to his chest as his mouth bobbed open and closed. Never taking his eyes from Hermione, he walked directly in front of Ron’s angry pacing.

“Harry!” Ron barked. He looked at the expression on his face and Merc felt her heart leap into her throat. She was standing alone at the top of the stairs, and she was next. As if in slow motion, Ron turned his head toward the stairs, pausing briefly on Hermione, who never broke her stride toward Harry, and followed the marble stairs to the apex where Merc stood expectantly.

She felt his eyes floating over her as he raised his head from her feet to her face. She always thought the guy was the one who was supposed to be breathless in this situation. As it was, her lungs were screaming for the air she’d forgotten to breathe. With a final look toward Hermione, whose hand was clutched in Harry’s as he led her from the final step, Merc started her descent.

Please don’t trip…please don’t trip…please don’t trip.

She mustered the courage to look at Ron, still immobile with his mouth agape and smiled warmly. She couldn’t help it, the look on his face was priceless. Hermione apparently thought so as well. After a welcoming kiss and a few whispered pleasantries Merc couldn’t hear, she and Harry had turned to watch her approach. Hermione was beaming as she looked at Ron; Harry was chuckling softly and shaking his head.

The staircase seemed longer than it ever had. Ron never flinched while she walked toward him, nor did he seem to breathe or think. When she reached the landing she pulled her hand from the banister and clutched her purse in front of her. “Hello Ron,” she said quietly, the blush searing her cheeks.

“Er, um…uh,” he stammered. Harry broke into audible laughter now and walked, toward her with Hermione’s arm laced through his. Merc looked at them both and smiled.

What a stunning couple they are.

Harry used his free hand to reach for Merc’s. He gave the back of her hand a chivalric kiss and said, “That’s ‘Weasley’ for ‘you are breathtaking.’” Hermione wiped a tear from her eye as Harry’s comment seemed to reunite Ron with the land of the living.

“Whoa there boy wonder, do you mind getting your hands off my date,” Ron said with mirth. Merc couldn’t help the smile, she was sure anyone passing through could’ve counted every tooth in her head. She’d never been fought over by two handsome boys – not that Harry had any intention of it, but the entire exchange did wonders for her confidence. If only from the look on Ron’s face, she finally felt as beautiful as Hermione and hat mirror claimed she was.

***

“So she didn’t tell you about her date either?” Harry asked as he swayed with Hermione on the dance floor.

“No,” she replied thoughtfully. He looked across the crowded Great Hall toward Ginny as Neville appeared to step on her foot for the hundredth time this evening. “She certainly doesn’t look like she’s enjoying herself.” Hermione said – seeming to echo what Harry was thinking. He spun her around quickly drawing her attention back to him.

“I am.” She smiled in response. “Have I told you how absolutely incredible you look tonight?”

“About once every ten minutes,” Hermione laughed.

“Clearly, not often enough.” He twirled her around again, joining in her laughter. For the first time in a long time, he thought of nothing but her, and it was wonderful. He was surrounded by friends, enjoying an evening completely devoid of evil. Well, with the exception of Malfoy who was neither a friend, and was entirely evil as far as Harry was concerned. He was scowling at a nearby table as Pansy nearly tripped over herself to bring him a glass of punch. Harry could nearly understand his plight, Pansy was not exactly an attractive date, certainly not for the self-proclaimed Casanova of Hogwarts.

The music drew to a close and Harry led Hermione to the table where Ron and Merc were talking quietly. All in all, he thought Ron was doing a great job keeping his foot out of his mouth. Their conversation seemed rather fluid and only fell into awkward silence on a few noted occasions. Whenever that happened, Merc drew the conversation back to Quidditch, food, or Slytherin-bashing and they were back off to the races. The only issue Harry could see was that Ron had yet to bring her onto the dance floor. Although, Merc said nothing and acted very disinterested in the entire prospect, her eyes betrayed her. More than once, Harry caught Merc’s eyes drifting longingly over the dance floor as the slow music invited a throng of students to join in the celebration.

He’d waited for hours and still hadn’t asked her. The end of the ball was only ninety minutes away. It was time to take matters into his own hands. He couldn’t draw Ron away from their conversation to knock some sense into him, and Merc didn’t seem to want to leave his side.

You’re head boy! Lead by example.

He finished the last of his punch, and with a clandestine wink toward Hermione he turned to her friend. “Merc?”

“Yes?”

“Would you like to dance?” he asked, unable to keep a pointed glare from issuing in Ron’s direction. Merc looked between Harry and Ron hesitantly. Harry didn’t quite think about the position such a request would put her into. Luckily, Hermione came to his rescue.

“Honestly, Ron. You’ve not asked me to dance once tonight. I’m feeling a bit left out.”

“Well,” Ron looked toward Merc and shrugged his shoulders. “Okay.” The four of them rose from the table together and walked silently to the dance floor. As the music came up Harry placed his hands benignly on her hips as she dropped hers over his shoulder. As he turned her around, he noticed Hermione’s arms draped over Ron as they talked quietly. He knew that look. She was doing her best to pump him for information about Merc.

He looked back to his partner with a smile. “So, are you having a good time?”

“Wonderful,” she simply beamed as she looked past Harry’s shoulder to the place Ron and Hermione occupied. Harry didn’t see any reason in keeping her out of the loop.

“Ron’s a bit thick sometimes. I thought this might encourage him to ask you for the next dance.” Merc grinned as she dropped her eyes to the floor.

“Thank you,” she mumbled.

“No problem.” He spun her around a bit, enjoying the sound of her laughter, and the sight of Hermione beaming at him from across the room. Lost in his own thoughts of Hermione, he paid little attention to where he was going; ending up adjacent to the one person he’d have rather avoided tonight.

“Well, Potter. You seem to have traded up to a pure-blood,” Malfoy drawled as Pansy snorted a laugh. It was the first time he’d really felt Merc’s hands on his shoulders. She gripped him firmly and turned him away, forcibly leading him away from that spot.

“Harry?”

“What?” he replied without removing his glare from Malfoy.

“Tonight is about you and Hermione. Don’t let that git ruin it for you.” Harry turned back to her and smiled weakly. She had a point, if only to remind him that Hermione would scarcely forgive him for starting a fight – or finishing one – during the ball.

“Thanks,” he said quietly.

“What did he say to you?” A familiar voice sounded over his shoulder. Harry turned them around until he was dancing next to Ron and Hermione.

“Nothing,” Harry answered. “He just reminded me that I have absconded with the wrong date.” He winked at Hermione.

“Well, in that case, you won’t mind if I cut in,” Ron answered, looking at Merc who quickly looked away.

“Not at all.” He stepped back from Merc and took her hands in his. “Thank you for the dance,’ he said warmly. She merely smiled, looking expectantly toward Ron as they switched partners and trailed away.

“So what did he say?” Hermione echoed Ron’s question.

“Nothing important,” Harry said, kissing her on the forehead. He gave fleeting glance over his shoulder where Ron and Merc were swaying together to the slow rhythm of the music. “How about we go for a walk?” Hermione looked at him quizzically. “I could use some air.”

“Lead the way,” she responded as he wrapped an arm around her and headed for the door.

“Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea,” Harry said a few minutes later as he walked across the lawn with Hermione.

“I’m fine,” she said, he chattering teeth resounding over her words. Harry unclasped his robes and pulled them off. He stopped in front of her, wrapping his robes around her and reclasping them in the front. “Aren’t you going to be cold?”

Harry was left in a pair of trousers and a black button down shirt that did not block the wind with any measure of effectiveness. But, he was more concerned that she be comfortable. He didn’t want to go back inside and would face the cold if it left them to their privacy. “I’ll be fine,” he said, shivering, as he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and steered her down the path toward the lake.

“It’s funny,” Hermione began as she looked around the trees. “We’ve been here so many times, and every time it looks different.”

“You look beautiful.”

“You mentioned that,” Hermione said sarcastically.

“You pulled out all the stops tonight. I’m not sure how you’ll top yourself for the wedding,” Harry replied, taking her hand and walking along the pebbled shoreline.

“Wedding,” Hermione said softly. “Sometimes it all seems so surreal, so far away. It’s like were talking about two other people or something.”

“You’re not getting cold feet on me are you?”

“Harry, right now everything on me is cold,” Hermione retorted lightly.

“Come here,” he said, directing her to a large rock and pulling his wand from his pocket. They sat down together as he cast a localized warming spell over them both.

“Thanks,” she replied, relaxing in the manufactured bubble of heat he’d conjured. They sat there silently, looking over the lake together. “Do you ever think about it?” she turned to face him. “Our wedding,” she clarified.

“I dream about it,” Harry replied without reserve.

“What do you dream?”

“It varies. Sometimes it’s you. Sometimes it’s the people that have come to watch. I see my parents, I talk to Sirius, I see your dad walking you down the aisle,” Harry said solemnly.

“Those are dreams,” Hermione replied picking at an errant thread from Harry’s robes.

“On thing is always the same though, no matter how different anything else is,” he continued.

“What’s that?”

“It’s always you.” He leaned into her, capturing her mouth with a tender kiss. They remained like that for a moment, their lips lingering against each other longingly. “And it’s always here.”

“Where?”

“Here at Hogwarts,” he answered.

“Really? Not in a church, or a garden, or the like?” Hermione inquired.

“No. It’s always at Hogwarts, in the Great Hall,” Harry said, looking over his shoulder toward the castle up the sloping landscape in the distance.

“But this is just a school,” she interjected.

“It’s a school for you, Hermione. For me, it’s home,” Harry said wistfully as he studied the sparkling beams of light that flowed from the castle windows. “A home I have to leave in a few months.” Hermione looked at him with a perplexed expression. Harry was suddenly reminded, for as close as they were to each other, they still had remarkably different experiences.

He picked up a few pebbles and lazily threw them into the lake one after another as he spoke. “You had a home and a family that loved you. No matter what you’ve lost, you have those memories forever. The memories of my family are ones I’d rather forget. Privet Drive was more a prison than anything else.” Harry chuckled at the implication. “It’s funny,” he looked at Hermione, “how much Pettigrew took from us all. Not only did my parents die because of him, Lupin lost every one of his closest friends, Sirius went to Azkaban, and I went someplace hardly more hospitable.” Hermione took his hand in hers. He squeezed it supportively. “For everything that’s happened here, it’s the only place I’ve ever felt like I belong.” He looked into Hermione’s eyes. “It’s the only place I’ve ever felt loved.”

“Then this is where we’ll get married,” she answered, tears glistening in her eyes. Harry wrapped his arms around her and pulled her tight to his chest.

“Sometimes, when I think about you, I think my life hasn’t really been that bad.” She wrapped her arms around him tightly as she buried her head farther into his chest.

“Harry?”

“Yeah.”

She pulled her head back and looked at him. Her eyes were the darkest shade of brown he’d ever seen and her voice was deeper than he’d ever heard it. “Let’s go inside.” It didn’t escape his attention that her eyes had not drifted from his lips as she spoke the words.

“I’d like that.”

***

“Did you have a good time?”

“I had a fantastic time, Ron. Thank you so much for asking me, really,” Merc replied as their footsteps echoed in the corridor together. Professor Dumbledore had thanked the students for their attendance and ended the Valentine’s Ball a half hour ago. Since that time, Ron and Merc had wandered aimlessly around the corridors under the pretense of heading back to Ravenclaw tower. It didn’t escape his attention that the corridors cleared rather quickly, one of the rattling broom closets they’d passed affirmed his suspicion as to what activities some of his fellow students had engaged in. In all honesty, he didn’t care. They could’ve walked half the night and it wouldn’t have bothered Ron. He’d set moderate expectations for the evening, and each of them had been shattered. There was little denial left in his heart. He’d enjoyed the ball, but he enjoyed his date even more.

He’d found it much easier to talk with her than it had been over the course of the year. Rarely did they visit that place where silence reigned supreme. When they did it was oddly comfortable, rather than awkward. He didn’t search for things to talk about; topics just seemed to find them both.

He smiled as he thought back to his first glimpse of her. She completely took his breath away – along with his voice and any coherent thought. Even now, several hours later, with her make-up faded and her hair slipping loose of her elegant twist, he had no word to describe her other than “beautiful,” and no explanation for how he’d missed it before.

Feeling emboldened by his good cheer, he reached for her hand as they traversed the corridor. Although obviously startled by the sudden gesture, she made no excuse to remove her hand from his as they rounded the last turn toward her tower. It was then, that he noticed her becoming significantly more nervous. It hadn’t taken him long to realize she fidgeted or talked incessantly when she was nervous. That’s exactly what she’d begun doing as her portrait hole grew closer.

“So anyway, I really did have a spectacular time, Ron. I’d say we could do it again, but I’m rather sure there won’t be any more gala events before we leave this place.”

“Merc?”

“But it’s okay, we’ll see each other in the library, and on the pitch, and oh! If you wanted to work on that left-handed slant I was talking about we could get together when the teams aren’t practicing…”

“Merc?” he said a little more sternly.

“Right, well. I should go inside now.” She motioned toward her House portrait as she pulled her hand away from Ron. “I’m sure you’re tired. I’m dead on my feet.” Her hands were playing with her purse and she was rocking from one foot to the other.

“Merc,” he repeated.

“Yes?” she replied as she turned toward the giggling portrait of a young girl and her mother.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Merc’s face instantly exploded in a searing blush. She fidgeted in her spot and looked toward her handbag.

“No,” she said quickly. “I’ve got it all right here and I’m sure if I’d left anything in the Great Hall I could just pick it up tomorrow. Filch isn’t good for much, but he does run a rather efficient lost and found.”

“I meant your password. You haven’t opened the portrait hole yet,” Ron replied. This entire situation was tantamount to an out of body experience for him. He couldn’t remember the last time he was cool and collected while those in his presence were falling apart at the seams. If he didn’t think laughter would be detrimental to his situation, he would’ve let the chuckle go that he’d barely contained.

“Oh,” Merc was startled quiet, if only momentarily. “Right, the password. She spun toward the portrait in an obvious attempt to escape what had quickly become the most awkward experience of Ron’s life. Although he had no experience in this department, he was clever enough to know what her sudden concern was about.

This is just like asking her to the ball. It’s easier if you don’t think, and just go for it.

As the portrait hole swung open, he saw her quickly move toward the entrance…his last, best opportunity about to disappear into that door. In short, he wasn’t willing to let that happen.

He grabbed her wrist as she moved to step through to her common room and pulled her back into the corridor.

“Oh! Yes, I forgot to say goodn-“ That was a far as she got.

Ron slid his hand around the nape of her neck and pulled her head toward his. Their lips crashed against each other. He wasn’t sure if the gasp that came from her was in response to him kissing her or hurting her. It didn’t seem to matter.

Not entirely sure what he should do next, he kept his lips pressed firmly against hers as she relaxed noticeably. When her arms slid around the base of his neck, he lost all matter of conscious control. He wrapped his arms around her, feeling the warmth of her smooth skin along her exposed back. They inclined their heads in opposite directions, granting each other full access as they opened their mouths to explore each other. Ron could taste the sweetness of the chocolate covered strawberries she’d nursed throughout the night and a tingling sensation erupted from his chest and rose straight through to his scalp. He kept her pulled tightly to him, attempting in vain, to devour what remained of that sensation.

If neither of them had done this before, a passerby would scarcely know the difference. Frankly, if someone was passing by, Ron didn’t care. All he cared about was her. All he cared about was this. All he cared about was maintaining the electricity that coursed through every cell in his body. He held her tightly, a moan escaping her throat that surged through him like a lightning bolt. Breathless, he broke away from her before she could understand the full measure of his interest.

She stood there, leaning against the wall, her eyes still closed with her lips glistening. He ran his fingers along her face, brushing a chestnut tendril from her temple as she opened her eyes. The anxiety gone from her body language she broke the silence first.

“If you wanted me to stop talking, you could’ve just asked.”

“I thought I did.” He leaned forward at the waist, placing a chaste kiss to her swollen lips. “I don’t suppose you’ll tell me your real name now?”

“If you keep kissing me like that, you’re welcome to make up any name you wish,” she replied dreamily. “Good night Ronald Weasley,” she said warmly as she placed a finger across his lips. Before it could register that she, in fact, hadn’t told him her given name, she vanished into through the portrait hole and was gone.

Ron really wanted to be angry about that. But he couldn’t wipe the stupid grin off his face. He’d waited seventeen years for his first kiss, and from where he stood, it was not a moment too long.

***

“Harry? Where are we going?” Hermione said as he clandestinely lead her through the castle.

“You’ll see,” Harry said quietly as he stopped and peered around a corner. Apparently not seeing any obstacles in his path, he tugged her along the hallway and down another short staircase until they were on Hogwarts ground floor. Hermione might not have known their destination, but she had little misconception as to their purpose. Harry stopped along the corridor and opened a doorway, pulling her inside with a mischievous grin.

Hermione gasped as she looked around the room. She’d heard the students rave about it, but had never actually stepped foot inside. She’d been thoroughly impressed with the enchantments cast upon the Great Hall ceiling, but even the glowing description in “Hogwarts: A History,” couldn’t compare to this. It almost made her wish she hadn’t dropped divination…almost.

“Harry, this is beautiful,” she whispered almost reverently.

“Isn’t it?” he replied, staring at the ceiling.

“But, won’t we get caught?” Hermione asked, peering through the landscape that existed within the room.

“No. I saw Hagrid the other day and he mentioned that he and Firenze would be away this week.” Hermione looked at him quizzically. “I don’t know,” Harry answered her expression, “something to do with improving wizarding relations with Centaurs.”

“Oh,” she said, satisfied with the response.

“So,” Harry said, slowly turning her body – and her attention – back to him. He pulled his wand from his back pocket and whispered, “colloportus.” Hermione heard the squelch of a door locking behind her and smiled in spite of herself.

It was a bit disconcerting to her. This was her idea. There was not much room for interpretation when she’d asked him to come inside. She fully appreciated the fact he’d managed to take her inside where it was warm, yet still have her believe they were under the star bedecked sky. Now that they were here, alone, with little chance of being caught in a compromising position, she found herself nearly shaking with insecurity.

“Harry?” her voice shook. She couldn’t raise her eyes to his. “Are we really sure about this?”

It comforted her to hear a reflective uncertainty in his voice. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, Hermione.”

“I think that’s why I’m scared,” she replied quietly. “I do want to.”

Harry shifted his stance, most likely shocked by her admission. She waited an eternity for some verbal response to what she’d said – the entire time fighting the growing discomfort in her chest that Harry might not feel the same way. Happily, that feeling didn’t last. He slowly raised his own trembling fingers to the clasp of his cloak, unhooked it, and slid the fabric from her shoulders. He moved so slowly she didn’t see him lean in, so much as felt his presence grow nearer. Just before he touched his lips to hers he replied, “so do I.”

Those three words were the catalyst to a complete loss of logic for Hermione. Her head screamed the same arguments she’d listened (and adhered) to for months.

You’re too young for this. You’re not even married. What would your father say? What if your mother is up there watching this right now? What if you get pregnant? What if this ruins everything between you? What if you’re not good at this?

Just as it had been for months, Hermione heard the argument in her head, but for the first time in her conscious memory she completely ignored her own logic. She didn’t care. She was driven by some other force she didn’t understand, nor did she question. She only cared about one thing; the raven-haired man standing before her, kissing her as desperately as if his life depended on it. She returned the favor in kind.

Hermione snaked her arms around Harry as easily as he did with her. They stood in the middle of a conjured forest, the dim starlight illuminating the room, and felt he rustle of a warm breeze through the foliage as they clung to each other as a drowning man would to a life raft. His hands began sliding up and down her exposed back, leaving a fiery trail of gooseflesh as he went. Her hands played with the soft brushed cotton of his shirt, relishing the sensation her hands found as they ran over the taut muscles hidden beneath.

As his hands brushed lazily along her sides, he dropped one to the small of her back, allowing it to linger as he fingered the zipper of her dress contemplatively. The mere anticipation of what he was considering loosed a thousand butterflies in her stomach that fluttered violently with each twitch of his hand.

Their breathing hastened. Harry pinched the zipper between his fingers and an involuntary squeak escaped Hermione’s throat as he continued to devour her. Whether he took her reaction as an invitation she’d never know, but seconds later she felt the cool air of the divination classroom brushing along her backside as Harry slowly slid the zipper down, exposing her to the elements and allowing his searing hot hand unrestricted access to her buttocks.

He slid a hand cautiously between her knickers and buttocks, stopping quickly as Hermione shifted her stance. Breathless, she pulled her lips away from his, drinking in the emerald gaze that pierced her soul. “We don’t have to do this,” he whispered.

She didn’t feel the need to answer him directly. She cast her eyes downward to where her hands lie benignly on his chest. With one fleeting glance toward him she began to unbutton his shirt. One by one, she slowly worked each button free, trailing her fingernails lightly along his chest as she spread his shirt apart. His breath rattled in his chest as she tugged the shirt tail from his trousers and finished the job.

She couldn’t stop looking at him as she pushed the shirt off his shoulders. Although never a true fan, she’d always admired the tight fitting quality of the Quidditch jumpers, now – with his bare chest before her – she fully understood why. Compulsion drove her as her hands played along his smooth skin. She hesitantly leaned in, wrapping her mouth around his left nipple and relishing in the hand that grabbed her roughly in response. Admittedly, she had no idea what she was doing, but he didn’t seem to be arguing the point.

He quickly drew his hands along her back. Latching his thumbs under the simple straps of her gown he pulled them to the side and stepped back. Hermione, still suckling at his chest, suddenly realized his intentions and met his eyes. In silent assent, she dropped her arms to her sides and closed her eyes. Harry’s hands left a trail of fire along her upper arms as he slowly slid her gown to her waist, eventually letting it cascade down her body, pooling at her feet.

This was entirely new for Hermione and she wasn’t sure how to deal with it. For the first time in her life she was standing before a member of the opposite sex essentially naked. All that remained of her clothing was a simple pair of black knickers. Her insecurity quickly casting doubt over her actions, she felt his finger pull at her chin, forcing her face upward toward his. Reluctantly, she opened her eyes and saw his staring back. “You’re beautiful,” his voice croaked.

In part to thank him, and in part to assuage her self-doubt, she slid her arms around his neck and pressed herself along the length of his shuddering body. Her skin, cooled from the air of the classroom, reignited as it connected with the piercing warmth of Harry’s chest. Enraptured by the contact, she moved along his chest; their skin slid over each other like rainwater over window glass. It didn’t take her long to realize he might be feeling a bit insecure as well; she could feel his arousal fighting against his trousers. His lips left hers as he trailed them along the throbbing column of her neck, gently suckling each inch of it to her shoulder. Again, her voice was hijacked by the sensations he was eliciting and she moaned loudly enough to surprise herself.

Not only could she hear Harry’s reaction to her pleasure, she could feel it pressing ever more firmly against her hip. Their lips met again with heated passion as their arms, and hands began roaming indiscriminately over each other. Harry broke contact with her mouth in order to bend down and scoop her from the floor. With a few unsteady steps he walked to a soft patch of mossy grass and dropped – a bit too hastily – to his knees.

“Sorry,” he chuckled into her mouth as he kissed her lightly.

“It’s okay,” she smiled, as he lay her back against the soft grass.

“I wasn’t sure how much longer I could stand,” he clarified quietly.

Hermione merely smiled imagining his knees must’ve been as unsteady as hers and gathered the courage to take the next step. She’d nearly done it before he lifted her from the floor, but the brief conversation seemed to reengage the logical part of her mind that she’d specifically turned off. She was about to register any one of those annoying concerns that were continuing to chant in her mind when Harry leaned over her and drew her erect nipple into his mouth.

“Oh,” she gasped, totally unprepared for the heat that dashed through her veins from his point of contact. A violent tingling erupted in her stomach and radiated through her body, causing her to throb in places she’d never given much attention. Most interestingly, was the effect that had on her courage. She ran her hands through his hair as he sucked determinedly on her breast. The sensation in her lower body continued to build. Her stomach fluttered and her knickers became noticeably moist – something she wasn’t quite expecting, but she couldn’t hold onto a thought long enough to feel embarrassed.

Without giving her actions a second thought, she ran her hand along his bare chest and stopped at his waistband. She tugged at his belt, attempting to determine how to get it off with one hand when he made her plight easier. He leaned up, covering her hand with his and popped it loose effortlessly. Taking both hands she unbuttoned the fly and slid her one inside his trousers. She almost wished she hadn’t.

Harry moaned audibly and stopped what he was doing, his eyes drooping closed as his breath hitched in his throat. Something about the look on his face was incredibly inspiring to Hermione. Harry had proven himself to be a notably powerful wizard. He’d defeated Voldemort more times than she cared to think about, and yet, in this moment the power was hers. She had yet to cast a spell, but Harry Potter was thoroughly enchanted.

That was the thought that gave her the courage to do what she never would’ve fathomed a few days before. She drew his clothing slowly down his legs and wrapped her delicate hand around him, deliberately exploring the full measure of his arousal; and then her nervousness returned ten-fold.

As she stroked him lightly, relishing in the velveteen softness of him, he tore his mouth from hers, resting his forehead against her chest and drawing great rasping breaths. He grew harder in her hand and the physics of the situation began to concern her. Just as her logical side crashed through her racing endorphins, she felt his hand slide along her stomach – its destination was clear.

Out of pure reflex, Hermione drew her legs together, only to have Harry’s right hand slip between her thighs and part them again as he pushed off her knickers. His hand lingered over her. She could feel its heat caress the delicate skin underneath. She drew no breath as the anticipation of his intent built within her. He lifted his head from her chest, capturing her mouth with his and slid a finger into her.

The breath Hermione had neglected to draw, came rushing in at once as she gasped for air. Her hand, while momentarily frozen with her own pleasure quickly returned to its task. Their free hands wrapped themselves around each other, attempting to fuse their bodies together, while the other hands stroked, and glided along each other, pressing harder and deeper as their mutual arousal filled the room with a nearly tangible passion.

Hermione had no idea what she was doing, or what she was feeling. She understood the academics of an orgasm, but had no personal experience to know if she was having one. All she knew was that she never wanted him to stop. He plunged another finger into her, dragging his knuckles over a place that made Hermione’s legs quiver shamelessly. He’d obviously noticed it, as she did, the first time it happened, and he now seemed rather determined to find exactly the spot that elicited the reaction.

Hermione responded similarly. Having become familiar with him she adjusted her grip and slid her palm along his length, allowing the little fluid that escaped him to ease her way. As he worked to find the spot he’d happened upon earlier, she began pumping her hand along him mercilessly. She lost the ability to kiss him as her mouth fell open. The butterflies in her stomach had morphed into hippogriffs. A blazing fire was building with alarming speed, shooting heated fireworks through her body. Having found the spot he’d been looking for, her legs began to twitch again. The tension was building within her stronger and greater, harder and faster, until her eyes slipped from focus and her body exploded with a foreign sensation that allowed her to hear her own screams without realizing she’d voiced them.

“Oh God, Harry,” she gasped as every cell in her body resonated with electricity. Slowly coming to realize what she’d experienced, it became wholly evident to her that Harry was not quite through. She stopped his hand, still working between her thighs and planted a hand on his chest, pushing him over onto his back.

She was completely out of control. She couldn’t stop herself. Her lips were everywhere. She kissed him along his neck, across his chest, she dragged her tongue along the light train toward his navel. Her hands ran along his sides, his shoulders, and between his thighs as she left one to cup him gently. His eyes rolled back in his head, only spurring her onward.

She ran her hands along his inner thighs, wrapping her hand around him again. Leaning forward, she captured his lips with her own and began kneading him. He tossed his head to the side, breaking their kiss and hissed. She was compelled to see more in his expression, hear more from his rasping voice. She could feel him twitching beneath her hand and began pumping him slowly.

“Bloody hell,” he gasped. Hermione’s face lit up with a satisfied smile as her hand worked more quickly. She slid it over him faster and faster, gripping him harder and harder as his face contorted and his mouth fell open in a silent scream.

“Hermione,” he croaked, putting a hand over hers in a vain attempt to get her to stop.

“No,” she said refusing his request. She wanted him to feel the way he had made her feel. She wanted to be the one to make him feel that way. She didn’t care about anything other than hearing that incredibly deep voice say her name again and again. She quickened the pace again, his hand falling helplessly to the grassy floor.

“Yes,” he moaned, his meaning clearly different from the quasi-conversation they’d just had. She continued her endeavor and with a few more strokes, his back arched from the floor as he toppled over the edge she’d drawn him to so meticulously.

With a contented smile, she snuggled into his side, his arms wrapping around her instantly. He peppered her with soft kisses as his breathing slowly returned to normal.

“Sorry about that,” Harry whispered, the redness evident in his cheeks.

Hermione propped herself on her elbow and looked at the sight of him. Like her, sweat glistened along his hairline and his trademark raven hair was even more unruly than usual. His eyes were half-closed and although he’d voiced an apology she couldn’t help but notice he looked far from sorry. “I thought that’s what we came here for,” she said wryly.

He turned his head and looked at her appraisingly. “You’re not disappointed that we…you know.” He grappled for the words to describe what they didn’t do.

“No,” she answered unequivocally. “One thing at a time, Harry,” she said, absently tracing a fingernail along his jawline.

“Good,” Harry replied, catching her hand and kissing her fingers softly. “Besides, I have better plans for that…and they don’t involve the clandestine use of an empty classroom.”

“Do you?” she said raising an eyebrow scandalously. He mumbled an affirmative response as his eyes drifted closed. His smile reflected on her own face as she continued to study his features. She felt like she’d known him her whole life, yet something about this moment cast him in a new light. Checking briefly to ensure his eyes were closed, she let hers drift upward. Out of respect for his insecurity, and not to compound the attention it already drew, she’d never given his scar much more than a cursory look. It was part of the face she’d grown to love, but something about this night – and the feelings they’d expressed for each other – the weight of its meaning suddenly crashed into her as an ocean wave along the shore. As she stared at the lightning bolt shape, a life not made passed before her eyes. She neither spoke nor breathed. Harry’s eyes remained closed as she continued her secretive inspection, but it quickly became clear that he knew what she was doing.

She felt his hand upon hers. His smile dissolved as he wrapped his hand around hers and pulled it to his forehead. Using his fingers as a guide, he allowed hers to trace his scar from hairline to eyebrow. It wasn’t until after she’d followed its path several times that she realized his eyes were open, and locked on hers. He pulled her hand down, stopping to kiss the palm as it passed his lips; then drew their joined hands to her face wiping away a tear she’d not even realized was meandering down her cheek.

“Hermione,” he said hoarsely. “No matter what happens, I need you to understand one thing.” He waited for her response.

“What’s that?” she squeaked.

“He can’t take ‘us’ away, even if he takes me.”

She felt a pit in her stomach open as he gave life to the boggart that lived hidden within her. Another tear escaped her eye as she searched for the words that would erase his fate and make them both “normal” teenagers.

Harry came closer to finding those words than she did.

“I love you, Hermione.”

Wrapping protective arms around her, she buried her face in the crook of his shoulder, and mumbled the only words she could speak without hesitation.

“I love you too.”

20. Triangles

A/N: First and foremost, let me extend my gratitude to my betas. CheeringCharm and Danielerin worked their collective butts off on this chapter. It’s far better for it. I know I say that every time I post a chapter, but my sincerity is true. I know you have waited an eternity for this update and I appreciate your patience. This was a difficult chapter to write – I’m not sure why. But, I was mired in it for weeks. With any luck the remaining chapters will be more forgiving.

Second, I’d like to extend thanks to mudbloodcaz for the breakfast nosh in the Great Hall. Your input was invaluable.

Third, I employ a couple scientific principles in this chapter. Yes, the triangle theory works – I encourage you to try it. Alas, I married an architect, so I’ve gained superfluous knowledge through osmosis. I also refer to the physical process of sublimation. While this theory does not belong to Lori Summers, I will admit that one aside in the Hero with a Thousand Faces turned my gears. The spell work introduced in this chapter is a result of the thought process spurned by that passage.

I’d also like to point out that I managed this A/N without the employ of any adverbs!

I’ll ask that CC and PS stop laughing.

VLeigh

Chapter 20 – Triangles

“Time’s up, Merc! You cannot leave me in the dark another minute.”

Hermione had finally given up the appearance of looking through yet another dusty volume from the Restricted Section. “If you don’t spill the details…and I mean all of them … I’ll, I’ll …,” she stammered.

“You’ll what?” Merc interrupted nonchalantly, without looking up from the text before her.

“Merc Thompson!” Hermione snapped in frustration.

Merc cast a lazy glance toward Hermione and crossed her hands over the book. She threw Hermione a bemused grin and shook her head to the side. It was all too clear that she was enjoying this moment entirely too much. If Hermione couldn’t feel the excitement about to burst forth, she could see it behind Merc’s eyes. Hermione couldn’t help but believe that this lovely performance notwithstanding, Merc was dying to tell her about the Valentine’s Ball.

“Dear friend,” she patronized, “good girls do not kiss and tell.”

Hermione nearly leapt from her chair with enthusiasm. “So you did kiss him!” She threw her quill down, eradicating the thought of studying a moment longer with such interesting gossip to discuss. She broke into laughter at the sight of Merc’s expression. She was clearly trying to decide how she’d let that information slip out after a week of diversionary responses. Her face reddened as she buried herself behind the book in front of her. “Oh no you don’t!” Hermione responded, snapping the book back to the table. Merc looked at her, and as their eyes met, her game came to an end.

She and Hermione dissolved into laughter. Between gasps for air, the only thing audible was the sound of Madam Pince shushing them from the nearest book stack.

After they regained their composure, Hermione settled in to hear the story she’d been demanding for nearly a week. Merc wiped a few tears from her eyes and sighed. “So,” Hermione began. She leaned across the table, sparing only a fleeting glance for onlookers. “I’ve always been dead curious. Is he a good kisser?”

“Hermione!”

Hermione waved her hands in front of her. “I didn’t say I wanted to kiss him. I am just interested in whether he has any…well, you know…’skill’ in that department.” Merc looked away, the color flushing her cheeks once more, while driving Hermione to the extent of her patience. “Merc!” Hermione cast a glance to the library door and back to her friend. “They’re going to be back any time now! Ron won’t keep them on the pitch all night, even if it is Slytherin they’re preparing for. If you don’t tell me everything, I will drop dead from the curiosity of it!”

A beaming smile crossed Merc’s face as she tossed her quill on the table. “Well, keep in mind I have no point of reference for this sort of thing. It’s not like I’ve ever snogged anyone before,” Merc said quietly as she hovered lower over the table. Before she had finished, Hermione was rolling her eyes and waving her hand as if to move her past the disclaimers. “But,” Merc said at a near whisper and then paused.

“But what?” Hermione begged.

Merc threw a furtive look around the library, looking for all the world as if she was divulging Ministry secrets. “My legs nearly fell out from under me,” she whispered, her eyes twinkling at the memory. Hermione wanted to squeal…until she remembered that Hermione Granger does not engage in such activity and composed herself for additional details. It seemed once Merc broke her self-imposed silence, she wasn’t going to stop anytime soon. The two girls fell into whispered conversation. As she spoke, recounting detail after detail of her evening with Ron, Hermione began to experience a sort of inner joy she’d not felt in months.

She wasn’t sure if it was the impish grin on Merc’s face or the fact that this was the first time, to Hermione’s knowledge, Merc had spoken at length about herself. Perhaps it was her contagious happiness. It ebbed from her every word. Her eyes gleamed as Hermione had never seen them. She was rather sure this was the first time she’d seen Merc genuinely happy. This wasn’t a show she was putting on for people in order to mask what she felt underneath. As a matter of fact, it was quite obvious her skills in empathy were not required during this retelling. Students five tables away could’ve spotted the excitement dancing from Merc’s body language. She wasn’t sure if these were the reasons, or if it was because she’d managed to get the same impression from Ron, but Hermione wanted to cry with the elation she felt for both of them. She relished in it as Merc told her every detail of the night they’d shared – spending a few extra minutes on the story of their farewell.

When she finished the tale, the two girls sat across from each other — both staring with gleaming eyes toward unseen objects, both with silly grins on their faces. Hermione replayed the story in her mind deciding to save the events of her own evening for another conversation. Judging from the look on her face, Merc was lost in her own nostalgia and Hermione did not wish to take anything away from it.

Eventually ending their reverie, they returned to the task at hand. She should have been more focused, she knew that. It was unlike Hermione not to be attentive to her work – especially when it involved the perusal of hundreds of restricted textbooks. But she couldn’t help it. Her mind wandered among the memories in her own mind.

“The Sanguis spells are a little known faction of the larger Cognatio family. These spells were rumored to be among the most powerful in early wizardry but were wildly complicated and rarely effective.”

The warmth of Harry’s body was radiating through hers as he swept her from her feet in the Divination classroom. The thought of their mutual intent eclipsed the rational processes of her mind as she closed her eyes…waiting for the most irrational of things to happen. Hermione shook the memory from her mind, attempting to assuage the heat that had risen under her collar as she reminisced.

“…wildly complicated and rarely effective. In order for the Sanguis spells to function properly, the caster had to forge a nearly indissoluble bond with other wizards or witches in his or her presence.”

Hermione thought about her bonds. She thought about the bonds that connected her with Harry. She remembered the power of their connection and the pain it caused. They were standing in the darkened common room, only the amber firelight playing across their faces, as she and Harry indulged in a tender exploration of each other. It was the first full day they’d spent as “more than friends.” Intoxicated by his touch, she allowed herself to enjoy all Harry had to offer … until his scar erupted in pain and she crumpled to the floor with him, feeling what he had felt. She realized she’d been rubbing her own forehead and returned her attention to the book before her.

“Such bonds were rarely strong enough to provide the connection necessary to produce the charms the Sanguis spells required. The results of the failed attempts to cast a Sanguis spell on those daring, or foolish, enough to attempt them were ominous at best.”

Daring and foolish, she thought. Her mind bounced around to the multitude of times she, Harry, and Ron engaged in something classifiable as daring or foolish. She thought of escaping the wrath of a mountain troll, searching for an immense, murderous snake with only the aid of a small mirror as protection, traveling through time to save a hippogriff and a convicted murderer, helping Harry endure and overcome every task in the Tri Wizard Tournament, and so on through the years. Sometimes she wondered if it wasn’t blind luck they’d survived this long to even have the opportunity of facing off with Voldemort once and for all.

Voldemort.

Hermione rubbed her temples and tried to focus on the paragraph she’d now read at least four times.

“Ancient sorcery was steeped in personal discovery and practice. The obligation of a powerful connection to other wizards kept these spells from becoming commonplace and soon saw them vanish from practice altogether. It is not known if the fabled incantations belonging to this family of charms performed as purported. There is little evidence to suggest these spells were anything more than mere inventions of creative imaginations.”

Hermione looked at the illustrations of elderly wizards in extravagant robes, thrilled at the prospect of casting their charms in complete solitude. Perhaps if these dusty old wizards would’ve thought to have some friends, or fallen in love, they could’ve forged the necessary connections. She remembered the progress the D.A. made in their fifth year and wondered why the ancient wizards hadn’t been clever enough to create study groups like the one she was involved with. If the look on Merc’s face was any indication, their efforts spawned at least one “powerful connection.”

It was that thought, more than anything else, which stopped Hermione in her tracks. Her attention returned to the pages of the book her eyes had been floating over. She consumed the words, reading them again and again for clarity. She tried to slow the beating of her heart as her eyes flew down the list of “fabled” incantations and the explanation of their uses.

“Hermione?” Merc’s voice floated in from a distance. Hermione heard her, but couldn’t make herself stop. She had a burgeoning feeling, growing in her chest, that she’d not had since they’d started this quest.

“This is it,” she muttered to herself.

“Hermione? Can’t you turn that thing off? You’re blinding me over here,” Merc continued. Confused, Hermione looked up to see Merc holding her hand in front of her eyes, an orange light reflecting off the silver bracelet she wore. Hermione looked down to her left hand and realized her horntail engagement ring, the one Harry had given her that changed with her moods, was not only glowing with an amber hue – it appeared to be on fire.

The sight of it sparkling on her hand only solidified the nascent thoughts which had erupted in her mind. Without further discussion, she marked the page with a spare bit of parchment, slapped the book shut and grabbed Merc by the arm. Dragging her from the library, Hermione didn’t stop to acknowledge Madam Pince, who was barking about removing a restricted book from the library without permission.

“Hermione!” Merc panted. “Where are we going?”

“Quidditch pitch,” Hermione replied as they ran down the steps toward the front lawn. “We have to find Harry and Ron.”

***

“Well, I can’t speak for you, Albus, but I think Hermione makes a fair point,” Lupin said. His attention drawn away from the headmaster, Harry surveyed his former mentor. Lupin did not look well. His face bore new scratches and his right arm was bandaged. Lupin indulged him with a weak smile. Feeling as though he was intruding, Harry looked back to Dumbledore. He was sitting at his desk, hunched over the book Hermione had erupted onto the pitch with.

In all honesty, Harry was rather happy she turned up. Ron had been torturing the Gryffindor team for nearly three hours. Harry reached the obvious conclusion that the only dark wizard Ron was interested in defeating would be riding a Nimbus 2001 as seeker for the Slytherins on Saturday. Ron failed to notice the excitement brandished on Hermione’s face. But luckily for Harry and the remaining members of the team, she had been clever enough to bring Merc along. Just as Ron was about to blast Hermione for interrupting practice, Merc walked onto the pitch and he lost his train of thought. Seeing opportunity in the pause, the entire team absconded to the changing room and Ron had no choice but to draw practice to a close.

Not that he seemed bothered by that prospect when Merc smiled at him.

Hermione didn’t allow Harry and Ron time to change. She announced that the entire group needed to see Dumbledore straight away and charged back toward the castle. Harry and Ron threw their brooms over their shoulders and tromped up the lawn behind her, not able to make up the distance between them until reaching the stone gargoyle that revealed the staircase to Dumbledore’s office.

Harry was surprised to see Lupin there when Hermione barged through the door to the office. In retrospect, he wasn’t sure why he was surprised. He’d met with them both in this office before and Lupin was as much a member of the Order as Dumbledore was. Should it be uncommon for them to meet privately? He didn’t have to wonder long. As Dumbledore surveyed the book in front of him, Tonks appeared from an anteroom off of the headmaster’s office with two steaming mugs of tea. She set one down next to Lupin and he thanked her. She leaned against the wall next to him, shoulders touching, and sipped her tea.

“Hmm,” Dumbledore acknowledged as his eyes floated over the page Hermione marked. The four of them stood before Dumbledore. They had all listened to her explanation as she presented the book to the headmaster. Harry wasn’t sure about the others, but he certainly felt this was the best option they had found thus far.

As he understood Hermione’s explanation, this was a group of spells that drew power from those people with a potent connection to the caster. Hence, he could combine his magic with Hermione’s (since they had the most powerful connection of any in the room) and steep the odds in his favor. After hearing her opinion on the matter, he wasn’t the least bit surprised Hermione was enthralled with the prospect. He knew without reservation that her greatest fear lie in the possibility she wouldn’t be there when the appointed hour arrived. In truth, it was Harry’s greatest fear as well. He’d fought and escaped Voldemort several times throughout his life; he’d always done it alone.

He was tired of being alone.

He was stronger with Hermione and he knew it. She knew it too. He knew that’s why she was so convinced these spells would be effective. Instead of watching from the sidelines, she could fight alongside him. Frankly the ramifications of that prospect scared the hell out of him. But the idea that, be it the end of his life or the beginning of one with her, Hermione might be his guidepost in the transition, bolstered a calm within him that he’d scarcely experienced.

That’s how it should be.

As he stared across the desk at Dumbledore, he could only hope the headmaster felt the same way.

“Remus, I would have to agree with you,” he declared. He looked up to the four students, standing at attention before him, and flashed a warm smile. “I can assure you these spells are not figments of any imagination. They do exist. But the text is correct in its explanation of their difficulty.” He looked between Harry and Hermione. “These spells will take a bit of practice. Even then…” he trailed off.

“Albus, this is the same young wizard that conjured a corporeal patronus at age thirteen,” Lupin boasted. Harry couldn’t help but reflect his smile. Tonks winked at him while Lupin raised his eyes from his mug and considered Harry. “I have no doubt he can accomplish what needs to be done.”

Dumbledore said nothing. After a moment or two of awkward silence, his sparkling eyes caught Harry’s attention. “I should imagine you will need a discreet place to practice.”

“We already have one of those,” Ron answered with a mischievous grin. The look on his face was crystal clear to Harry. They smiled at each other, remembering the last time they were in need of a secret place to practice defense against the dark arts.

“Yes,” Dumbledore smiled. “I couldn’t agree more. Should you require anything else, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

“We won’t,” Harry replied.

“Off you go then.”

***

“So which of these spells are we planning to use, Hermione?” Ron asked as he flipped through the dog-eared pages of the text. Merc had settled herself into an overstuffed cushion with a volume from the Room of Requirement’s vast bookshelves. Ron had to chuckle at the similarities between Merc and Hermione. Upon her first introduction to this room, Hermione had done the same thing.

“I thought this…” Hermione pointed at an incantation toward the bottom of the page, “would be a good place to start.”

Ron’s eyes scanned the book as his brow furrowed in confusion. “Subli-what?”

“Sublimation,” Hermione clarified. Ron stood in his place waiting for the punch line and became agitated when he realized Hermione wasn’t intending to embellish the answer. He opened his mouth to demand elaboration when Merc appeared at his side and slid the book from his hands. For as much as he wanted to keep his attention focused on Hermione’s aggravating behavior, he couldn’t do it. Merc’s soft voice filled the room as she read the passage he had just scanned.

“The deliquesco incantation is based on the physical process of sublimation. It is akin to the apparition spells modern wizards use as a frequent method of travel. When used properly the caster can, for brief periods, exist in an altered physical state that will allow solid objects, or spells, to move through the body with no effect.” She stopped reading and looked at Hermione in awe. “Hermione, this is brilliant.”

Ron’s agitation returned. He felt like the only person in the room who couldn’t speak the language. “Can someone put this in twenty words or less?” he asked, pinching the bridge of his nose and hoping not to break into a howling rage in front of Merc. He hated feeling stupid, and he was reaching that point. Without warning, he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder and looked over to see Merc smiling at him.

“Sublimation is the physical process where a solid changes directly into a gas without stopping as a liquid in between,” she explained. “Apparition uses some of the same theory. When a wizard apparates, their body sort of … disassembles, and reassembles at whatever place they’ve chosen.” She smiled at Ron and pointed back to the description of the spell at the bottom of the page. “I think this works much the same way, only it doesn’t transport you anywhere. For a brief period you’re just a vapor or gas or something, and then you reconstitute yourself in the same place.” She looked at Hermione for clarification.

“That’s how I understand it,” she affirmed. Ron looked at Harry and nearly burst out laughing at the expression on his face.

“I’m going to do what?!” he exclaimed. It made Ron feels loads better. Harry must not have had the slightest idea what sublimation was either, or he wouldn’t have turned green at the prospect of it. Merc didn’t appear to notice his condition as she returned her attention to the book.

“I can see why it requires the magic of two wizards,” she flopped back onto a cushion and studied the book. After a minute of silence, she raised her eyes to the group with a studious expression. “I mean apparition is just a burst of energy. You project yourself where you want to go. This would require a lot more control…and a lot more power…to simply hold that state for any duration.”

Feeling the need to summarize for himself, or actually make Harry ill by hearing the words, Ron replied. “So basically, Harry will dissolve into some kind of gas and spells will go right through him.”

“Basically,” Merc replied. “Really anything will go right through him, spells or solid materials.”

“Or he could go through them,” Hermione added.

“Possibly.”

“Cool.” What else could Ron say? He looked at Harry, who had now taken advantage of his own fluffy cushion and had his head grasped between the thumb and forefingers of his right hand as he rubbed his temples. Hermione crossed the room and sat down next to him, placing her hand on top of the one still lying in his lap.

“We can do this, Harry,” she whispered as she leaned her shoulder against his. Ron had the sudden uncomfortable feeling that he should be watching something else. He looked back to the book in Merc’s hands and found that didn’t help in the least. Now his attention was focused on her. He could see Harry and Hermione with their foreheads together out of his peripheral vision and wished for a cooling charm. The heat was rising under his collar.

Merc wasn’t saying anything, she wasn’t even looking at him, but he blanched nonetheless. Should he have an arm around her? Would she expect him to act like Harry and Hermione? Did he want to act that way in front of his best friends? He began casting his eyes around the room in search of something interesting to look at. As his eyes fell on the rain-spattered window in the corner, he realized a warm weight had returned to his arm. He turned to see Merc’s hand curled around his upper arm and her eyes boring into his.

“Is everything all right?” she inquired.

Suddenly, he couldn’t remember what was so distressing. He was nervous about something just a minute ago, but looking into her clear green eyes, he couldn’t remember what it was. He smiled in return and grasped her hand with his. “Perfectly fine,” he answered. His eyes drifted across her features until they became fixated on her glistening pink lips. He’d never noticed her wearing lip gloss before, but he was compelled to discover its flavor. Before he had the opportunity to conduct his experiment, the sound of Harry clearing his throat drew him back to reality.

“Hate to interrupt,” he chided. Sometime during Ron’s reverie, Harry and Hermione crossed the room to where he and Merc were lost in each other. Ron and Merc quickly dropped each other’s hands and made a fleeting effort to look at the book as if they’d been studying it the whole time.

“Oh, please,” Hermione said with an exaggerated eye roll. “You have nothing to hide from us,” she said with a grin.

“Yes. Well,” Merc stammered. “We should get to this,” she said with finality. Hermione took the book from Merc and began going over the incantation with Harry. The two of them walked to the opposite side of the room; Harry pulled out his wand and began practicing with Hermione as his coach. Ron looked on for a minute or two before his thoughts were drawn away.

Merc walked to the opposite bookshelf and ran her fingers along the spines of the defensive books the room provided. Ron ambled to her side and she stopped abruptly and turned to him. After searching for something debonair to say, the best he conjured was, “hi.”

She giggled. “Hi,” she replied. He looked between her and his friends at the opposite side of the room, and before he could stop himself, he spoke the only thought that was dominating his thoughts.

“I’m glad you’re here.”

She smiled. “So am I.” He couldn’t help but wonder if the faint hint of cherry ice cream was the scent of her perfume or the flavor of that lip gloss.

“Ron,” Harry’s voice once again broke through his thoughts. “I think I need you to hex me.”

“No problem.”

“Seriously, Ron.”

Harry didn’t seem to understand that Ron was being serious. That was the second time in five minutes he’d enjoyed the place his mind had taken him, only to be pulled away by the sound of Harry’s voice. “We can’t tell if this is working unless someone fires a spell at me.”

Ron broke into a wide grin and raised an eyebrow in Harry’s direction. He snapped his wand from his robes, relishing the payback he’d been hoping for since becoming a human test subject to help Harry train for the third task of the Tri Wizard Tournament.

“What’s that look?” Harry rebuked.

“You might want to pile those cushions behind you,” Ron declared. Harry’s shoulders drooped. He apparently needed no more explanation than that; neither did Hermione.

“Oh, honestly,” she scoffed as she stomped off to the corner and began piling the floor behind Harry with oversized cushions.

“What’s this then?” Merc inquired.

Ron was so impressed with himself he didn’t realize what he said until it had already slipped from his mouth. “Just a little payback, love.”

Leave it to Harry to seize the moment.

“Well, love, if you don’t mind…let’s get to it.”

Ron couldn’t help but think it dim of Harry to choose that moment to be sporting. Needless to say, Harry had not mastered the incantation, and Ron’s stunner was as close to perfect as he’d ever conjured.

***

Merc sat in the corner of the room, curled up on an overstuffed cushion, with a forgotten textbook lying open in her lap. She’d winced so many times over the past several days her face seemed frozen in that expression. Harry managed to miss the cushions for the third time in a row. At this rate, he was likely to develop scars in more places than his forehead.

They had made moderate progress, which was progress enough to convince Hermione her plan was working. Harry managed to sparkle a bit and Ron’s stunner merely knocked him over rather than knocking him out. But these were stunning spells from a seventh year student, not the Avada Kedavra from Voldemort himself.

In short, it wasn’t working and Merc knew it. She just didn’t know how to tell Hermione. After each successive attempt, Hermione would rouse Harry, stand him on his feet and encourage him to try just a little harder. Merc was sure that Harry’s own exhaustion was the reason he didn’t notice Hermione’s demeanor. This was wearing her down as well. Each time he grabbed her hand and shouted the incantation, Merc saw her twitch, or grimace, or suck in a breath. Each time he hit the sea of cushions behind him, she was just a bit slower to make her way over to him. Ron didn’t seem to notice either. Merc was just a bit embarrassed by that. Ron spent the majority of his time watching her from the corner of his eye when he thought she wasn’t looking.

Merc watched Hermione stumble to where Harry lay on the floor and help him to his feet. She knew what was coming next; she’d watched it for a week. They’d rearrange the cushions, exchange a few more tips – none of which ever seemed to improve their record – and return to stunning Harry into oblivion.

“Stop,” she said as they prepared to try again. The three of them looked at her with confused expressions. She met each of their eyes and drew a breath. “Do you, er…reckon this is working?”

“Of course it is!” Hermione responded. “It’s just that this is a difficult spell to master. He’s getting better with each try,” she added. Merc couldn’t help but notice the panicked tone in Hermione’s voice. She’d seen this in her before; usually when they were studying Arithmancy and a solution she’d been set on proved to be the incorrect one. Harry and Ron looked at each other. The exhaustion was evident from the dark circles forming under Harry’s eyes but he seemed as determined as Hermione to make this work.

“Maybe I should try a less powerful spell,” Ron considered. “Maybe the stunning spell is too much to start with and we should work our way into it.” Hermione was nodding her head in agreement. Harry seemed to be considering the range of other less offensive spells he could be subjected to. Either way, Merc thought the idea was ridiculous. Voldemort was sure not to use a weak spell, so why practice with one here.

“Maybe we need to rethink what we’re doing,” Merc muttered. She’d never felt like part of this group; she was aware that she was on the outside looking in. But, sometimes an outside opinion carried far more clarity than those who were too near the situation. The fact was March had dawned outside the castle windows and they were wasting their time.

“What do you mean?” Harry asked before Hermione could respond.

Merc started pacing back and forth, as was her habit when she was deep in thought. The basic hypothesis of this spell had merit. If a wizard could draw strength from someone he was connected to, he could accomplish things he couldn’t do alone. She was convinced of the genuine nature of the bond between Harry and Hermione, she just couldn’t find the words to phrase what she was thinking.

It wasn’t enough.

“You’re making me dizzy,” Harry and Ron said together as they watched her pace the floor. The sound of their voices stopped Merc’s footsteps.

“What did you say?” she asked them, a thought struggling to form itself in her mind.

“Dizzy,” Ron reiterated. “You’re walking around in circles.” She looked between Ron and Harry and saw the same lopsided grin spread across both their faces. The answer was right in front of her, smiling at her even. She had no idea how no one had seen it before.

“Ron, put your wand away and stand over there,” Merc commanded as she pointed to the opposite side of Harry.

“What? Why?” Ron questioned.

“What are you talking about?” Hermione added.

“Triangles,” Merc mumbled as she pulled out her own wand and stood in the spot Ron had just occupied.

“Triangles?” Hermione echoed.

“Triangles are the strongest structural member in nature,” she began, snapping a page from the thin book she’d been reading. She beckoned them over to a small table in the corner and bent the page into a V-shape, standing it on the table. “ “With only two points, the page is straight. It’s as strong as it can be, but not strong enough.” She placed the book on top of the paper and the weight of it crumpled the page. Merc slid the book off and pulled the page out again, smoothing it on the corner of the table. “But, with three points,” she said, folding the paper into a triangle and standing it on its end. “The same page becomes strong enough to hold an immense load.” She placed the book on the triangle shaped column and looked up as the book stayed perched atop the paper.

“Cool,” Ron said while Harry and Hermione looked on.

“Harry,” Merc continued in the silence. “Your bond with Ron is as strong as the one you have with Hermione. Just because it’s different doesn’t make it weaker. The three of you should be doing this together.” She looked at Hermione and said a silent prayer that this wouldn’t offend one of the only friends she had. “It’s not enough with Hermione alone.”

Merc held her breath for the response she was dreading. It didn’t come. Ron and Harry looked at each other with guarded but hopeful expressions. Hermione didn’t appear angry with Merc in the least; she looked befuddled as to why she hadn’t thought of it herself.

“Well,” Harry spoke up, breaking the silence. “Shall we try it?” They all walked back to their places as Harry discussed the finer points of their attempts with Ron. Merc didn’t hear much of their conversation as she realized she would be left with the job of hexing her friends. That was not something that sat well with her.

Defense against the dark arts was not a strong suit for Merc. If she could throw history books at them she might make herself look less foolish. She wasn’t sure she could conjure a stunner quite to the level Ron had been doing. Not to mention, Harry Potter was the best in his year at the subject. She didn’t want any of them to laugh at her. If on the off chance she managed a decent spell, she didn’t want to hurt anyone either. She started perusing a list of possible escapes from the situation, none of which were plausible, when she realized Ron had appeared next to her.

She looked up at his amused expression and felt little relief. “Don’t worry about hurting that bloke,” he chuckled. “If You-Know-Who hasn’t managed to turn him into a newt yet, you’re not going to.” He gave her hand a brief but awkward squeeze and walked back to where Harry and Hermione stood.

Merc turned to face them and drew her wand from her robes. Harry gave her a nod as the trio locked hands with each other. Hermione had her eyes closed, concentrating on something. Harry’s eyes were staring unfixed at some point over her right shoulder. Ron was looking at her. His face broke into a faint grin and he winked as she raised her wand in front of her. She saw his eyes close as she shouted “stupefy” and red light erupted from the end of her wand.

The angry red bolt shot across the room and connected with Harry’s body…sort of. He stumbled backwards, losing his footing and flopping over onto the cushions behind, but the stunner exploded against the stone wall behind him. That was something it hadn’t done before, and something that couldn’t have happened if the spell hadn’t passed through Harry’s body in some manner. Merc couldn’t help but stare at the darkened spot on the wall. They appeared to have made more progress in this one attempt than they’d made in a week. She wasn’t the only one who noticed.

“Bloody hell!” Ron yelped. “Hermione? Did you see that?” She gave him a weak smile as she adjusted the hair in her clip and nodded.

“Yes,” she said with strained enthusiasm. “That’s certainly something. We should try it again.” Ron offered Harry a hand and they resumed their places in front of Merc. With a resolute nod in her direction, Harry prepared for another round. As before, his voice mingled with hers as Merc sent a stunner his way while he attempted to avoid it through use of the ancient spell. The results were similar to their first attempt, but they continued on in the hopes of making additional progress.

“Stupefy!”

“Deliquesco!”

The wall behind Harry continued to repair itself after each successive stunner. He’d managed to avoid falling on the cushions the last three times they tried. His body was weary but there was energy behind his eyes. He was clearly rejuvenated by the addition of Ron to the spell. But Merc was growing more concerned about Hermione. As they continued, she’d spoken less and less. Ron assumed the responsibility of helping Harry to his feet. Hermione didn’t seem to mind. As a matter of fact, she seemed to be standing under sheer willpower alone. Her eyes were dark, her face was blanched.

“I think we should call it a night,” she said, trying to avoid looking at Hermione. Hermione had not mentioned a word about how she was faring as Harry had been stunned more times than they could count. Merc was not about to give her away.

“Yeah,” Harry said, rubbing the muscles in his neck. “You’re probably right. We’ve been here for two hours.” He cast a fleeting glance to the darkened window now dropping silver moonlight through the panes. Ron began tossing the cushions back to the corner of the room and proceeded to gather their things by the door. Hermione was standing in the same spot, eyes glazed over, not contributing to the conversation at all.

“Hermione?” Merc asked, stepping toward her. It must’ve been the tone in her voice that caught Harry’s attention. He snapped around began crossing the room to where she stood. Hermione’s eyes met Merc’s and then continued skyward until they began to flutter and she staggered sideways. “Harry!” Merc shouted as Hermione lost her balance and toppled over. Luckily for Hermione, the young man who was hopelessly devoted to her had lightning-fast reflexes. He managed to catch her before she made full contact with the floor and drew her into his lap.

“Hermione?”

Merc was impressed with the calm quality of Harry’s voice. Ron, having run to where they were crouched on the floor, was not as composed. He picked up Hermione’s hand and squeezed it while calling her name and looking toward Harry. “Is she okay?” Ron asked.

They didn’t have long to wait for the answer. As quickly as she had passed out, she began to rouse. Looking startled to find herself on the floor and curled in Harry’s arms her eyes darted around at the faces staring down at her. “Are you all right?” Harry asked, brushing an errant lock of hair away from her face.

She nodded and pushed herself up to a sitting position. “Yes, I…I just need to rest I think.” A clatter behind them heralded the arrival of a large four-poster bed. Hermione looked past Merc and rolled her eyes. “In my own bed,” she added.

The four of them made their way from the Room of Requirement down several staircases. This was one of the many times it helped being friends with both the Head Boy and Girl. It may’ve been after curfew, but with Harry and Hermione present, even Filch couldn’t argue their presence in the corridors.

“Hermione,” Harry began as he walked with a protective arm encircling her. “Why don’t you rest on the couch in the common room for a while?”

“I’d rather just turn in for the night,” she replied.

“I’m worried about you. Can’t you just take a kip on the couch so I can keep an eye on you for a while? I promise I’ll wake you up after an hour or so.”

“No,” she replied. Merc and Ron exchanged interested gazes as they watched the conversation unfold.

“Hermione,” he began to protest.

“No, Harry. I’m fine. I’m just tired. I don’t want anyone watching me sleep. I’m sure you have better things to do with your time.”

“Hermione…”

“I said no,” there was a cool finality to her voice. Merc could see the muscles working along the side of Harry’s tightened jaw. She couldn’t understand why Hermione was being so obstinate and it was evident that he didn’t know either. However, it was also clear that no one was going to change her mind.

“Merc?” Ron’s voice interrupted her thoughts.

“Hmm?”

“You’re this way,” he said, pointing down the hallway toward Ravenclaw Tower. Harry and Hermione came to a stop at the intersection. Harry gave Ron an inquisitive look that didn’t need explanation. “Don’t worry about it. Just get Hermione back to the common room. I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll get you out of it if Filch catches you,” Harry assured. Then he turned his attention to Merc. “Thanks for everything tonight. I’ll remind Ron not to make you angry,” he said with a smile. “That’s quite a stunner you’ve got.”

Merc felt the heat rise to her face as Ron put an arm around her and turned her down the corridor toward her house. She heard Harry and Hermione’s footsteps trail away and was soon left with only the sounds of herself and Ron.

“You were brilliant tonight.”

“Thank you,” she replied. Feeling a bit more confident in their solitude she continued, “I don’t suppose you’d like to thank me properly.”

“Whatever are you talking about?” Ron said, the twinkle in his eyes broadcasting the fact he was playing along with her game. They slowed their steps as they reached the Ravenclaw portrait hole. Ron slipped his arm from her shoulders and took her hand in his. She stopped and turned toward him, casting a quick glance along the corridors around them.

“This,” she whispered as she rose up on her toes to kiss him. Ron’s arms wrapped themselves around her as he lifted her from the floor. She felt his tongue trace the top of her bottom lip and sent hers out to meet him. Their mouths opened together and their tongues danced along each other’s lips, giving little thought to anything else. Merc’s eyes were closed but she felt him lower her to the floor. As he did, she broke their kiss and stepped back, wiping her mouth with the back of her forefinger.

“Sorry,” Ron fumbled. “I’ll get the hang of this before long.”

“I think we both require some practice,” Merc giggled. She pressed the same finger to his mouth and ran it along his lips. Ron’s eyes drooped closed and he grabbed her hand in his, pulling it to the side and pressing his lips to her inner wrist. A shot of warm energy erupted from that spot and careened along her arm, making her heart flop in her chest. She opened her eyes to find his boring into hers.

“Good night, Miss Thompson.”

“So formal?”

“It’s the only name I know is yours.” He kissed the back of her hand with a smile and turned up the corridor toward Gryffindor Tower. Merc opened her mouth to reply, but he’d turned the corner and swept from sight. She looked to the place where she’d seen him last and sighed audibly.

“If you’d asked me tonight, I would’ve told you.”

***

“You’re not that nervous, are you?” Harry asked Ron. He couldn’t help but be reminded of the first time Ron faced Slytherin on the pitch. He looked as gaunt now as he had during fifth year. He also wasn’t answering. “Ron?”

Ron stopped pushing his eggs around the plate and put his fork down. “I wasn’t thinking about the match.” Harry shot Hermione a disbelieving look that she returned in kind.

“Then what are you thinking about?” Hermione asked. Ron shook his head and returned his attention to his untouched breakfast. Hermione put her own fork down and crossed her arms on the table. “Ron?” she reiterated.

This time he dropped his fork with enough clatter to draw the attention of several nearby Gryffindor students. “I hate lying to her.”

“Lying to whom?” Hermione questioned.

Ron looked up at her with an incredulous expression. “Well, I’m not talking about my mother if that’s what you’re asking,” he quipped. Hermione looked at him without response. The awkward silence spurred him to elaborate. He dropped his eyes back to the table and continued, “Merc.”

“What are you lying to her about?” Harry asked.

“Aren’t we all lying to her?” For as much as he tried, Ron could not help but dwell on this subject ever since her brainstorm several nights ago. In his opinion, her idea to include him in the spell was groundbreaking — something none of them had thought of. It garnered them the greatest gains made thus far and brought her fully into the circle of what they were doing. Since that night, he grappled with the idea that she was becoming an important part of this “project” and yet she really didn’t know what the project was. But it also cast light on a greater dilemma. It wasn’t his place to tell her.

For as much as Merc knew, she was helping the three of them find a feasible manner to circumvent the Avada Kedavra. The spell Hermione found seemed to be the solution, and Harry had become increasingly proficient in using it. But they’d also learned something else…it wasn’t the answer to all their problems. This spell could not “defeat” Voldemort in the most obvious sense of the word. While that became apparent to Harry, Ron, and Hermione, Merc was none the wiser.

Since Merc’s suggestion to add Ron to the spell, the four of them redoubled their efforts. While Harry improved, the sessions drained both Ron and Hermione. If evading a stunner from a seventh year student could take that much out of them, he couldn’t imagine what would happen if they attempted such a feat against Voldemort. He also wasn’t sure Harry could be as successful against the Dark Lord as he was against Merc.

And even if he was…what difference did it make?

If Harry was expected to engage Voldemort in some version of a duel, that implied he’d have to fight. This spell didn’t allow for that. At best, he could avoid the killing curse and end the confrontation in a draw…and that’s how it had been for years. That just wasn’t good enough; the prophecy left little room for second place. The more time they spent practicing, the more concerned Ron became.

He wasn’t alone. The previous night, they made their way back to the Common Room and with a leaden expression Harry broached the same subject. While he thought this spell would be useful, he didn’t think it was the key. He realized he couldn’t fight either – if only because holding both Ron and Hermione’s hands, he couldn’t use his own wand against Voldemort. Not that he could’ve done so anyway.

Normally, the Gryffindor Quidditch Captain suffered immeasurable insomnia the night before a match as a matter of nerves. This time, Ron’s insomnia had nothing to do with Quidditch. After discussing their progress at some length, Harry drew a deep breath and sunk into the overstuffed couch. He gave a sheepish look to both Ron and Hermione before divulging the last of his well-guarded secrets. Ron knew Harry had great affinity for his wand, but he’d never told them how unique it was. As Ron lay awake in his four-poster bed that night, he couldn’t take his eyes off the wand sitting so peacefully on Harry’s bedside table…Harry’s wand…the brother of Voldemort’s wand. He watched it for what seemed like hours, waiting for it to lurch off the table and shoot deadly green light around the dormitory. He eventually drifted into a fitful sleep, racked with dreams of dead wizards floating from the bedside table in a ghostly haze.

Ron looked up at the flock of morning owls descending over the breakfast table. “You’re talking about the prophecy,” Harry mumbled. Hermione scanned the table to their right and left. When she was satisfied no one was listening, she pushed her plate out of the way and settled in for the discussion. Ron nodded his head in affirmation. Harry put his fork on the table and did not reply.

The three of them sat at the table, food untouched, staring in indeterminate directions. Harry said nothing. Hermione stirred only to cast diagnostic looks toward Harry. Ron watched them both. He was hard pressed to describe the look on Hermione’s face as she gazed upon Harry. It wasn’t fear or remorse in her eyes. It wasn’t sadness or pity. He couldn’t describe what it was, but he knew how she felt – he felt the same way, but he couldn’t describe that either.

She was looking at Harry as if desperate to make his burden lighter — as if there was nothing in the world she wouldn’t do for him if only she could. For all the clanging of dishes and thudding of cutlery upon heavy tables … for all the palpable excitement in a Great Hall filled with students preparing for an anticipated Quidditch match, she was looking at him as if he were the only person existing in a silent room. Apparently feeling her eyes upon him, he inclined his head to hers and smiled more with his eyes than with anything else. Ron suddenly regressed to the long-buried feelings he’d grappled with for over a year when it came to Harry and Hermione …the feeling he was intruding upon something without courtesy of an invitation.

He looked away, allowing his eyes to fall where they may. How interesting. Without giving consideration to the distraction, he found himself peering into the bright green eyes of a chestnut-haired Ravenclaw a table away.

Then she smiled.

The din in the Great Hall evaporated in an instant. He imagined if he’d been within earshot he could’ve heard her contagious laugh. Keeping her eyes trained on his, she fingered a small cardinal rosette pinned to her robes and pressed her nose toward it as if to inhale the aroma. He broke into his own quiet laughter as she winked at him and returned to her bangers and mash.

That was when he knew.

“Ahem.” Harry and Hermione were looking back and forth between Ron and Merc as if they were courtside at Wimbledon. Both had ridiculous grins plastered across their faces and seemed poised for attack. For some reason Ron couldn’t explain, he didn’t care.

He looked at both of them and thought he’d float from the bench. In an instant, he felt a weight lift from his shoulders he hadn’t realized was there. For the first time in the history of their romantic relationship, Ron looked at Harry and Hermione and felt a comfortable peace settle across his consciousness that he’d scarcely known was missing.

“Ron?” Hermione asked amused. “What is the matter with you? You have the silliest look on your face.” Harry laughed aloud. Ron looked back to his plate. His appetite regained, he shoved some toast into his mouth in a vain attempt to hide his smile.

“Nothing.”

“Sure it’s nothing,” Harry responded with one eyebrow arched above the other.

Hermione studied him for a minute, and shot Harry an impish glance before crouching lower over the table. “Do you love her?” Ron aspirated the pumpkin juice he’d decided to sip.

Ron hammered his fist into his chest as he coughed. Wiping a tear from his eye, he looked up at Hermione, not failing to notice that she was breathless with anticipation. “What?!”

Much to the dismay of Hermione and the relief of Ron, Harry interrupted before Ron could answer. He took a sip of juice as his face darkened in serious consideration. “I think what’s more important is whether or not you trust her?”

“Yes.”

Harry gave a fleeting glance toward a dejected Hermione and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Then I have a proposition for you.”

“What’s that?” Ron asked skeptically.

“You can tell Merc about the prophecy.” Ron’s face lit up and he cast a quick glance back to where she sat, engrossed in conversation with Luna Lovegood. “On one condition,” Harry added. Ron snapped his attention forward. “You have to confront Ginny about her summer internship.”

“Or total lack thereof,” Hermione said with pursed lips as she glanced down the table to where Ginny sat. Ron followed her eyes, settling them upon his sister. He felt like he should’ve taken greater issue with the challenge. After all, she was his sister – his family – and he knew this conversation, while long overdue, was likely to cause a rift between them. But as he was compelled to look back toward Merc, he realized his decision was already made.

“Done.”

Harry sat back from the table and smiled. The number of students bustling around the tables multiplied. The clattering of dishes and empty glasses of pumpkin juice mingled with the footsteps of eager fans headed outdoors. Harry looked down at his watch and back to Ron. “Well, now that we’ve got that sorted out,” he smirked. “I believe we have an appointment with the snakes.”

“I’m feeling better already.”

***

“Did you see him! The barmy git,” Ron laughed as he recalled the story. “I promise I wasn’t trying to hit him in the face…the quaffle just…sort of…deflected that way.”

“I think you did him a favor really,” Harry replied as he shrugged off his soiled robes with a beaming smile. “I’ve always thought Goyle would look better with a nose job.” They fell into laughter, adding to the resonating electricity that filled the changing room. There were only seven people in the room, each as exhausted and bruised as the next, but their spirits were soaring. They were reenacting key plays from the match and bursting into laughter at various points in their storytelling.

The match had been pivotal in determining who would secure the Quidditch Cup. Given the point standings thus far, this match was arguably more important than any of the remaining ones. Happily for Ron and Harry, Ravenclaw suffered a devastating loss to Hufflepuff just after beating Gryffindor. Hence Gryffindor was leading in the point standings. Ravenclaw and Slytherin were nearly tied, only seventy and eighty points behind Gryffindor (respectively).

He’d spent his time looking for the snitch while calculating the exact number of points Gryffindor required in order to ensure Slytherin’s demise. In truth, Harry was the reason the match lasted over five hours. On three separate occasions, he feigned grabbing the snitch just before Malfoy could, only to ensure it scooted away from both of them until the opportune moment. It had been a real test of his character as seeker to spot the golden wings fluttering at the far end of the pitch only to turn in the opposite direction and draw Malfoy’s attention away from it. Had Malfoy enjoyed any talent in the position, he could’ve beaten Harry to the snitch at least four times before the end of the match. In the end, Harry indulged in another spectacular dive and sealed Slytherin’s fate a full broomstick length ahead of Malfoy. Three houses’ worth of spectators (Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff preferring to feed themselves to Fire-Thorned Bastrays before cheering on the snakes) burst into celebration as Harry landed on the pitch with the snitch grasped tightly in his hand. The team raced to the changing room to continue celebrating while a dejected group of grumbling Slytherins tromped from the stadium.

“Brilliant game as usual, Harry,” Ginny said with a smile that failed to reach her eyes. She slapped him on the back and walked toward the mirror. He watched her brush some grass clippings from her hair and turned toward Ron. His face was set and his eyes narrowed. Before Harry could ask his intentions, Ron answered his question.

“I’ve had it.”

Either encouraged by his good humor or in spite of it, Ron walked toward his sister. Harry leaned forward, loosening the protective guards over his shins, and strained to eavesdrop on their conversation.

“Great match, Harry!” He lurched forward as the remaining four teammates took turns slapping him on the back as they left the changing room. Amid the distraction, and his polite reciprocation, he’d missed Ron’s opening comments. By the time he turned back to Ron and Ginny, it was apparent he’d said something she found offensive. The look in Ginny’s eyes was murderous. Her hands were planted on her hips and her face was rising to match the color of her hair. As the door to the changing room closed, their conversation became audible to Harry…and any other living being with ears. He spun around and sat on the bench, removing the rest of his gear while hanging on their every word.

“Why should I tell you anything?!” Ginny snapped.

“Because I’m your brother!” Ron replied.

“So what? I’m your sister and that hardly encourages you to tell me why you’ve been sneaking off to the Room of Requirement.” Harry could tell Ron was just winding up.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he countered.

“Oh, nothing,” she quipped. Her voice dropped in volume and Harry couldn’t make out what she said. He pulled off the cardinal jumper, continuing to feign disinterest.

“What I do with Merc is none of your damn business!”

“Just like what I did this summer is none of yours!” Storming footsteps approached Harry from behind and he scrambled to inspect his socks. Ginny swept past him, tugging her robes off and throwing them over an empty bench. He chanced a glance toward her as Ron drew even with where he was perched.

“It is my business if you’ve been passing information to the wrong side,” Ron said darkly. Ginny froze as the air between them turned to ice. She drew herself upright and turned to face her brother. She appeared so infuriated she’d gone full circle to a chilling calm. Frankly, Harry wondered if mastering the look in her eyes would be enough to kill Voldemort where he stood.

“Is that what you think?” she replied with a vibrating voice. Ron cracked under the pressure of her glare and looked toward his feet.

“You haven’t given me much reason to think otherwise.” He looked up toward her. The strength of will the conversation required was draining him of the remaining energy he possessed. “Someone’s been leaking information. It got Shacklebolt killed. It got Hermione’s parents killed. It nearly killed Fred and Dad.” He drew a breath and squared his shoulders to her. “And as far as I can see, you’re the only one keeping secrets.”

Harry felt like he shouldn’t be listening to this conversation, but at the same time he was sitting next to Ron with his eyes inextricably glued to Ginny. She was standing meters away but it was clear that every inch of her was shaking. Her eyes brimmed with tears that she refused to let escape the corners of her eyes. Her throat worked as she appeared to select her words as Hermione chose her books. She raised her chin and glared at Ron.

“Well,” she began with cold severity. “I guess it’s obvious why the Sorting Hat didn’t put you in Hufflepuff. You’re certainly not concerned with being loyal to your family.” Harry gave a quick glance to Ron. The blood drained from his face so he appeared more ghost-like than anything else. His hand was balled into a fist and an errant thread from his jumper was quaking. Without bothering to gather her things, she stormed toward the door.

“I’m not finished, Ginny,” Ron declared. She stopped on one heel, considering him for the briefest of moments before looking back to the door.

“Oh, yes you are.” She replied. “And so are we.” With that, she thundered out of the changing room leaving only the echo of the slamming door in her wake.

***

After the row in the changing room, Ron and Harry returned to the Gryffindor victory party and shuffled Hermione up the staircase. Amid catcalls from inebriated students (which was to say Seamus), Harry locked their dormitory room and imparted the whole story. Ron had been glad to let Harry tell the details. Whether tired from five hours of Quidditch or five minutes with his sister, he couldn’t say, but he was not interested in reliving the matter.

They discussed Ginny’s reaction until the grumbling from Ron’s stomach became too much to ignore. Hermione wrapped him in a warm embrace and told him everything would be all right. He only wished he could believe her. When they returned to the common room celebration, they noticed that Ginny was not in attendance. Ron saw the fleeting look Hermione gave Harry before disappearing to the girls’ dormitory. He also saw the unsettled look in her eyes when she returned. She didn’t have to report on her conversation with Ginny; it was clear one never occurred. Ginny hadn’t returned to the tower at all.

The idea of her deception boiled the blood coursing through Ron’s veins. He quickly made his way to Seamus’ secret brew (which until that point had always managed to frighten him) and knocked back a mug full. The students gathered around the frothing punch bowl exploded with impressed applause as Ron cursed his lack of prudence. His throat ignited as the drink settled into his empty stomach. He coughed wildly while trying to smother the fire in his chest by slamming his fist against it. He registered Hermione’s appearance at his shoulder, and just as quickly realized Harry had pulled her away with warning eyes.

Under the circumstances, Harry, Ron, and Hermione enjoyed the party as well as could be expected. Hermione paused for a few moments to speak with Dobby (undoubtedly to discuss the lopsided woolen hat he was sporting this evening) as he appeared with two trays loaded with pastries and sandwiches. Ron didn’t have the energy to engage anyone in conversation and spent the remainder of the evening with a void in his stomach he couldn’t understand. Sadly, after a fitful night’s rest, that same feeling persisted through breakfast and morning classes.

Harry and Hermione remained quiet around him. By lunch, it appeared Harry was content to let Ron advise the topics for conversation, and the wincing from Hermione suggested he was encouraging her to do the same under the table. As they left the Great Hall for afternoon classes, Ron found the description for his unease. Hermione bid Harry farewell as she set off for Arithmancy and Ron was overcome with jealousy. Prior to his revelation yesterday morning, he would’ve attributed that feeling to seeing his two best friends in a heartfelt exchange. Today, that feeling was differently described. As he watched Hermione trail out of sight he realized his jealousy was directed toward her. She was set to spend a double period with the one person he’d not seen since yesterday morning — and the one person he’d wanted to see ever since.

The afternoon passed with the kind of interminable indolence he associated with Professor Binns’ class before dropping into dusk. Ron’s mood persisted through dinner as he watched his sister, sitting a considerable distance down the table, maintaining eye contact on the second year students she’d intruded upon. Two of the young Gryffindor boys sitting across from her were tripping over themselves to find flattering conversation for their surprise guest. That only served to pepper Ron’s temper. He’d made mental note to have a chat with them both.

He’d returned to the Common Room with Harry and Hermione and attempted to make progress on his Potions assignment. He was rather unsuccessful in that endeavor. His mind kept manufacturing scenarios, all horrible in nature, which might explain Ginny’s secrecy. Worse than that, he continued to imagine a Weasley family dinner table that continued to shrink in attendance. Percy had broken off all familial relations two years ago, and if her last remarks were any indication to him, Ginny was headed down the same path. What would his mother say?

He’d brooded over those very questions until Hermione’s voice broke through his thoughts. She’d attempted to make some levity out his lack of progress in Snape’s assignment. When Ron failed to return the smile, she asked if he wouldn’t mind a walk. As it was, Harry and Hermione were due to make their evening rounds of the castle and apparently thought Ron could use the fresh air. He accepted the invitation and they set off together. Mere minutes after they’d left Gryffindor Tower, Hermione’s true intent was revealed.

They turned a familiar corner and Ron was greeted with a welcome sight: Merc, sitting in a windowsill, waiting for him. Judging from the look on her face, double Arithmancy had given Hermione ample time to tell Merc the details of his conversation with Ginny. As soon as she saw him she slipped from her perch and met him with a sorely missed embrace, which he returned in earnest. When he finally let her go, he realized Merc was holding the Marauder’s Map and they were standing alone in the corridor. He made a mental note to thank his best friends when he returned to the Common Room.

“I wish I knew I knew how to help,” Merc said softly as they began to meander through the corridors. “Would you like to talk about it?”

Interestingly enough, he’d had the same answer for every person who’d asked that question over the last twenty-four hours; each of them received the same response. Harry and Hermione had been clever enough to avoid the question and just waited for Ron to come around on his own. He hadn’t indulged them either. He hadn’t wanted to talk about it.

Until last night he’d been able to push this issue to the back of his mind. He hadn’t realized how much effort that had taken, but the look in Ginny’s eyes when she told him they were “through” robbed him of the ability to continue the charade. So the words spilled forth. Merc hung on every syllable. Occasionally she would ask a question, or offer a suggestion, but mostly she listened as he prattled on. The more he spoke, the lighter he felt. And although she expressed the exact sentiment that Hermione had the night before, it seemed more hopeful coming from Merc. He had only one explanation for that, but he didn’t have the inclination to share it with her. Not yet.

But it did give him an idea. Their conversation having cleared the mire from his thoughts, Ron snapped his eyes to hers. “Come with me,” he directed as he began to trot down an adjacent corridor.

“Where are we going?” He answered by taking her hand in his and pulling her down the corridor toward a spiral staircase. As he began to climb the stairs, he felt her hand tense in his. “You can’t be serious,” she exclaimed.

“Why not?”

“Ron!” Merc hissed. “We’re hardly a pair of giggling Third Years!”

“I know that.” He couldn’t help but laugh at the tremble in her voice.

“This leads to the Astronomy Tower!”

“I know that.”

Merc flustered at his indifference. Ron continued forward as Merc stumbled over her own voice to find an appropriate protest. For as much as he enjoyed seeing her disconcerted, he gave into his conscience and let her off the hook. He stopped on the stairs and turned to her, grasping her hand more firmly in his. “Listen, don’t get all tetchy about it. I thought you might be interested in a little sightseeing tonight.”

“Why tonight?” Her eyes darted up the darkened stairs.

Ron feigned surprise. “Surely, you haven’t forgotten your astronomy.”

“Astronomy?” she repeated in astonishment.

“There is a planet in the southern sky I thought might interest you.”

The tension escaped her shoulders as she let out a relieved sigh. “Ron, we’ve both seen Mercury before.”

He smiled. “That’s true, but I doubt I’ll ever look at it the same again.”

He wanted to punch his fists in the air and shout through the halls that he was the man! He doubted the Gilderoy Lockhart of old could’ve delivered such a romantic line…and he’d managed to do so without stumbling over the words or tripping down the stairs. The vivid blush in her cheeks was all the answer he required. He turned back to the rising staircase in front of him and did not feel the slightest hesitation from the hand still clutched in his. Feeling emboldened by his verbal prowess, he broached the only taboo subject between them.

“You know I wouldn’t be so interested in the planet if I knew your real name.” He turned to look at her as he reached the door to the observation deck. She had what he could only describe as a wry grin on her face and raised one eyebrow in his direction. She stepped toward him and brushed invisible lint from the front of his robes.

“Well, perhaps if you ask me nicely,” she whispered. Ron could feel his face light up at the prospect. She hadn’t said no; she hadn’t evaded the question. Although it was only a name, it was something she’d kept fiercely guarded. It was a piece of herself that she wouldn’t allow anyone to see. Even Hermione didn’t know what it was. Yet when he looked at her he could see it in her eyes. She was going to tell him.

His hand clasped around the door knob and he pushed it open. “I know just the place to do that.” He inclined his head toward the doorway, moonlight streaming onto the staircase, and she walked through it onto the observation deck. He followed after her, pulling the door closed behind him. As he turned back toward her, any grace he’d mustered for the evening must have leapt from the top of the tower. He walked into the back of her, nearly bowling her over onto the flagged stone floor. It wasn’t until after he’d run into her he realized she’d been stopped dead on her feet – undoubtedly staring at another amorous couple. Ron wanted to hex himself for not having the wherewithal to check the Marauder’s Map before coming up here. Somewhere in the back of his mind it became clear that Harry had bequeathed it to Merc to ensure they wouldn’t be caught in the corridors after hours.

He followed her bulging eyes to a telescope about halfway across the deck until they landed on the moonlit white hair of Draco Malfoy. Relieved it wasn’t Filch, he was begrudgingly impressed Malfoy had been able to persuade a girl to snog him at the top of the Astronomy Tower; he must have paid her. He was just about to make a comment to that effect (or a derisive observation about Pansy Parkinson) when Malfoy stepped back from his date.

Ron was unable to recount what happened after that.

Hermione always told him apparition wasn’t possible at Hogwarts but he wasn’t sure he agreed. He didn’t remember his legs carrying him across the tower. He didn’t hear Merc screaming for him to stop. He didn’t remember the first contact his fist made with Malfoy’s jaw, except to note the blood that sprayed his knuckles from it. He didn’t register the pain from the punch Malfoy threw in return. The only thing Ron did remember was rolling around on the stone floor trying to beat the life out of the ferret for even thinking to lay a hand – let alone his lips – on Ginny.

“Get off me Weasel!” Malfoy roared from underneath him as he threw him to the side. The nickname did nothing to assuage Ron’s furor. He leapt up from the floor, absently registering Merc’s feeble attempt to hold him back.

His eyes darted to Ginny, unable to ignore the swell in her lips from her previous engagement. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” he roared. Unlike the evening prior, she had no clever quip to offer in response. As a matter of fact, she looked incapable of stringing together a coherent reply. As it turned out, she didn’t have to.

“None of your bloody business!” Malfoy hissed as he stepped between Ron and Ginny. “Haven’t you said enough to her already?” Ginny’s woeful eyes darted to the back of Malfoy’s head.

In an instant, everything became clear in Ron’s head. He might not have known the exact story but he could piece the details together himself. Oddly enough, for all the horrific tales his mind had conjured to explain Ginny’s behavior, none of them involved the likes of Draco Malfoy. With reflexes that would’ve impressed Harry, Ron’s hands flew to Malfoy’s throat as he forced him backward toward the low wall surrounding the tower.

“Ron, stop it!” Ginny yelled. She leapt on him from behind as he folded Malfoy backward over the wall — the darkened ground peeking out from several hundred feet below. Over the din of both Ginny and Merc’s protests, he locked eyes with a years-long nemesis.

“You listen to me, Ferret,” he began coolly. “Moody might’ve bounced you in the corridor, but I’m about to bounce you off this tower.”

“Ron! Please, stop!” He couldn’t tell who was shouting at him now. All that mattered was impressing upon Malfoy the sincerity of his words.

“Stay the hell away from my sister,” he ordered. “Is that clear?” The blood was rapidly draining from Malfoy’s face but he made the effort to nod in Ron’s direction. Ron stepped back from the wall and shoved him to the ground. Ginny ran from behind him and fell to the deck next to Malfoy who was now gasping for breath and coughing.

She turned her face toward him with a murderous glare. He could tell she was readying herself for another row and he was not going to stand for it. There were things he could deal with and things he couldn’t. Hearing any version of ”Draco Malfoy” and ”boyfriend” in the same sentence did not fall into the former category. He grabbed her arm and hauled her off the floor before she could protest.

“Ron?” Merc interrupted as he dragged Ginny along behind him. Her voice snapped him back to his own reality, if only for a moment. He looked down at the map, still clutched in her hand, and back to her face.

“I’m sorry, Merc,” he said as gently as he could for the blood pounding in his ears. He inclined his head to the map. “I’m sure they showed you how to use that. I’d rather I get caught by Filch than you. Use it to make sure you get back all right.”

Merc was nodding but doing a poor job of masking her disappointment. Aside from the rage he’d felt a moment ago, the guilt of leaving her like this was the only other emotion that registered. Ginny struggled against his grip and he was reminded of his task. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He tried to give her a genuine smile, but he was sure it did not convey for the anger pulsing through his body. He tugged Ginny toward the door and proceeded to nearly drag her back to Gryffindor Tower…listening to her heartbroken sniffling as he went.

21. The Ferret and the Foederis

Author's Note: Hello to all the PK'ers out there! If you follow my LJ, or the response to the reviews here at PK, you probably know that I got a bit stressed out by the pressure to post faster after I posted up chapter 20. I won't go into a long story, but I'm an exceptionally busy person and can't believe I've found the time to write anything…let alone 530 pages of fanfic in a year (that's just this story).

In any case, I made the decision then, that I would not post again until the story was done. So here's the good news….I'm posting chapter 21 that means that ToR is complete. The bad news is that Chapters 21-24 and the Epilogue are well over 150 pages - might be more like 200. So I'm not going to slam you with it at one time. I plan to post Chapter 22 tomorrow, 23 the day after and so forth until it's complete here on PK.

Therefore, until tomorrow….

Chapter 21 - The Ferret and Foederis

Hermione looked up at the sound of the portrait hole being kicked open. Her heart dropped as she saw the expression tattooed across Ron's face. She feared something had transpired between Ron and Merc, but her concern shifted when she saw that Ron was dragging a distraught Ginny behind him. Ron all but threw Ginny onto the Common Room sofa and spun on his heel to face Hermione.

“Where's Harry?” he demanded.

“Er … he's checking the dungeons.” She gestured toward the abandoned book on the table behind her. “I came back to finish…”

“Well, I can tell you one dungeon-dweller who's out after hours!” he snapped. Hermione's brows furrowed as Ron turned a cold glare toward Ginny. Burying her face in her hands, Ginny dissolved into tears.

A weight settled into the pit of Hermione's stomach. She'd seen Ron angry - usually with her - but she'd never seen him incensed. There was no other description for what she felt pouring from him...and only one `dungeon dweller' to blame.

She turned to her girlfriend, hoping her instincts were wrong. Ginny's eyes peeked above her trembling fingers and fell upon Hermione's. “Oh, my God,” Hermione whispered.

Ron roared above his sister's sobbing. “Malfoy! Bloody Malfoy!” He threw his hands in the air and paced behind the sofa before rounding on Ginny. “And you had the cheek to say I had no loyalty! Do I need to remind you what he's said about our family?” he stabbed a finger in Hermione's direction, “or how wretched he's been to Hermione?” Ron's mouth bobbed open and closed. His fury seemed to short-circuit his thought process and he returned to storming about the Common Room. Hermione had been on the receiving end of Ron's rage and it was nothing she'd cared to share with anyone. Ginny's morose expression tugged at Hermione's heart. Malfoy or not, Ginny was suffering. The bonds of their friendship compelled Hermione to step in.

“Ginny,” she began, trying to eradicate the disdain from her voice, “let's go upstairs.”

“What?!” Ron barked.

Hermione felt her patience wane. She was no more enthused about Ginny and Malfoy than he was, but Ron was not going to take his frustration out on her. “Ron, please!” she snapped. He opened his mouth to protest but Hermione silenced him with a wave of her hand and a scathing glare.

“Ginny,” she redirected. “Now.” Her tone did not allow for refusals. Ginny dragged herself from the sofa and trod to the girls' dormitory staircase with Hermione at her heels. They climbed the stairs together and as Ginny pushed the door to her room open, Hermione heard Ron's frustration explode in a feral scream.

She couldn't blame him.

***

Ginny sat on the edge of her bed casting a wary eye toward her friend. Hermione hadn't spoken since issuing the directive to come upstairs. Currently, she was pacing in front of the window, the chestnut hair on her neck standing at attention. Ginny knew what was coming. She had been dreading it for months. As Hermione turned to face her, it was all too clear Ginny's time had run out.

“I don't know what to say,” Hermione lamented. Ginny found sudden interest in her bed coverings. She ran her finger along the crimson threading of her pillowcase and accepted the consequences of the predicament she'd manufactured for herself.

“I knew he wouldn't understand,” she said, thinking of her brother steaming in the Common Room below.

“How can you expect us to?” Hermione countered. Ginny felt the tears stinging her eyes. Months of stress from guarding this secret usurped her optimism and drained her spirit, leaving her unable to muster the energy to maintain the fight any longer.

Ginny's eyes found Hermione's. Hermione's body was rigid and her anger apparent, but her eyes reflected the compassion of the friend Ginny had known for so long. Somewhere in her heart she knew that if she could only convince Hermione, Harry and Ron would acquiesce. “You have to believe me, Hermione,” she began. “He's different now.” Although she didn't reply, Hermione's eyes narrowed. Ginny tried to rub the burgeoning headache from her temples. In her dreams she'd maintained the futile hope that this would be easy.

Hermione sat on the bed opposite her. “Ginny,” her voice softened. “Explain it to me.”

Ginny drew a breath and prepared to divulge the story that had produced both pleasure and pain over the past several months.

***

Ginny stepped out of the fire and brushed the haze of soot from her robes. Smiling, she glanced around at the bustling activity of the cobblestone street. She threw the leather pouch which her mother had packed for her over her shoulder. Like everything else the Weasleys owned, it was old, but had been well-maintained with meticulous care. She drew a breath for courage and turned to walk down the street.

She weaved among the crowd, with a hand on the pouch if only to ensure it was still on her shoulder. It carried her credentials, her essay, and her hopes that this interview would lead to an exciting summer. She'd heard about the Witch Weekly internship several months prior to the end of school. Although there were rumors that some Ravenclaw was riding the coattails of nepotism, it didn't dissuade Ginny from plunging headlong into her own interview.

The day couldn't have been more promising. Even by British standards, it was a balmy summer day. An eastern breeze nipped at her summer robes while the sun kissed the highlights of her ginger hair. The weather reflected her elation. She wasn't just interviewing for an interesting job — she was interviewing for an interesting job alone.

At that moment, there was nothing better in the world than being sixteen and given free reign to act like a bona fide adult. To her mother's obvious displeasure, her father allowed her to travel to her interview in Diagon Alley alone. He reasoned that the meeting wouldn't be long, she could floo there safely, and she had Fred and George at her disposal should any issues arise. Upon receiving his permission, Ginny tackled her father in excitement as her mother stewed in the chair adjacent to her. But Ginny knew how to play her.

As soon as she'd released her father, she leapt on her mother with the same wild abandon. She interrupted her mother's admonitions with grateful sentiments and a proclamation of her love. That was all it took. Really, that was all it ever took. When Molly's shoulders dropped and her arms hugged Ginny with equal fervor, she knew she'd won the battle. Over the next few days, her mother helped her choose the most appropriate attire and unearthed an old leather pouch to make her look more “professional.” This morning, Molly had wished her well and watched Ginny floo away.

She wasn't entirely truthful, which is to say she was equally as truthful as every other sixteen year old girl in her position. She exaggerated the length of her appointment in order to grant herself a few hours of additional leisure. After the interview ended, she was sorry she'd done so.

The interview was the shortest on record. She appeared before the Witch Weekly columnist in a tea room behind Quality Quidditch Supplies. Ginny was eager and bursting with enthusiasm. It ebbed quickly. The woman only cast a cursory glance at her writing sample. She asked a few inane questions, but nothing measurable to what Ginny had prepared for. After the woman's third yawn and the second look to the clock above Ginny's head, she understood that this interview was a technicality. She mocked herself for not having seen it earlier. She'd heard the Ravenclaw interviewed at Witch Weekly's secretive headquarters, whereas she was asked for a casual chat in a Diagon Alley tea room. Whether the proclamation was official or not, the intern had been chosen long before Ginny stepped into the office.

She left the tea room as cold and dejected as Hagrid at a Sadie Hawkins dance. Her elation gone, she wandered along the cobblestone street, giving little thought to her destination. Her thoughts drifted between self-deprecation and her mother's shepherd's pie. A low rumble in her stomach reminded her that she hadn't eaten since the nervous breakfast she'd nipped at hours earlier. As the thought crossed her mind, she'd caught wind of the tempting smell of roast lamb wafting through the air. Following the dictates of her stomach, she pushed open the door to a dim pub she'd never noticed in all her treks to Diagon Alley.

Her mother gave her a bit of money before she'd left to buy something nice for herself as reward. At this point, a warm meal was as good as any. The place was sparse. A couple in dark robes sat at one end of the room while a few individual customers tended to their meals in silence. She made her way to a vacant table and sat down. As she opened a tattered menu, a young witch made her way to the table with a small pad and quill.

“What can I get for you, love?”

Ginny perused the menu. “What is that smell?”

The witch gave a faint smile. “That's the house specialty.”

“I'll have that.” The witch jotted a few notes on the pad and swept toward the bar. Ginny watched her walk away. As she rounded the corner of the bar, she passed a young man and gave his shoulder a supportive tap. He didn't seem to notice. His head was buried in his crossed arms that were propped on the table. Before returning to Ginny with a glass of water, she stopped at the table and refilled his.

“What's the matter with him?” Ginny inquired. The witch cast a glance over her shoulder and sighed.

“Poor bloke. He's been coming around here for several days. He hasn't got a lot of money - well, none really. The water is free.” She looked around nervously. “And I'll give him a spot of food when the boss isn't looking. He might be having a rough go of it, but he's not hard on the eyes.” She winked at Ginny and sauntered to the next table. Ginny couldn't help but smile at the girl's candor. His head lifted from the table; she glanced toward him, sipping her water…and promptly choked on it.

It was Draco Malfoy.

She coughed the water out of her throat and tried to regain the breath that shock had stolen from her. “Good heavens, dearie!” The witch had returned with her meal. “Are you all right?”

Ginny, snapping her eyes away from Malfoy, nodded her head and took another sip of her water. It was no good. Her coughing had drawn his attention along with the other occupants of the pub. When she chanced a glance across the room, he was glaring at her. Before any manner of time had passed, he crossed the room and stood over her at the table.

“What are you doing here, Weasley?”

Ginny looked at him. “Well, good afternoon to you as well.”

He straightened his back and stiffened. “Come here to have a go at me?” Ginny cut her eyes back to the steaming roast lamb on her plate and dropped her serviette to her lap.

“I came here to have a bit of this lamb…or isn't that obvious?” She busied herself by cutting the meat into slices and arranging her potato as she liked it. To her surprise, Malfoy dropped into the chair opposite her.

“I didn't think any of the righteous Weasleys dared to show their face in Knockturn Alley.” Ginny's eyes snapped up. Malfoy laughed in response. “Don't even know where you are, do you?”

Ginny looked around the room again. There were no outward signs that this place could be a bastion for dark wizards. There were no shrunken heads or body parts hammered to the wall. There were no portraits of You-Know-Who or dark marks floating about. As she scrutinized the décor, she came to realize she didn't have the first clue how to discern a “bad” establishment from a “good” one. Even the food smelled wonderful. It couldn't be a dodgy place…could it?

She looked back to her tablemate and noticed the smirk sliding from his face. His eyes cut away from her plate. He looked around the room as if it was his intention. That was when she saw the look. That look was her undoing. It led to so many decisions that threatened everything she'd known to be true. But she couldn't help herself.

“What look?” Hermione asked.

Ginny turned away from the window she'd been fixated on while recanting the story. She hoped Hermione would understand what she was about to tell her. If she didn't understand, then trying to convince anyone else would be an exercise in futility. “The same look Harry had the first time I saw him on platform nine and three quarters.”

“Harry?”

“It was before I'd ever met you, even before Ron met you. I'd come to King's Cross to see him off for his first year at Hogwarts and saw Harry on the platform.” She appraised the look on Hermione's face and continued onward. Hermione's brows were furrowed, but she was hanging on Ginny's every word. “He looked so lost.” She realized her voice had trailed away leaving a silence hanging between them. She looked back to Hermione and continued. “That's how Draco looked. Lost. I offered him some of my dinner and he finally found a way to save his dignity and indulge.” Ginny played with the coverlet on the bed. “He hadn't eaten in days.”

“Why not?” Hermione inquired.

Ginny couldn't believe she'd asked the question. “Why not?” she scoffed. “Surely, you haven't forgotten what he did last year in the Hogs Head?”

“No.”

“That's not exactly something you can easily recover from. He couldn't very well return to Malfoy Manor after having stood up to his father that way,” Ginny argued.

“I suppose not,” Hermione begrudged.

“He'd left Hogwarts with the gold he had remaining from the term. His father froze his access to the family vault at Gringotts.” Ginny chuckled sadly. “He had no idea how to manage his money. He'd spent everything he had in a few short weeks.”

“So where was he staying?” Hermione quipped.

Ginny looked at her with a scathing expression. She'd hoped Hermione would be more understanding than her brother. “There is a small boarding house above a shop in Knockturn Alley. As you can imagine, Lucius Malfoy was not about to tell the world of his son's betrayal, and Draco didn't want anyone to know either. Not being the wiser, I think the witch operating that boarding house thought it would benefit her to let him stay there free of charge.”

Hermione's head fell into her hands. Without looking up she muttered, “Make me understand the rest.”

Ginny understood what she was asking without requiring explanation.

“Ginny! How was the interview?” Mrs. Weasley tossed a dishrag on the table and scurried over to her daughter as she emerged from the fire.

“Good!” Ginny chirped. She didn't have the heart to tell her mother the real story. Besides, she wasn't sure her brain could manage it without an aside to Draco Malfoy. For as much as she tried, she couldn't get him - or his look - out of her mind. He was destitute and it was only a few weeks into the summer holiday.

“Well, supper is almost ready. Go upstairs and change out of these nice clothes,” Molly said, giving her a hug. Ginny was glad for the excuse. She wanted to be alone, now, more than anything. She took the stairs two at a time and closed the door to her bedroom. She flopped over on the bed and threw her arm over her forehead. She was so confused.

She lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling above her head. She ran through the scene in the pub time and time again, replaying the conversation, scrutinizing the expression on Malfoy's face. She could still hear the sad timbre of his voice as he grudgingly shared some of the highlights.

Her mind and her heart were battling each other. Her heart couldn't help but believe he'd changed. He'd stood up to his father in the Hog's Head. He'd refrained from any scathing comments toward anyone after that. She didn't even recall seeing him on the train back to Hogwarts. And that look - always the look. He just appeared to be different. After his initial greeting, he had carried on a conversation with her as any acquaintance would. He didn't deride her family; he didn't mention her friends. In all, it had been a rather pleasant afternoon.

But always, she had to contend with her mind, her memory, her logic. For as much as she tried to block it out, it would not be silenced.

“He's Draco Malfoy. He's the poster-boy for pureblood wizards. His father is a Death Eater. He's made the last six years of his life interesting by degrading your family and your friends. He hasn't got a heart. He was playing your sympathies for your roast lamb.”

But in the end, she didn't believe that. She couldn't. She was there. She heard the intonation of his voice. She saw the look in his eyes. He was lost. He was alone. He'd opened a grand schism in the Malfoy family and was considered dead by his own father. He'd chosen to stand among her friends, rather than against them. That choice left him with nothing. The very thought spawned a wellspring of tears in her eyes.

The floor above her rattled, no doubt from Ron's footfalls in his bedroom. She watched the dust shake from the ceiling as he walked across the room. She squeezed her eyes shut and sat up, burying her head in her hands. She couldn't believe what she was considering.

“You can't do this!” her logic screamed.

“He's starving!” so replied her heart.

“It's not your concern!”

“But there's no one who will help him. He's alone!”

“What makes you think he'll accept your help?”

“I don't know. I just feel it in my bones. He talked to me today…really TALKED to me, for the first time since I've known him. I'm not in Slytherin. I'm not one of his “friends.” He has nothing to lose by accepting my help.”

“Except that you're a Weasley and he hates you.”

“Then he's going to have to get over it. I am not going to let him starve, not if I can save him.”

“And they say Harry has the savior complex.”

“I'm not Harry.”

Hermione grumbled aloud drawing Ginny's thoughts away from the story at hand. “You honestly thought you could reach Malfoy?” she said. Her patience appeared to be at the breaking point. As it was, Ginny was impressed Hermione had maintained her composure as long as she had.

“I did reach him, Hermione.” Hermione loosed a sardonic look to which Ginny did not respond.

Hermione bit back the scathing response in her head and continued. “All right, so you obviously hatched the internship plan in order to get back to Knockturn Alley.” Ginny nodded her head. “How did you manage it?”

“I thought about it all evening.” She hesitated to look at Hermione. “I guess I'd thought about it for weeks.” Hermione's eyebrows knitted together. “Ever since he showed up in Hogsmeade I hadn't stopped wondering what made him do it. I tried to talk to him in the hospital wing.” Ginny let out a sharp sigh. “He wouldn't talk to me. He wouldn't even insult me. He didn't see any of us on the train home so I set off to find him.” She caught Hermione's eye. “He stayed in the baggage car. I saw Crabbe and Goyle skulking around for him.” Ginny hesitated. “I sent them in the wrong direction.” Hermione rubbed the growing headache from her temples. “Anyway,” Ginny cleared her throat, “by morning, I'd sussed it all out.”

“Ginny!” Ron's voice barked up the stairs. “Mum didn't make enough porridge for the royal family! If you want some you'd better get down here!”

“I'm coming,” she replied without looking up from her task. She was seated at her writing desk, where she'd been for the last forty minutes. After several drafts, she'd finally crafted the perfect acceptance letter from Witch Weekly and charmed the quill to disguise her handwriting. With a few inflammare spells to dispense with the evidence, she sealed the envelope and rose from the desk.

“You're stark raving mad. You'll never get away with this!” her logic warned.

“Sod off.”

She used the front of her jeans to brush the sweat from her hands and gave a fleeting look into the mirror. Before she could talk herself out of it, she opened the door and descended the stairs.

She burst into the kitchen waving the letter in her hand. As expected, everyone in the room turned to investigate the ruckus. As their eyes fell upon her, she understood this performance had to be the best in her melodramatic history if she held any hope of bringing her plan to fruition.

“Ginny?” her mother startled. “What in the world?” She flustered.

“Act I; scene I. I hope you're up for it,” her reason chided.

“Look!” she screeched, shoving the letter into her mother's hand. “An owl just arrived with this!”

“Owl?” Ron questioned as he looked toward the kitchen window. “Owl post is delivered down here,” he muttered. Ginny froze. Barely a sentence into her deceit, and she'd already fumbled. Her mind raced along a litany of ridiculous excuses until she landed upon one that sounded viable.

“Errol delivers the post down here. This owl was looking for me and tapped on my window.” Ron shrugged and grabbed a handful of bacon from the platter just as Molly let out a shriek.

“You got the internship!” she screamed.

“That was a quick decision,” her father mused.

“Of course it was!” Molly argued. “Who wouldn't leap at the chance to have Ginny on their staff?” Ginny was relieved that her mother had chimed in on her side. It made the whole scene easier. She'd accepted it without reservation and expected everyone else to do the same. It appeared they had done so without question.

She'd worded the acceptance to allow her little time to dally at the Burrow. After breakfast, the family began a flurry of activity to prepare her for her trip to Diagon Alley. The letter indicated the time her contact would be waiting for her. The rest was up to Ginny.

“Act I; Scene II. You're still mental,” the angel on her shoulder argued.

“Shut it.”

“Please, mum. This is my first real job. I don't want to go there looking like a child. I don't want to meet these people with my mummy and daddy helping me along.”

“But, Ginny! You're going to live there for the summer. We need to make sure you get appropriate lodging and I'd like to get you some stores for your kitchen.” Molly looked offended that Ginny would think to go this alone.

“They've already got accommodations for me,” she said, pointing at the manufactured lie from the morning's post.

“I think your mother is right, Ginny. I would like to meet these people for myself,” her father added. Ginny was beginning to panic. If she couldn't convince them to allow her to go on her own, her entire plan would not only be short-circuited, but she'd have to answer quite a few questions she would rather avoid. Growing irritated with her inability to work her own plan, she stomped her foot on the floor.

“Mum, Dad, I'm begging you! I will be perfectly fine! I went to the interview by myself. I want to do this by myself. For me! If I have any problems, I'm not terribly far from Fred and George. I promise I'll floo there straight away!” She'd said the magic words. Her mother and father exchanged a glance that seemed to convey they'd forgotten about the twins' presence in Diagon Alley. The lack of an immediate refusal engendered hope in Ginny. She could drop by the joke shop and ensure her mother received a glowing report.

“Well,” Molly waffled.

“Please,” Ginny interrupted, grabbing the hem of her sleeve. Her parents exchanged one more look and her father nodded. Ginny jumped into Arthur's arms and repeated her thanks until they were sick of hearing it. Two hours later, she said her final goodbyes at the fireplace and set off for Diagon Alley.

She pulled her trunk through the streets while keeping a wary eye open. She felt like a counterintelligence operative. She continued to check her surroundings as she clattered along the pavement. Until she made it to Knockturn Alley, there were a variety of people in Diagon Alley (not the least of which were Fred and George) who might recognize her. For that reason, she pulled a hat from her trunk to cover her signature Weasley hair and slipped a pair of dark glasses on. It didn't take long to find the shop Draco talked about. She walked in, trying to appear as sinister as possible, and approached the witch behind the counter.

“Yes?”

“I'm here to call on Draco Malfoy.”

She raised an eyebrow. “He hasn't had any callers. Does he know you're coming?”

“No. It's a bit of a surprise.”

She looked at the trunk behind Ginny. “I should say so. Will you be staying with him then?”

Ginny felt the witch appraising her. This was yet another act in the play. If she could get past her, the rest would take care of itself. Feeling the witch study her carefully, Ginny replied, “I don't think that's your concern. Uncle Lucius said he was here. Should I tell him that Draco has disappeared?”

“Uncle…” the witch suddenly grappled for some papers. “I didn't realize…oh…in that case,” she stammered. “I'll take you right up.”

Ginny's heart was pounding in her throat as they climbed the stairs. Malfoy had no idea she was coming. He was likely to say something scathing…or just plain stupid…and wreck the whole thing. She cursed herself for not having the forethought to have owled ahead. Whether he would've been accepting or not, he might've been prepared. She had a feeling she would have to act fast upon seeing him and tried to prepare her response as they approached a door at the end of the hall.

The witch knocked on the door and Ginny heard rustling inside. Within seconds, Draco appeared in the doorway. His eyes drifted from the witch to Ginny and grew wide with disbelief. It was now or never.

“There you are! Uncle Lucius,” she emphasized, “told me to keep you company.”

The mention of his father's name was enough to derail his original thought. It also gave her a bit more time to work the situation. She looked between Malfoy and the witch, who was appearing to grow concerned, and continued. “Well, don't just stand there,” she barked to the witch. “Bring my trunk inside.”

A dumbstruck Malfoy stepped aside as the witch bustled through with her trunk. Ginny followed after and gave her two sickles for her trouble. She'd brought every piece of gold she had and hoped to budget it would be enough to help her secure a paying job for the summer. The witch left the room and pulled the door closed behind her.

Malfoy once claimed Ron was born in a bin; this may've been the room he was referring to. It was depressing to say the least. There was one window at the far end, hazed with years of dust and smudged fingerprints. The upswept wooden floor showed dents, gashes, and burns from ages of misuse. There was one bed shoved in the corner with grayed sheets piled on top of it. A dilapidated chest of drawers held the only lamp that brightened the room and a broken wingback chair with worn arms sat under the window.

“What the hell do you think you're doing, Weasley?” Malfoy's voice drew her attention. She looked back to him as he pulled the hat off her head allowing her fire red hair to cascade around her shoulders. Running nervous fingers through it, she straightened to her full height.

“Saving your arse, that's what,” Ginny responded.

Malfoy's eyes narrowed. “I don't need help from you!”

“Well, you're not going to get it from anyone else, so you might as well get used to the idea. Besides,” she pulled what gold she had from her robes. “This will last until I can find a job.” Malfoy's eyes fell upon the clattering bag of coins, which in any denomination appeared more than what he possessed. If he'd had additional objections they were overruled by the growling of his stomach. Knowing half her battle was won, Ginny smiled. “Let's get some nosh.”

Hermione appeared unable to contain herself. “Please tell me you didn't stay with him?” Ginny leveled her eyes at her and pursed her lips.

“Not that it's any of your business, but no. I went out the next day and found an old witch who ran a laundry that needed help. I lived in the flat next to her shop,” Ginny snarled.

“Laundry?” Hermione thought aloud. “That's not possible. Fred and George take it as a personal offense to wash a stitch of their own clothing anymore. They would've seen you working there,” she argued.

“The laundry wasn't located in Diagon Alley,” Ginny mumbled. She didn't have the courage to tell Hermione she'd laundered more black robes than she cared to count, but Hermione obviously arrived at that conclusion on her own. She buried her head in her hands and growled as her fingers pulled at her own bushy hair.

Hermione's chest heaved with deep calming breaths. The next time she spoke her voice was strained, but considerably quieter than it had been. “So what happens next? He has some instant catharsis and is suddenly a good guy?” Hermione quipped. It was Ginny's patience that was beginning to wane now. She'd fallen apart in the Astronomy Tower and hadn't managed to collect herself until now. But Hermione's perpetual resistance was beginning to irk her.

“I thought you wanted to understand? If you're not going to give me a fair chance to tell the story, I doubt I'll make you understand a thing,” Ginny replied. Hermione's shoulders dropped and she looked away.

“I'm sorry, Ginny. This is just very sudden. I don't like being wrong.”

“Wrong about what?”

Hermione sighed. “I could feel you holding something back. Every time I was near you, the deceit poured from your emotions.”

“You think I'm the one who leaked the information,” Ginny interrupted, unable to hide the hurt in her tone. “I didn't.” Her voice grew cold.

“How much did you tell Malfoy?”

Ginny leapt from the bed and began pacing around the room. “Get out, Hermione!”

“What?”

“This is pointless! You just want to hear the story. You don't want to be convinced. You don't want to understand! You won't let go of your indoctrinated hatred for two seconds to see that people can change! Draco has changed. He's different! He's trying to make that point to the three of you, but you'll hardly hear of it!” Ginny peered out the window, the blood boiling in her veins. “I asked him to make an overture on the train and he did. You three rebuked him. I asked him to extend a kind word after your parents died and he did; not that it mattered to you!” She crossed her arms and turned to survey her friend.

Hermione was sitting on the bed, mouth agape, and looking at Ginny with wide eyes until she found her voice. “Well, you'll have to excuse me if I'm having a difficult time with your lies! I never dreamed my “friend” would join forces with the poster boy for pureblood wizardry!” Hermione shouted.

Ginny's anger was overtaking her and she felt the tears spring to her eyes. She wasn't going to be able to convince Hermione. She could feel it. That meant the next few months with her brother (or the rest of Gryffindor) were bound to be sheer hell. But it was a hell she was willing to accept; she'd come to love Draco and she wasn't going to be bullied into leaving him.

“Ginny,” Hermione whispered with forced calm.

“No! I don't want to hear it, Hermione! I don't want to hear your negativity, or your bloody logic! You weren't there!” Ginny closed her eyes, letting a smile come to her face. “He has the most contagious laugh and a sense of humor that always cheers me up. He's nothing like what he wants everyone to think he is. He doesn't even like Crabbe and Goyle. They're too dim for him to carry on a conversation with.” Her eyes snapped open and she looked at Hermione. “He's so smart, Hermione. The conversations we've had would amaze you. He's got such a great heart and he's learning to share that.” Her eyes started to water. “We didn't fall in love immediately.” Hermione grimaced. “It took a rather long time. But I couldn't stop thinking about him. Every time I did think about him, I couldn't stop smiling. My palms would get sweaty; my heart would skip a beat. Then he would smile at me across the Great Hall and I promise I couldn't breathe.” She looked up to see Hermione's head propped in her right hand. She chanced the opportunity to grab her left. “We couldn't let anyone know about us at Hogwarts. So we'd meet in secret, or he'd send me owl post or transfigure a flower where I sat in the library.” The tears were rolling now. “He loves me, Hermione. I can't explain how it happened. I can't explain why it happened. But it has. I know it doesn't make any sense, but I can't turn my heart off. Every minute I'm not with him I hurt. I know you understand what that feels like.”

Hermione looked up. Ginny was encouraged to see that the tears were rolling down her cheeks as well. “Yes, I do.”

“I know you do,” Ginny said with a smile. “We can't stop being in love any more than you and Harry can.” They were both crying now. “I know this will take some adjustment…for everyone…but you're one of the best friends I have. It won't be real to me if I don't have your support.” Hermione winced as the tears continued to pour from her eyes. “Please, Hermione,” Ginny implored. “For me?”

Hermione wiped her eyes on her sleeve and looked back to Ginny. Without speaking, she nodded her head. Ginny gasped and threw her arms around her. “Thank you so much,” she muttered through the tears.

“Don't get to thanking me so quickly. I don't know how successful I will be.” She pulled back from Ginny and grasped her shoulders. “And you're kidding yourself if you think Ron or Harry will ever accept this.”

“If you support me, they'll come around.”

“Don't bet the ranch.”

***

Hermione took the time to freshen up before returning to the Common Room. She knew Harry would've returned by now and Ron would surely have exploded all over again in telling the tale. That meant Hermione would be forced retell the one she'd just heard. Honestly, she wasn't sure she could do the story justice. She knew she couldn't be as convincing as Ginny. She also wasn't sure she wanted to convince anyone.

Ginny was a dear friend. If she couldn't see it in her eyes, she could feel it from her emotions. She was completely smitten with Draco Malfoy, and from all accounts, he felt the same way about Ginny. She couldn't really blame him. She always envied Ginny a bit. She had beautiful hair, a petite frame, and always appeared perfectly well-appointed. As far as Hermione was concerned, she was the essence of femininity. She'd never had issues attracting boyfriends, and for as much as Hermione loathed Malfoy, she couldn't deny his handsome features. She imagined they'd make quite a stunning couple.

But he was still Malfoy. He was still the prince of Slytherin. He'd insulted her parents, her heritage, and everything she held true. She'd never heard the term “mudblood” spoken by anyone other than him and it was commonplace in his vocabulary. Ginny was wrong. Hermione did think people could change. She just didn't believe Malfoy was one of them.

Postponing the inevitable as long as she could, she finally descended the spiral staircase into the Common Room. Harry and Ron were seated by the fire with murderous glares etched across their faces. Ron was seething to the point he didn't notice Hermione approach. Harry looked up as she dropped off the last step and his eyes softened. Warmed that she could crack his mask of disdain, she walked around behind him and dropped her arms around his shoulders. He curled his hands around her arms and kissed her sleeve gently. By this time, Ron roused himself from his musings and looked up. No one spoke. They simply stared at each other in reflected disbelief.

“So?” Ron finally broke the silence.

Hermione slipped around to the front of the sofa and sat down, leaning into Harry as he dropped one arm around her. This was her favorite way to sit on the sofa, and a position she and Harry often adopted. If she was going to recount this story, she might as well be comfortable.

“So,” Hermione sighed. Ron sat up in the chair and propped his elbows on his knees.

“What did she say?” he demanded. Hermione gave a fleeting glance to Harry. He anxiously awaited the answer as well.

“I don't know where to start,” she replied. She was being truthful. She didn't know where to start. Should she tell them the story chronologically, or jump right to the punch line? Still, how do you tell a girl's brother and his best friend that she's in love with their arch-nemesis…for that matter how do you tell either of them that you promised to support her? In the end, she decided that the chronological approach was best - if only because it put off the time she had to tell them she'd pledged Ginny her support.

“You what?” Harry barked. He'd said so little during the recitation of the tale that his tone startled her into a sitting position. She looked at him, pressed backward against the cushions with an expression of utter disbelief. Ron, who had already been pacing in front of the fire, stomped along his path with increased fury.

“I told her I would support her,” she reiterated.

“I think we heard that, Hermione,” Ron interrupted. “The question is ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?”

“Because it's not about Malfoy; it's about your sister!” she rebuked. Ron was always a bit slow to pick up on the finer points of people's emotions. She'd hoped his relationship with Merc had encouraged his sensitivity, but it didn't seem to help in this situation. What made it worse was that Harry, usually far more in tune to such issues, was echoing Ron's argument. She looked between them and slumped along the vacant side of the sofa. “Listen to me, both of you,” she began. “I don't like this any more than you do. But it's not our choice. Nothing we do or say will make her change her mind. You have to believe me on that. She is in love with him.”

“WHAT?!” Ron exploded.

“Ron!” she chastised.

“It's bloody Malfoy!” he yelled.

“And he's her choice!” Hermione barked in response. She heard her words echo in the Common Room and felt ashamed for having lost her temper. Her voice softened as she looked overhead, hoping they hadn't woken every Gryffindor sleeping above them. “I didn't shield myself from her when we spoke,” she began. “I can honestly say that she believes he's changed.” She met Harry's eyes and grasped his hand in hers. “She loves him as I love you.” He closed his eyes and let his head drop backwards on the sofa. “She also trusts him.”

“Trusts him?!” Ron fumed as he flopped back into the chair.

“So the only question is whether or not we trust her,” she continued before Ron could continue his rant. “As for me, she's my friend. I have to give her the benefit of the doubt.” She looked back to Harry. “Love isn't always logical.” He picked his head up and looked at her. They squeezed each other's hand and Hermione broke a faint smile which Harry seemed hard-pressed to return.

“Hermione,” he said. “I understand what you're saying, but I don't think you can compare our relationship with theirs.” He sat up on the sofa and took her other hand in his. “I admire you for being able to put aside your feelings and support her,” he continued. “I wish I could be as good a friend.”

“But it will be a cold day in hell before either of us accepts this,” Ron declared. Hermione looked between them. Their expressions were identical.

Hermione closed her eyes in an attempt to shut out the conflict within her. Here sat the two most important people in her life. She understood their anger. She agreed with it. She wanted to rant and rage and scream as Ron had done since happening upon Ginny and Malfoy in the Astronomy Tower. But upstairs lay a girl who'd put her faith and hope in the idea that people could change — that love could conquer all. She looked back to Harry, her eyes connecting with his. Somewhere in her soul, she had to believe that love could conquer all. If it couldn't, what did that mean for them?

***

Harry didn't sleep that night, at least not in the typical sense of the word. He lay awake in his four poster bed, mulling over the array of frightening possibilities that accompanied Draco Malfoy's alleged transformation. In the fleeting moments where his subconscious took over his scrambling mind, he had strange dreams.

He'd eaten gillyweed in the middle of a desert and found himself unable to breathe. Hermione gave his Firebolt to Malfoy as reward for winning the Quidditch Cup. Ron and Ginny chased the snitch around the Common Room, each arguing that it was their prerogative to catch it while Crookshanks kept Harry pinned in the corner…hissing.

Although exhausted, Harry was glad to see the sunlight begin to fall across his blanket. He rolled out of bed and tried to rouse himself with a long shower. It didn't work. If he looked half as bad as he felt, Madam Pomfrey might sequester him in the hospital wing until the weekend. Judging from the haphazard lump in the bed adjacent to his, Ron slept no better.

He dragged himself into the Common Room and found Hermione sitting on the windowsill staring across the lawn. He crossed the room to where she sat. “Good morning,” he said, kissing her cheek. She turned to face him, the dark circles under her eyes broadcasting the fact that she'd not slept either. He propped himself against the wall as she leaned her head into him. “Apparently, none of us slept last night.”

Hermione harrumphed. “Not without dreaming Malfoy burned all the books in the library.” Harry couldn't help but smile. Such a description was probably a vivid nightmare for Hermione.

“At least you only had one of those dreams,” Harry chuckled.

“I don't want to talk about it,” Hermione replied as she slid from the windowsill. She walked across the Common Room just as Ron appeared on the dormitory stairs. “Are you ready for breakfast?” she asked, mechanically supplanting her dim voice.

“As ready as I'm going to be,” Ron replied. As they trod through the portrait hole together, Harry looked at Hermione. Between her flat refusal to nap on the Common Room sofa a few nights ago and her sudden change of tone this morning, he couldn't help but think she was holding something close to the chest.

They settled in for breakfast as both Ron and Harry searched the room for Malfoy. He entered the Great Hall a few minutes after they did. It warmed Harry's heart to see the black circle that had puffed up around his left eye. “Wish I could've seen that,” he mused.

Without requiring explanation, Ron replied, “Wish I'd had another swing.” Both boys grinned as they kept their eyes trained on the Slytherin table.

“Honestly,” Hermione scoffed. She was looking around the Gryffindor table in search of Ginny. She found her a few seats down the bench, stealing obvious glances toward the half-battered Slytherin that had just tucked in to his bacon and toast. Harry found his eyes trained on her as well until Hermione broke the silence. “Are you planning to eat or subsist on pure loathing all day?”

They snapped their eyes to hers. Although Harry thought his tone was a bit rough, he wasn't about to argue with Ron's rebuttal. “How can you be so bloody calm about this?” Hermione shrugged her shoulders. Ron propped his elbows on the table and began ticking off the adjectives Hermione once used to describe Malfoy. “Or was it another Hermione Granger that referred to him as a `foul, loathsome, evil little cockroach?” Harry couldn't help but notice the glint in her eyes as she tried to scowl at Ron.

“Too right,” Harry added.

Hermione put her fork down and looked at them both. She rolled her hands together as she spoke. “Look, I know we're a bit shocked by this,” she began.

“A bit!” Ron scoffed.

Hermione glared at him for the interruption. “For the record, so am I. And I'm no happier about it than you are. But,” she hesitated.

“Oh, there's the `but,'” Ron growled as Hermione slammed her fork on the table.

“Some of us don't have the luxury of siblings, Ron. She's the only sister you have!” Hermione hissed.

Ron pushed his plate away and slung his legs over the bench. He picked up his school bag in one swift motion and slung it over his shoulder. “And if she doesn't come to her senses, she won't be my sister at all.” He stormed from the table leaving Harry and Hermione in stupefied silence.

“Honestly,” Hermione growled, finally breaking the hush. Harry considered his response for a moment, and throwing caution to the wind, he proceeded unabashed.

“You can't blame him,” Harry said. Hermione nearly broke her neck as she snapped her head toward him. He continued before she could interject. “It's Malfoy, Hermione.” He crossed his arms. “I can't believe you're taking his side,” he mumbled.

“I am not taking his side!” Hermione shouted. Her voice echoed in the emptying hall and drew the attention of several students. She dropped her eyes to the table and picked at her breakfast. When the onlookers lost interest and returned to their neglected conversations, she looked back to Harry. “I hate this,” she muttered.

“Hate what?” he questioned.

“This,” Hermione said, flapping her hand between them. Somewhere in this conversation, Harry had moved away from her, breaking the familiar contact their legs enjoyed when seated at the table together. Feeling guilty, he nudged back toward her until the familiar warmth of her leg settled against his. “What am I supposed to do?” She caught his eyes with a distraught expression. “You didn't talk to her, Harry. She loves the jumped up ferret,” she reiterated as she stabbed a forkful of scrambled eggs. Harry felt his stomach churn.

“How do you know that?”

She dropped her hand under the table and squeezed his thigh. “Because I recognize the look in her eyes; its reflected every time I see mine in a mirror.”

Harry didn't respond. He didn't know how to do so. He believed Hermione. If she thought Ginny was in love, he wasn't about to argue. His issue didn't lie in the fact she'd found someone to fill the space in her heart. He found fault with who the object of her affection was. For as much as he enjoyed his friendship with Ginny, and cherished his relationship with Hermione, he couldn't share the sentiment.

It was Draco Malfoy, and he was unacceptable. Harry felt it best to discontinue the conversation. He and Hermione finished their breakfast in silence and left to find Ron pacing outside of Tonks' classroom.

He'd not voiced his opinion to Hermione, but he didn't delude himself either. Her stone-faced silence since breakfast let him know she was not only aware of his opinion, but also opposed to it. They'd already passed double Defense without conversation (a rarity not lost on Tonks) and were half-way through Charms before he'd chanced a cautionary overture. Although she answered his questions, she did so with unembellished responses. It wasn't until Potions that she broke her self-imposed silence.

Ron leaned over the cauldron, pretending to inspect its contents. Harry was equally as disinterested and watched Ron's loathing eyes burn through Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle at the adjacent table.

“Ahem,” Hermione snarled in a tone eerily reminiscent of Dolores Umbridge. They turned to see her glaring eyes and crossed arms berating them for their lack of concentration. “Professor Snape only allowed the students to work in threes because it takes three people to brew this potion!” She rummaged through the ingredients muttering to herself. “I'm sure he only allowed us to work together because he knew you two would be distracted.” She slammed a vile of boiled wasp venom onto the table with such force Harry was surprised it didn't shatter. “He's just waiting to vanish this cauldron right in front of me,” she lamented.

Harry, having understood what that spectacle felt like, found interest in helping Hermione. He'd consider today a victory if he could prevent Snape from throwing that satisfied smirk toward Hermione. Ron, however, did not budge from his current activity.

“Ron,” Harry prompted. Ron turned back to the strained heart of bullwort he was supposed to be slicing and set back to work. Harry looked to the board in an attempt to see what step Hermione had progressed to in their mental absence. Judging from the color of the steam, she'd passed step eight. That was as far as he read before his eyes caught sight of a fluttering butterfly that dropped onto the table in front of Ron.

Even with the reflexes born of Gryffindor's most celebrated seeker, he didn't manage to snatch the note before Ron did. Even Hermione's expression morphed from annoyance to curiosity.

Ron unfolded the note and Harry watched his eyes zip from right to left, the color of his face rising to match his hair. The compulsion was too much to take. “What does it say?” Ron crumbled it in his hand and cut his infuriated eyes back to the table across the aisle.

At a whisper, Ron replied, “you're on,” to the Slytherins on the other side. Harry's heart dropped and Hermione sat bolt upright in her seat. Before either of them could speak, Snape was instructing them to secure their cauldrons on the classroom shelves to simmer overnight. Hermione shuffled off with the cauldron as Ron, who'd not removed his eyes from Malfoy, gathered his things and got up. Harry finished stuffing his bag as Hermione returned and then Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle swept from the room. Fortunately, Hermione didn't hear the last thing Ron muttered as their green-clad nemesis left the room. “You'd better bring your second.”

“Ron?” Harry asked. “What's going on?”

“Please tell me you're not going to do something we'll have to put you in detention for!” Hermione barked as she began tossing parchment into her own bag. Ron snapped his head back toward her and dropped the wrinkled note from his fist. Harry snatched it before Hermione could and, from the look in her eyes, immediately regretted doing so.

We need to talk. Meet me tonight. Nine O' Clock in the Hall of Statues.

D. M.

“That's after hours, Ron,” Hermione quipped.

“I'll go with you,' Harry interjected. He couldn't ignore the glaring eyes any longer. He turned to Hermione and grasped her softly by the shoulders. “I'll keep him out of trouble.”

Hermione barked a laugh and replied. “That's rich. You keep him out of trouble. The next time you talk to the kettle tell him you were Sirius' love child and your last name is really Black!” She stormed out of the room, leaving Harry and Ron to discuss their intentions alone.

“You're going to pay for that, mate,” Ron lamented. Harry gave a furtive glance to the door, which was still vibrating on its hinges, and sighed.

“I know.” He looked back to the crumpled note lying on the table. “What do you make of this,” he questioned as he pointed to Malfoy's invitation.

“What else?” Ron scoffed. “He's a bit tetchy I laid him out. I reckon he's looking for a rematch.”

“Me, too,” Harry replied. He looked at his watch, quickly mapped out the litany of things to attend to before nine o'clock and looked back to Ron. “We'd best get dinner and tackle McGonagall's essay or we'll have more tetchy people to deal with.”

Ron smiled. “Whoever could you be referring to?” he joked. They threw their bags over their shoulders and walked from the deserted classroom together.

***

Hermione had barely enough patience remaining to tolerate herself, let alone Harry and Ron. If she was annoyed with any part of their clandestine rendezvous, it was with the fact she couldn't be a part of it. In a fleeting moment of weakness she'd pledged her loyalty to Ginny and was stuck with the consequences.

Hermione, Harry, and Ron had bickered all day; she'd hardly touched her breakfast or lunch and had no appetite for dinner. To cap the evening, her back was throbbing and she fought to keep her spiraling emotions in check. That could only mean one thing; it was an unfortunate time to meet Malfoy in the corridor.

“Granger…” His cool voice echoed from the stone walls. Her footsteps fell silent and she turned to face him.

“You'll find this hard to believe, but I do have a given name,” she snapped.

He looked down and bobbed back and forth on his heels. Without raising his eyes to hers, he continued. “I spoke with Ginny after lunch.”

“And…” Hermione challenged.

“Well, I just…I wanted…”

“If you're going to offer your gratitude, you can shove it up your ass,” Hermione interrupted. Malfoy's eyes flew from his shoelaces to her threatening eyes. His face darkened as he opened his mouth to reply. Hermione did not give him the chance. “I want to make it perfectly clear. I am not giving my support to you. I'm giving it to Ginny.”

“What's the difference?” he drawled.

“The difference is, she's my friend and you are not. Don't think for one second that the deference I've given her translates to you. You are a closed-minded, self-important, git whom, I have no doubt, will break her heart to further your own cause,” she blasted.

“People can change,” he said with obvious difficulty.

“If I thought you classified as a “person” I might believe you to be one of them.”

Hermione was relishing in the satisfaction. She could feel the conflicted emotions streaming from him. He had a tenuous grip on diplomacy but it was obvious he'd like to tell her off. But, to her delight, he couldn't act on any impulse that would prove her right. So, he was resigned to stand in the corridor and tolerate her “disrespect.”

“And here I thought you were the brains behind the operation,” he seethed.

Hermione lurched toward him. “You listen to me, ferret. I don't know what you've got planned for this evening, but if you so much as touch…”

“You'll what?” he spat, mimicking her threatening advance.

In a moment of unrestrained anger, she unleashed her fist without considering the consequences. Her knuckles connected with the left side of his mouth and sent him reeling into the stone wall behind him. He caught himself as he slipped sideways and managed to avoid collapsing to the ground. He regained his composure and leapt toward her. She snapped the wand from her robes and leveled it to his chest. “Go ahead,” she encouraged. “It might be worth it to see what Harry does to you.”

“Well, that confirms one theory,” he said ignoring her comment. Without waiting for her answer, he continued. “Weasley does hit like a girl.” Hermione's eyes narrowed. “I suppose you're going to tell me something valiant like, `that was for Potter.'”

Hermione smiled. “No.” She lowered her wand and tucked it back into her robes. “I'm sure Harry will get his own. That was for me.” With her words still echoing in the corridor, she turned on her heel and left him dabbing at the lip that was now dribbling blood down the front of his robes.

***

It didn't escape Harry's attention that Hermione was not in the Great Hall or the Common Room when they returned. The mince pie he'd eaten for supper began churning in his stomach as his thoughts wandered back to the experience with Victor Krum the year before. Just as he was working himself into a full panic, Lavender appeared from the girls' dormitory with her Divination textbook and a gleam in her eye.

“I don't know what you did, Harry,” she announced as she flopped in front of the fire. “But Hermione is using language I'm not mature enough to hear. Best be glad you blokes can't get up there - I don't reckon it's safe.”

For as much as he didn't like the implication, he was relieved Hermione was merely avoiding him. He and Ron commandeered a table and set out to finish their homework before the appointed hour. Harry scribbled his essay as he flipped through a stack of textbooks. Ron wrote an occasional word or two, whist incessantly checking his watch between lines. Before Harry knew it, it was eight forty-five. He finished his last line in a flourish and rolled the parchment up. Ron was already packing his things into his schoolbag when Harry recognized the scent of a familiar perfume. He turned around to see Hermione, with poorly masked puffy eyes, standing behind him.

“I don't suppose I can stop you?” Whether she was talking to Ron, Harry, or both was unclear. Harry put his books down and walked to where she stood. He reached out to draw her to him only to see her stiffen in response. He wasn't about to have that. Regardless of her rigid appearance, he wrapped his arms around her and held her close. He was grateful that her body betrayed her stubborn expression. She didn't pull away, as a matter of fact, he was rather sure this was exactly what she wanted.

“Don't worry, Hermione,” Ron said from across the table. “We're ready for him.”

“I don't trust him,” she said without meeting Harry's eyes.

“We'll be fine,” Harry dismissed. “Will you do something for me?” he asked.

“What?” she answered.

“Get some sleep.” He kissed her cheek. “I'll do the rounds tonight. You're exhausted.” Hermione hesitated for a moment before nodding her head and leaning into Harry's chest. He gave her a final squeeze and pulled away to accompany Ron. With a last look to where she stood, they swept from the portrait hall together. Although he set little stock in Divination, the look on Hermione's face and the churning in his stomach made him wonder if this meeting was a good idea after all.

He didn't have much time to think on it. As they left the Common Room, Ron all but ran down the corridor. Harry hastened to catch up with him, falling in step as they climbed the stairs together. Harry looked at Ron; his face was set in stone as he took the stairs two at a time. He thought better of trying to talk to him and spent their remaining steps reviewing defensive curses. As they entered the Hall of Statues, they found the one thing Harry hadn't expected.

Nothing.

Harry had a distinct moment of déjà vu. The heat began to rise under his collar as he remembered their first year when Malfoy staged a duel for the simple purpose of getting Harry in trouble after hours. “Ron,” he began.

“Bloody bastard,” Ron growled. “He's not getting away with it this time.” Ron spun on his heel and bolted from the Hall. Harry, no longer entertaining the thought of a peaceful discussion, ran after him. They careened down the corridor together, Harry struggling to keep up with Ron's stride and wondering all the while where they were headed. It became obvious as they descended farther into the dungeons.

As Head Boy, Harry knew which portrait hole led to the Slytherin common room, but he did not have the password. Ron began to slow, searching the portraits illuminated by the blazing sconces along the stone walls. “Where is it, Harry?” he demanded.

“Around the corner, to you're right,” he replied without hesitation. Ron picked up the pace and they turned the corner together, finding Harry's knowledge of Hogwarts superfluous.

Crabbe and Goyle were ambling down the corridor, stuffing their faces full of pumpkin pasties they'd absconded from the Great Hall. Ron didn't break stride as he snatched Crabbe by the neck of his robes and threw him against the wall. Harry felt Ron was operating on pure adrenaline, but was impressed nonetheless.

“Where is he?” Ron barked.

“Who?” Crabbe croaked through his constricted windpipe.

Harry rolled his eyes and stepped to Ron's side. “Save it, Crabbe. Playing dumb is hardly a stretch for you, but you'd better tell us where Malfoy is right now, or I'll help Ron braid your vocal chords.” Crabbe's face darkened. Ron and Harry exchanged a questioning look and resumed their interrogation.

Goyle, who had stood idle in the corridor, stepped between them and shoved Ron away from Crabbe. Before Ron or Harry could react he spoke. “The git's gone 'Gryffindor,'” Goyle bemoaned.

“What the hell does that mean?” Harry snapped.

“It means,” Crabbe added. “That he's gone off to the Forbidden Forest to prove how brave he is.”

Harry's brow furrowed. During their first year, he'd been sent through the forest with only Malfoy and Fang and left the experience having discovered the one creature on Earth more cowardly than the great hound…Malfoy. At Crabbe's words, a million questions erupted in his mind. He turned toward Ron to see the hem of his robes trailing around the corner toward the stairs. With a last look toward Crabbe and Goyle, who appeared worried in their own right, he raced to catch up with Ron.

“Ron!” he yelled as he spotted him running across the lawn. Surprisingly, Ron stopped, and clutched his side as Harry caught up with him. “Where are we going?” Harry asked as he gasped for breath.

Ron straightened up and looked at him as though he'd never seen him before. “The forest of course.”

“Ron,” Harry began. “Don't you think this is a bit odd?”

“There's nothing about this situation that isn't odd,” Ron replied. “Given the fact it started with Malfoy snogging my sister in the Astronomy Tower.”

“I know,” Harry agreed. “I just…I have a bad feeling about this.”

“Don't get all Trelawney on me. You're either with me or you're not.”

“Of course I am,” Harry declared. “Where should we look?” Ron peered off toward the forest.

“I don't know. We'll figure it out when we get there.” That was the end of their conversation until they were fifty feet inside the forest boundary. Ron stopped, pulled his wand from his robes, and lit the tip. Harry did the same and they both squinted their eyes and searched for the unmistakable white blonde hair of Draco Malfoy.

“Ron,” Harry whispered as he tugged on his sleeve. Ron turned to follow his eyes.

“What?” he asked.

“I think I see something.”

“Where?”

“There, beyond those twisted vines.” Harry wasn't sure what he'd seen, but it gleamed in the dim moonlight and moved behind the tangle of vines a few hundred feet to their left.

Harry was no stranger to the Forbidden Forest, neither was Ron. But this was a place that never stopped being intimidating. Harry's stomach was already twisted in a knot. This evening's adventure had progressed from a “discussion” in the Hall of Statues to an illusive search in the Dark Forest. A chilling wind swept through the trees and pierced the fabric of Harry's robe. He stifled a gasp as the bare branches clacked and rubbed against each other. The sound they produced could only be described as a squeal. Somewhere in the depths of the forest, the cry was returned from some manner of creature Harry did not wish to meet.

“Maybe you're right,” Ron's voice issued from behind him. Harry turned around, wand held above his head, and found Ron's silhouette. “Maybe this isn't such a good idea.”

“Don't tell me you're scared, Weasley,” a cold voice interrupted. Ron and Harry snapped their heads around and found themselves staring at Malfoy. Ron took a threatening step toward him and Malfoy threw up his hands in surrender. “I'm not here to argue.”

“Then why are you here?” Ron asked.

“More to the point, why aren't you in the Hall of Statues?” Harry interjected. Malfoy glared at him.

“Because I knew I'd never get him out here with just a note,” Malfoy replied. “Beside the fact I knew you'd tag along.” Something tantamount to a smirk crossed Malfoy's face.

“We're all impressed with your intellect, Malfoy,” Ron quipped. “Harry's my best mate, of course he'd come with me.” Ron looked around the forest. “So why are we out here? Are you trying to prove you actually have a spine?”

“It amazes me the two of you are actually related,” Malfoy barked. “At least Ginny…” That was as far as he got. Ron lunged toward him and pinned his throat to the nearest tree. Harry jumped toward Ron and tried to pull him off.

“I swear on every star in that sky, if you mention her name again I will ensure you don't speak another word for the rest of your life,” Ron growled. Malfoy planted both of his hands on Ron's chest and shoved him backward into Harry.

“I should've known this was pointless,” Malfoy sneered, adjusting his robes and dusting the bark from his hair. He looked between them both - Harry now restraining Ron. He glanced around the forest and returned his eyes to Harry and Ron. “I've done what I said I would.” He turned his back on them both and strode from the forest.

Ron jostled in Harry's grip and broke away. “Geroff me, Harry,” he barked. Harry, feeling the tension release from his shoulders, extinguished his wand and slipped it into his robes. “Why'd you hold me back? I could've strangled him and blamed it on one of Hagrid's pets!” Harry stifled a chuckle.

“As pleasant as that sounds,” Harry replied with a grin. “I don't think he's worth the effort.” Ron drew a deep breath, propped his hands on his hips and dropped his eyes to the ground.

“Do you think Hermione's right?” he asked quietly.

Harry couldn't believe the question came from Ron's mouth. “What?”

Ron looked up and cocked his head to the side. “You know what I mean.”

“No.”

“Good.”

Harry felt a bit disloyal saying it, but he couldn't ignore what he felt in every ounce of his being. He'd gotten a clear impression of Draco Malfoy the first time he'd laid eyes on him in Diagon Alley. Every interaction he'd experienced since, save one, bolstered that impression. He admired Hermione's desire to give him the benefit of the doubt, but one act of decency didn't erase six years of malevolence. “Come on,” Harry said. “Let's get out of here.”

Harry looked around. They'd managed to get turned around in their flap with Malfoy. In their haste to find him, Harry had paid little attention to the route they'd followed into the forest. As the night cast a darkening blanket across the sky, that information could've come in useful. He tried to maintain his composure in front of Ron, but couldn't stop the pounding in his chest. He wasn't sure how to get back to the castle, and that is not a good feeling when standing in the depths of the Forbidden Forest.

“Er,” Ron muttered, holding his wand over his head and turning circles in place. When he turned back toward Harry, he mumbled, “Well, Malfoy walked off that way. Maybe we should just follow his path.”

Having no better plan, Harry agreed. They set off together, stepping over loose tree roots and brushing trailing vines out of their way. Ron's wand lit a darkened trail ahead of them, but rather than growing more sparse, the forest seemed to be closing in on them.

“Ron?” Harry asked. Ron stopped and turned to him with a worried expression.

“I know.” They both cast looks around the forest. He couldn't see his watch to notice how much time had passed. He was beginning to think of the towering rage Hermione would be in when they made it back to the castle. He pulled his wand from his robes under the pretense of lighting it to check the time. As he looked at it, he thought of Hermione and heard her voice chastising him.

“How thick could I be?” he muttered to himself.

“What are you on about?” Ron asked.

Harry looked at him and sighed. He laid his wand in the palm of his hand and said, “point me.” The wand spun around in his hand and fell motionless as it pointed toward North. Harry shook his head and turned around. “We've been going the wrong way.” He set off along the trail they'd followed in the direction that would lead them out of the forest. He heard the snapping twigs under Ron's feet as he fell in step behind. Then he heard something else — something familiar.

He stopped in his tracks, snatching his wand up and lighting it.

“What is…”

“Shhhh!” he silenced Ron as he peered through the murky dim, hoping he was wrong. As Harry turned in place, he noticed Ron's eyes darting around toward his legs, undoubtedly in search of spiders. Feeling he'd imagined the whole thing, he motioned Ron to follow along keeping a close eye on the trees as they moved.

Their wand lights began piercing the forest with greater ease. The trees were thinning out and Harry started to pick up the pace. They were approaching the forest edge and he wanted nothing more than to return to the castle and climb into bed.

“Harry!” Ron hissed from behind him.

“What?” he replied, stopping to look at him. Ron's eyes were wide and trained on a spot over Harry's shoulder. He raised his wand and pointed into the darkness.

“Eyes,“ he squeaked. Harry snapped his head around and held his wand in front of him. The blazing light from the wand's tip obscured anything he might've seen and he moved it over his head. As the light fell across the trees he saw it. It was the same thing he'd thought he'd imagined earlier. He took a step back toward Ron and whispered.

“Don't move,” he directed. That didn't seem like a difficult request for Ron to comply with. He was frozen stock-still in place. Harry struggled to formulate a plan. The last time he'd been eye to eye with the Gelidus bear, Hagrid was nearby. As it was, he and Ron were alone, in the forest, and the only ones who knew their whereabouts were Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle. Before he had time to consider their next move, the bear sprang from its place and lumbered toward them.

Ron turned to run for it. “No! Ron, play dead!” Harry dropped to the ground and managed to catch Ron's shoelaces and trip him. He splayed out on the forest floor and twisted around to look at Harry.

“Look out!” he shouted as he pointed over Harry's shoulder. Before Harry knew it, the bear had scooped him up in one of his massive paws and tossed him into the air. “Stupefy!” Ron shouted as Harry saw the red light dart from his wand into the bear's chest. The animal grumbled, barely noticing the attack, and lost his grip on Harry. He crashed to the forest floor, his hip colliding with a tree stump as pain shot clear through to his knee.

“Wait!” Harry shouted as Ron readied to stun it again. “It will take more than one!” He slid his hands around the decaying leaves in search of his wand. “Lumos!” The tip ignited only a few feet from him and he grabbed it and rolled onto his back. “Now!” Their stunners caught the bear in the stomach and sent it staggering backwards. But their victory was short-lived. As quickly as it stepped back, it composed itself and let out a bellowing roar.

Ron was tugging Harry up from the neck of his robes. “Come on! Playing dead isn't working!” Harry scrambled to his feet, his hip screaming in protest. Ron threw Harry's arm around his shoulders and they dashed toward the forest edge. Due to his injury, Ron was half-pulling, half-carrying Harry and his weight was slowing them down. Harry heard the crushing steps of the bear mere seconds before it pummeled them both from behind.

Harry fell face-first into the leaf-strewn dirt and heard Ron groan as his head collided with a rocky outcropping. “Ron?” he called. Ron's hands were covering his left temple. Harry could see the blood seeping from underneath Ron's palms as he flopped over, his eyes in a daze, and peered toward the forest canopy. Harry barely had time to register the extent of Ron's injury before his heart lodged itself in his own throat. The bear flipped him over and loosed a roar that rattled the ground where Harry lay.

It dropped it's eyes to his and hesitated just long enough for Harry to understand it had stopped at all before standing on its hind legs and sweeping it's clawed paws into the air above him. Harry closed his eyes as he saw it lunge forward to attack. The next thing he knew it was bellowing in pain. He chanced a look and was horrified to see an arrow piercing its right eye.

“Get `im out `er here, `arry!” Hagrid yelled as he leapt a felled tree trunk with his crossbow. Harry didn't need to be told twice. He flipped over and scurried toward Ron.

“Ron, are you okay?” he asked, pulling him to his feet. Ron nodded, hands still pressed to the side of his head. They grabbed hold of each other and walked to the forest edge as quickly as their legs would carry them. After they cleared the trees, Hagrid emerged from the shadows with his crossbow thrown over his shoulder.

“What are you lot doin' down `ere?!” he demanded. “You're a mess!” Harry sat Ron down on a bench outside Hagrid's hut and caught his breath.

“Malfoy,” Harry panted.

“Malfoy?” Hagrid replied.

“We came out here to find him, he..er…” Harry wasn't sure how much he should tell Hagrid, but given the fact he just saved their lives, he reckoned the half-giant had a right to know. “Ron caught him with Ginny in the Astronomy Tower.”

Hagrid's eyes grew to the size of dinner plates. Luckily, Ron was not in any condition to get riled up by the conversation. Hagrid took them both inside and tended to their injuries over two mugs of warm butterbeer while Harry recounted the story.

“I don't like it,” Hagrid finally said. “Why would Malfoy, of all people, go out in the forest?”

“Ginny thinks he's changed. Crabbe and Goyle said he was trying to prove his bravery.”

“Well, `e's stupid enough to do tha',” Hagrid mused. He looked between Ron and Harry, his brows furrowing as if he'd just noticed they were there alone. “I'm assumin' `ermione didn't want you to come out `ere,” he said, looking toward Harry.

Harry fidgeted in his seat. “She's supporting Ginny in this.”

“What?” Hagrid roared. “She believes Malfoy?” Harry took another sip of his mug and thought about it.

“She doesn't believe Malfoy. She believes in Ginny. In her mind there's a difference.” Ron grumbled inaudibly next to Harry on the bench. Hagrid got up and moved around the table to check his temple. He'd stopped the bleeding, but Ron was sporting a rather impressive bruise.

“I got some dragon meat fer that,” Hagrid said, walking toward a crate near the fire.

“No, I'm fine Hagrid,” Ron hastened. “Thanks,” he added with a painful smile.

“Speaking of Hermione,” Harry said, slugging back the last of his butterbeer. “We should head back.” He and Ron got up from the table and thanked Hagrid for his help. He walked them to the door and looked toward the forest.

“Don' you come out `ere agin without me, you `ear! I haven't seen tha' bear in ages; stopped comin' round my habitat. I thought it was hibernatin' somewhere. Bin lookin' fer it fer weeks.” He slapped Harry on the shoulder enough to buckle his knees under him. He stood him back up and continued. “Looks like I shoulda taken yer with me! Bear fancies yer, I reckon,” he added with a laugh. Harry, horrified by the idea, set off toward the gleaming lights of Hogwarts as Hagrid's laughter rang through the cold night air. He coveted his four-poster now more than anything, but he was worried about the other wild animal he'd have to face upon entering the Common Room. It was after midnight. Hermione was not going to be in a favorable mood.

***

“Are you sure you're all right? This looks really bad, Ron,” Merc whispered as she grazed a finger along the black and green mark tattooed on his temple. Trying not to flinch, he caught her hand and curled his fingers through hers.

“I'm fine,” he replied with a smile. “It's Harry who got the worst of it,” he sniggered.

“I thought you said he just bruised his hip,” Merc questioned.

“Oh, he did. Hagrid helped him with that. I'm talking about Hermione.”

“Oh.” Merc giggled. “She was in a right state in Arithmancy today. She muttered to herself the entire time. It annoyed Professor Vector so much she docked points from Gryffindor to get her to shut up.”

“If only docking points would get that girl to shut up,” Ron joked. “Harry looked worse when she finished with him than when that bear had a go.”

“It was the same bear as before?” Merc asked.

“I suppose. It's the only one in the forest, unless Hagrid has managed to breed them by now,” Ron answered.

“So, er…where are we going?” Merc asked as they continued to walk across the lawn. It was a beautiful day, the first temperate weekend Hogwarts' students had seen since the fall. The sun was shining brightly and the temperature had warmed enough to beckon a few students from the castle. An enchanted rugby game was already forming on the front lawn as they passed.

“I have it on good authority that walking around the lake will make my head stop pounding,” Ron replied.

“Oh, really?” Merc raised an eyebrow. “So this trek is merely therapeutic in nature.”

“Merely,” Ron answered as innocently as possible. However impressive his thespian skills may've been, it was obvious Merc didn't buy it for a second. Of course, he wasn't really trying to keep her in the dark. He'd managed a romantic plan at the Astronomy Tower, only to have the entire thing put asunder by Draco Malfoy. In the time that followed he'd been so enraged he'd forgotten about Merc. He only thought of her after that rock knocked some sense back into his head…at least that's what Hermione claimed it did.

She had a point though. Merc stayed clear out of sight over the last forty-eight hours and Ron had a bit of groveling to do according to Luna Lovegood. She'd been “nice” enough to point out his insensitivity at breakfast that morning. When Ron found Merc in the library, he'd closed her books for her and led her outside into the unseasonably warm air.

“Well, I still think the both of you are certifiable,” Merc continued. “The Forbidden Forest has that name for a reason, you know.”

“Sadly, I do know that,” Ron said. His thoughts wandered back to unicorns, centaurs, spiders and bears. Merc once said there was a fine line between bravery and stupidity…he was starting to believe her.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked, looking at the grin stamped across his face.

Ron shook the thought away and cleared his throat. “Er, nothing,” he said.

“Tell me,” she prompted.

“Well, er…I was…thinking about you,” he whispered.

“Oh,” she replied, breaking into a broad smile. Ron's hand grasped hers tighter as they continued to walk the trail around the lake. After a bit more distance, Ron rubbed his temple without realizing what he was doing. Merc slowed beside him and squeezed his hand. “Do you need to rest?” she asked.

He didn't need to rest, but the caring look in her eyes was one he wasn't accustomed to and he didn't want to see it disappear. “Sure,” he answered and motioned toward a stone outcropping near the water's edge.

They sat down together and looked across the rippling water. Even the giant squid seemed to be enjoying the temperate weather. Ron watched a lazy tentacle flop out of the water and back again. He looked over to Merc, the Scottish sunlight playing across her dark locks, and tried to determine what to say next. Oddly, nothing was coming to mind. More interesting however, was the fact the stillness didn't bother him. For all the excitement he'd found over the last few days, sitting in the silence with Merc was a welcome respite. However, the silence encouraged him to make things right. “Merc,” he began. She turned toward him and smiled. “I wanted to apologize for what happened the other night.” She looked toward the lake without responding. “I, er…well…”

“I understand,” she interrupted. His mouth bobbed open and closed. He wanted to explain himself but couldn't find the words. After all, how does one tell the girl they fancy that he neglected her in order to pummel another student to within an inch of his life? Her giggling broke through his thoughts. “If you keep doing that, the squid will think you're a fish.” Ron looked back to the lake and saw the squid somersaulting over the shallow waves.

He smiled and returned his attention to her. “I really am sorry. That wasn't what I had planned,” he lamented.

Merc raised an eyebrow. “Oh? What did you have planned, Mr. Weasley?”

There were many ways Ron could've answered that question, but the end result remained the same for each of them. Since he'd kissed her the night of the Valentine's Ball, he'd been able to think of little else. Every time he'd seen her since, his eyes were inexorably trained on her mouth as she spoke. Even now, he knew the curl of her lips came from her knowledge that he couldn't keep his eyes off them. As he watched the sunlight glisten along her lips, he decided not to answer the question at all. He leaned in, his shoulder brushing hers, and sated his appetite with a tender kiss. His eyes fell closed as she leaned into him. Their hands, still intertwined, pulsed together as the wind rustled across the water. Their mouths opened together in gentle exploration while her hand found its way to his thigh.

It was the single most exhilarating sensation Ron had ever experienced. He wanted nothing more than to continue snogging her until he wasted away to nothing. But at the same time, her kisses, this closeness, the touch of her hand upon his leg would surely be all the nourishment he ever needed.

He made a mental note to stop chiding Harry about his inability to keep his hands off Hermione. He'd made several comments, as they lie in their four-posters suffering from insomnia, about Harry's lack of masculine composure around his girlfriend. But if their experience was half as wonderful as this, he suddenly understood Harry's motivation.

As their kiss lingered (neither appearing to desire its end), Ron was overcome with an irrational impulse. As he tried to push it aside, it only became more fervent in its demand. His insides fluttered and his palms began to sweat. He clutched her hand in his in the hopes of holding onto a sane reality, but her warm hand in his only increased his desire to announce the three words that had erupted from his heart. Unable to fight the compulsion any longer, he broke away from her swollen lips and tried to form the words.

“Merc,” he croaked.

“Beatrice.”

Only half-aware of the interruption, he cleared his head and looked in her eyes. “What?”

“Beatrice,” she reiterated.

“That's your name.” It was more of an awestruck statement than a question.

“Pretty awful, isn't it?” she asked, turning her eyes toward the sandy ground. Ron was overwhelmed. He had already been hijacked by the irrational desire to profess his love, and she'd managed to trump him. It was not lost on him that he hadn't asked her this time. He hadn't even thought about it. His heart swelled so much it hurt.

She'd told him. She'd told him something no one else (save her family and probably Dumbledore) knew. She'd told him something that, while insignificant to most people, contained the sum of her insecurity. In three syllables she'd managed to expose herself to him in far greater measure than his three words could ever have done. Suddenly, words seemed trite.

He placed a finger under her chin and drew her eyes back to his. They were glassy from tears not spent. Something between fear and desperation etched itself on her face and sent a painful shockwave through Ron's body. She was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, and he felt like he was seeing her for the first time.

In one swift move, his hand curled around the back of her neck and he drew her into a passionate kiss. She responded by throwing her arms around his neck as he wrapped his free hand around her waist and pulled her close. He had no idea how long their embrace lasted, but he couldn't count the stars twinkling in his vision when they stopped.

“Wow,” Merc said breathless. “Perhaps I should've told you sooner.”

“No,” he replied. “Your timing was spot on.”

“So you don't think its wretched?” she questioned.

Ron broke into laughter. “Honestly,” he barked. “You're sitting here snogging Ronald Bilius Weasley and you think `Beatrice' is bad?” Merc's hand flew to her mouth as she tried to stifle a giggle of her own. He threw his arms around her and pulled her in as they laughed together. It was the best feeling in the world. “I don't know why Hermione waited so long to introduce us,” he said aloud.

Merc's shoulders bounced against his chest. “Well, given the way we began, I'm not sure she ever thought we'd end up together,” she laughed.

Ron tightened his arms around her. “I'm so glad you're with us in this,” he said earnestly. “I look at you and I think, with the four of us, maybe we can do this.”

Merc sat up straight and wriggled from his arms. “Oh, Ron.” Her face fell. “There is no `four' of us,” she lamented.

Ron's brow furrowed in confusion. “Of course there is. What do you think we've been doing all this time?”

Marc sat back and took his hands in hers. “Ron,” she began. “I'm not like you. I'm not like Harry or Hermione either. This is his destiny and your challenge. I see the three of you together and I believe you will defeat him. I see hope and promise. I have faith in a better world. But none of that is due to me.”

“But…” Ron interrupted. Merc squeezed his hands to silence him.

“Ron, I'll do anything for you. I'll work myself to exhaustion if it will help you find the key. I'll help you practice the skills you need to learn. But you have to know that in the end, I won't be a part of this.”

“Why not? I need you,” Ron argued.

“But Harry needs you, and so does Hermione. They need all of you to make this work.” She waved her hand in front of him before he could interrupt again. “I'm not a Gryffindor. The mere thought that you will face You-Know-Who makes me light-headed. If I ever found myself in such a position I'd probably faint dead away. That's the biggest reason I didn't join the D.A. when Hermione asked me. I was terrified of getting caught by Umbridge.” Ron stared at her, incapable of formulating a reply. “I would be a detriment to you in battle, Ron. I would distract you from your task and put everyone's life in danger.”

Ron looked down to their hands, still grasping each other, and didn't know what to say. Part of him was happy she'd be safely out of harm's way. Another part didn't feel he'd be able to concentrate without knowing exactly where she was and if she was okay. Quite frankly, given his mind's propensity for obsessing about her, he wasn't sure he could do anything without her any more. “I don't know if I can do this without you,” he whispered.

“Of course you can,” she answered without hesitation. “You've been fighting at Harry and Hermione's side for years. That's why he needs you to survive this prophecy.” She looked him in the eyes for the first time since beginning this conversation. “I meant what I said about triangles. The triangle is the strongest force in nature. The three of you are like…” She searched for an analogy. “You're like the three primary colors from which all others come. You're like the sun, moon, and the stars.” She continued looking for examples.

“Like Neapolitan ice cream,” Ron added. Merc laughed aloud.

“Yes!” She squeezed his hands and continued. “You're like the mind, body and…” she fell silent and her eyes darted around at unseen objects on the ground. Her breathing started to grow shallow and her hands trembled in his.

“Merc?” he asked with concern. He squeezed her hands and she did not respond. She squeezed her eyes shut and growled in frustration. “Merc? What's wrong?”

“I'm such a dolt! It's been there all along,” she snarled. She leapt from the rock, pulling Ron along with her. She set off for the castle at a run, while he hastened to catch her.

“Merc?” he called. “Where are we going?” he asked as his sprint fell in step with hers.

“Library!”

He felt like he was having an out-of-body experience and someone just replaced his girlfriend with his best friend. Struggling to catch his breath, he held all further questions until they'd arrived at the very table he'd led her away from only an hour ago. “Merc,” he said, clutching his side. “Are you going to tell me what this is about?”

“Where? Where? Where?” she muttered to herself as she leafed through the pages of a familiar text.

“Merc?”

“Shhh!” she preempted as her eyes began to dart across the page. Ron watched her silently mouthing the words to herself and nodding her head. “Come here,” she instructed and dragged him to the nearest table. “What's the problem with the Deliquesco spell?”

Ron felt like he'd just been issued a pop quiz in McGonagall's class. “Er - well,” he stumbled, hoping not to embarrass himself as he answered. “For one thing I'm knackered after a few tries. Hermione is worse. It's like you said, it'll only be worse when it's the real thing?”

She was rolling her hand in a circle and encouraging him to continue. “Yes, that and…”

Ron searched his brain trying to remember the details of their last session in the Room of Requirement. “Well, Harry can't really use any spells of his own.”

“Exactly!” she declared. “By nature, what we're doing has been defensive. We've not spent any time with offensive spells.” Ron couldn't deny her point. He looked at her fidgeting in the chair, fit to burst, and motioned for her to continue. “It's hard to win a Quidditch match when you don't score any goals.”

“What do you suggest?”

“This,” she spun the book around on the table and pushed it toward him. Ron's eyes scanned the page only half understanding the ancient text. She clarified it for him before he had the chance to ask. “It's an ancient unification enchantment.” She turned the page and pointed to an illustration of three wizards, in billowy robes, with their wands extended skyward. “It can only be cast with the proper combination of wizards.” She began to read the text aloud.

“The Foederis enchantment joins three wizards in a magical union that allows them to pool their powers and draw from their strengths. A little known, but impressive enchantment, the wizards become eternally bonded to each other by loyalty and character.”

“Cor,” Ron whispered. “I don't know about this.”

“Just listen, there's more,” she said running her finger along the page to find her starting point.

“This enchantment never gained widespread popularity due to its difficulty in casting and detrimental effects if broken.”

“Right. I don't like the sound of that.”

“Shhh!”

“The three wizards must represent the spiritual elements of body, mind, and soul whilst maintaining a significant and marked bond with each other. If these bonds are not true, or the elements improperly proportioned, the enchantment is impossible to cast.”

Merc hesitated and flicked her eyes to Ron's before continuing.

“Furthermore, should any one of the union break the bonds of the covenant, by any means other than death, the effect is devastating. The wizard in question is permanently stripped of all magical ability, leaving him no better than a common muggle.”

Ron's eyes widened in shock. “You can't be serious!”

“Look at what you're up against! Someone as powerful as You-Know-Who? Ron, it will require powerful magic to destroy him. This,” she jabbed her finger at the open book, “is powerful!”

“It's madness!” Ron exclaimed.

“But think of what this enchantment can do!” Merc pressed.

“It can relegate me to using ekcletricity for the rest of my life,” Ron scoffed. Although the idea would probably fascinate his father, it was beyond the acceptable limits of reason for him.

“Only if you break it!” Merc replied.

No matter what Merc said, Ron was not singing the praises of this idea. In general, it didn't sound all that different from what they were doing, but it promised horrible consequences should something go wrong, aside from the fact this was no small undertaking. This wasn't a spell; it was an enchantment. Far beyond a N.E.W.T. skill in casting, it was a permanent arrangement. It involved a level of commitment and responsibility that, quite frankly, scared the hell out of him. The prospect of being “unified” with Harry and Hermione for the next 150 years was daunting to say the least. A lot can happen over such a period of time, and there's no way out of this enchantment once it's undertaken. In short, he couldn't see the benefit beyond the risk.

“I don't know,” he sighed. In truth he did know, but he didn't have the heart to hurt Merc's feelings.

“Don't you see what this can do?” she asked, undeterred. “Ron this isn't like the Deliquesco spell.”

“How's it so different?”

“This is an equal union between the three of you. It's not Harry usurping your powers to protect the three of you alone. It not only means he can draw from your power, but you and Hermione can also draw from his.” Admittedly, this idea gave him pause. “And that's not all,” she continued. “You're not bound by the limits of proximity. Right now you have to hold hands to strengthen your power…with this you don't even need to be in the same room!” Her face was as serious as he'd ever seen it. “You can fuse your powers and still use your wands.”

Ron sat back in his chair and thought through her explanation. All of what she'd mentioned could not be done with their current spell work. If they could cast this enchantment, they could fight, they could split up, and they could use each other's strengths the way they'd done since their initial search for the Sorcerer's Stone. The possibility even existed that they could combine their powers and cast simultaneous spells toward a common target. He dropped his head into his hands and rubbed his temples. As promising as the enchantment sounded, he couldn't get past one key point.

“Let me ask you something,” Merc implored. Ron looked at her and nodded his head in assent. “Can you imagine your life now, or one hundred years from now, without Harry or Hermione as part of it?”

Ron did not hesitate in his response. “No.”

Merc smiled and reached across the table to take his hands in hers. “Then you already are bound to each other. You're bound through friendship, loyalty…and love. What difference does an enchantment make?”

She had a point. For a brief moment, his mind drifted back to the place he'd never allowed it to linger. He thought about his life without Harry or Hermione. The words of the prophecy echoed in his head and it suddenly became clear. This enchantment wasn't going to connect him to Harry and Hermione for the rest of his life; it was going to ensure that they would be there to fulfill the connection they'd already forged. He looked up at Merc and smiled. “Is everyone in Ravenclaw as smart as you are?”

She tossed her hair over her shoulder and sighed dramatically. “I like to think I'm above average.” She laughed at her own joke as Ron leaned across the table to steal a kiss.

“Let's find Harry and Hermione,” he suggested. As they left the library, Ron became curious. “So, if we're already `bound' to each other, I reckon Hermione is the `mind'…” he shot her a flirtatious grin. “Does that make me the soul…or the body?”

Merc reflected his expression. “I'm afraid I can't make an informed decision on that.”

“Why not?”

“I've only seen your soul.” Ron's footsteps fell to a stop in the corridor as Merc flushed and winked at him. Before he could string together a coherent response, she'd set off at a run - her laughter ringing off the stone walls of the corridor.

***

Two hours later Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Merc were ascending the stairs to Dumbledore's office. Ron and Merc had found them in the Great Hall and explained the Foederis enchantment. While they'd argued the possibilities and consequences of the enchantment for three quarters of an hour, they'd agreed on one thing in the end - the need to see Dumbledore. They had a standing invitation to do so, and the respective password to accompany it, so they didn't hesitate to bring the idea before him. As they rose closer to the Headmaster's chamber, Harry could only describe his mood as cautious optimism. Judging from the looks on their faces, the others felt the same way.

The stairs drew to a halt and Harry stepped off toward the door. Merc looked like a child at a museum. Her eyes were wide and her jaw slack as she looked back at the staircase she'd just debarked. Harry reached for the gryffin-shaped handle before hearing voices issuing from the office.

“Is that what Riley had to say on the matter?” Dumbledore's soft voice questioned. Harry knew enough of the Order to know Riley was the illusive, and so far undiscovered, plant in the upper echelon of the Ministry. The utterance of Riley's name was enough to retract his hand from the door handle as if scalded. Instinctively, Ron, Hermione, and he leaned toward the door.

“Yes, that was the general purpose of his communiqué,” Lupin answered. A silence fell between them during which the trio looked around at each other.

“You don't seem convinced, Remus,” Dumbledore replied.

“Remus doesn't trust Riley,” Tonks' bright voice answered.

“No, I don't. He's some apparition-of-a-source who no one has ever seen or heard and who claims to have inside information,” he argued.

“You've been drinking from Alastor's hip flask again. Riley's identity, or information, has never given you this much pause.” Silence followed Tonks' words. “He hasn't been wrong before, has he?”

“Misdirection,” Remus countered.

“What?”

“Misdirection, Tonks,” he echoed. “He gives us bits of information at infrequent times - all of which pan out - to build our confidence and trust. That way, when he needs us to believe a lie, we're more than willing to do so.”

“When did you become a pessimist?” Tonks sighed.

“About the time Voldemort killed James and Lily.” Merc flinched at the sound of the Dark Lord's name as Harry felt three sets of eyes fall upon him. He drew a breath and met their concern with a benign nod of his head. Hermione took his hand, in a show of support, and they leaned back toward the door. The office quieted in response to Lupin's comment and for a moment all that could be heard was the soft warbling of Dumbledore's phoenix.

“I believe Riley,” Dumbledore affirmed.

“But how can you be sure?” Remus asked. “How do you know this isn't some elaborate red herring sent to turn our attention away from Voldemort?” The four of them, now pressed against the oak door, exchanged confused glances. When he first heard them talking, he felt confident Voldemort was the subject of their conversation, but the concern Lupin raised made him think otherwise. “Keres has no personal convictions. He's a mercenary with no comprehension of loyalty or honor. He's vanished. All of our intelligence supports the claim that he's moved onto his next paycheck. I simply don't believe Damien Keres is at Hogwarts.” Hermione gasped as her hand flew to cover her own mouth. Harry wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close, hoping that she wouldn't feel his heart pounding against his ribcage. He could feel her quaking under his arm and pressed his cheek to hers.

“Do you remember?” he whispered. She looked up to him, the fear evident in her eyes, obscured only by her confusion. “They can't take us away…” She buried her head in his chest but he heard her complete the sentence under her breath.

“…even if they take you.” She drew a hitching breath against him and pried herself away. She leaned back to the door as Ron's eyes fell between the two. Ron reached out and clasped Hermione's shoulder supportively as the three pressed their ears back to the door.

“Honestly, Riley would have us believe he's been here for months!” Lupin argued.

“You don't think that's possible?” Dumbledore questioned.

“Albus, we would have known. We would've had some sign of his presence. Tonks is the best Auror in the business. She would've found him by now.” Tonks' silence was conspicuous.

“We weren't aware of young Mr. Crouch's masquerade until it was too late,” Dumbledore added.

“He's asking us to risk Harry's life by turning our attention away from Voldemort's preparations. Let Riley take the risk and reveal himself to us. Then I'll believe his Norse fairy tales.” Merc's brow furrowed in question as her eyes absently searched the stone floor.

“I trust him, Remus,” Dumbledore answered. That seemed to be the end of the conversation. The office fell silent and the four eavesdroppers quickly scattered from the door as footsteps approached from the other side. “Remus,” Dumbledore called. “I see no harm in taking precautionary measures here. I have no intention of undermining your efforts where Voldemort is concerned.”

The footsteps halted as Dumbledore spoke. “I don't trust Riley, Albus, but I trust you. I'll defer to your judgment…for Harry's sake,” Lupin conceded from the other side of the door.

“I appreciate that, Remus. If you would be so kind as to take extra care as you leave, I'd hate for you to injure any of them unintentionally.” Harry could hear the smile in Dumbledore's voice and leapt away from the door just as Lupin pulled it open. He looked between the four of them, Tonks giggling just behind him, and recognized each in turn.

“Harry, Ron, Hermione…” he looked past Ron to where Merc stood, “and just when I thought they hadn't corrupted you yet.” Merc tried to restrain a smile. He brushed past the four of them and headed for the stairs muttering some thing about Harry being `just like his father.' Tonks gave them a warm smile and trailed after Lupin, her long chestnut hair plaited down her back. It was the closest to `normal' Harry had ever seen her; he wasn't entirely sure he liked it.

“I trust there is cause for your visit,” Dumbledore's voice floated from the office. Harry returned his attention to the Headmaster as he led the group inside. He'd barely stepped into the office when Fawkes sailed across the room and perched on his shoulder. Harry offered him his outstretched arm and sat down in one of the four chintz chairs facing the desk.

“Hello, Fawkes,” he said as he stroked the crimson feathers. The bird hummed his own greeting in return and bobbed his head under Harry's hand.

“Professor,” Hermione began. “We…well, Merc…found an enchantment.” The four of them nodded their heads in support. “We wanted your opinion.” Dumbledore tented his fingers under his nose and sat back in the chair. Hermione, seated between Ron and Harry, looked at them both and continued. “It's called the Foederis enchantment.” Dumbledore leveled his eyes at Hermione and dropped his hands to his desk. “It will allow us to combine our powers, even across measurable distances … “

“I'm aware of what that enchantment can do,” Dumbledore whispered. At his words, Hermione stopped explaining what they'd found and looked around at her friends for direction. Her eyes rested on Harry's.

“We're aware of the risks, Professor,” Harry offered. Dumbledore raised an unconvincing eyebrow in his direction. “What we've been doing shows promise. But… it's not enough. This enchantment might be the key.”

“Might be,” Dumbledore echoed. “I don't think you understand the gravity of what you're suggesting. There is no room for ambiguity with the Foederis enchantment.”

“We do understand it, sir,” Ron interjected. “We've given it a lot of thought. Harry can't do this by himself.” Ron cast an apologetic glance toward Harry.

“Please, sir,” Hermione added. “We don't mind the risk this enchantment requires.” She looked at Harry who extended his hand to hers and kept her eyes on his while she continued. “Not doing it is a far greater risk.” Harry squeezed her hand and looked back to Dumbledore.

The Headmaster turned to Merc. “You happened upon this enchantment?”

“Yes, sir. It's found within the same family of spells as the charm we've been working with. It's really been staring at us for weeks, but we've been too preoccupied to notice,” she embellished.

He looked across his desk at the four of them, his expression unreadable, and did not speak. Fawkes flew back to his perch and nestled his head under his wing. Dumbledore rose from the chair and paced in front of the window. Harry wasn't sure what to make of his actions. After years of studying the Marauder's Map, he'd come to understand how frequently the Headmaster did pace. In this office, it was more conspicuous to find him seated than mobile. Yet, his lack of discussion was disquieting.

“Sir,” Harry's voice broke the silence. Dumbledore stopped and turned to face him. “We appreciate your concern, but we truly do understand the risks.” He looked to Ron and Hermione. “We want to do this.” They nodded their heads in assent as Dumbledore turned back to the window.

He stood in silence, looking through the window at the colorful spring landscape. “Friendships that last the test of time are infrequent at best,” his voice wavered. “While you may have the best of intentions, you are but seventeen years old.” Harry could feel the crease of his forehead against his scar. He looked toward Ron and Hermione, both of whom seemed equally confused. He'd never heard Dumbledore speak in such negative terms. Only Merc's dejected expression indicated any of them were in agreement with the Headmaster. “This enchantment is well-guarded and little practiced for good reason.” He turned to face them all. “It's simply too great a risk to be undertaken so young. Each of you could live 175 years or more. No one can anticipate the trials a friendship might endure over such duration.” He moved back to the desk and sat down.

“Sir,” Hermione's voice wavered “Without this enchantment, Harry might not live to see his eighteenth birthday, let alone his one hundred seventy-fifth.”

“I appreciate your position, Ms. Granger, but there must be another way.”

“There's not,” Merc announced. The collective eyes in the room turned to her with enough celerity to cause a blush to erupt on her cheeks. She looked at her shoelaces and muttered, “I only mean to say that we've looked through every book there is.” She looked up. “We've scoured the restricted section. We've practiced defensive charms, even learned a few new ones. There's no rock left unturned.”

“And we're running out of time,” Harry added.

“Exactly my point,” Dumbledore replied. “This decision is made in haste and the consequences of violating the covenant this enchantment creates are devastating at best.”

Harry was growing irritated. He hadn't expected to have to convince Dumbledore. He hoped the Headmaster would've offered his office, and his assistance, in casting the charm. But as the conversation wore on, it became obvious Dumbledore was reluctant to help them. He looked to Ron and Hermione, who seemed unable to find the right words either. He looked back to Dumbledore, the man who'd become like a father to him in his years at Hogwarts, and their eyes met. He couldn't discern the look etched on the Headmaster's face other than to say he understood it. He knew Dumbledore cared for them; he knew his wisdom and experience guided his thoughts. He knew Dumbledore loved him and he couldn't deny he'd come to feel the same way. What's more, he knew he was only seventeen. But he was not a child. Nor did he have any intention of being treated as such.

They were adults in the eyes of the wizarding world. They were capable of making their own decisions. He looked down at the hand grasped within his and let his eyes fall over Hermione's engagement ring. He couldn't understand how Dumbledore could be approving of one lifelong commitment while being dead set against another. In comparing the two, Harry saw less pain in the possibility of living life as a common muggle than living without Hermione. If they didn't engage in this covenant together, it was probable that Hermione would have to live without him. He promised he'd never leave her, and that was a promise he would risk much to keep. “Sir,” he whispered. “We're asking for your support.”

Dumbledore's eyes moved back to Harry's. “I'm sorry, Harry,” he said. “I cannot give it to you.” Before he'd even finished speaking, Harry sat back in the chair, trying to clear his mind of emotion so as to block Dumbledore from understanding the nascent plan already forming in his mind. He was really quite naive to think he'd accomplish such a task. “Harry,” Dumbledore warned. “I do not condone the casting of this enchantment within my presence or without.” He leaned forward in his chair and set his piercing stare on Harry. “If I have to expressly forbid it, I will.”

Harry couldn't hold his gaze and looked away. As he studied the floor, he saw the Dumbledore's feet shuffling along the flagstones as he continued to pace. As the Headmaster had done so many times before, he'd managed to end the conversation in one sentence. “Yes, sir,” Harry sighed. “We understand.” He got to his feet, the others doing the same, and turned for the door.

As he reached the handle, Dumbledore spoke again. “If it's any consolation,” he began, “it was a good idea.” Harry hesitated, trying to decide whether to engage him in argument again, and thought better of it. As it was, he bid the Headmaster good night and led the group toward the staircase.

***

Harry mulled the conversation over in his head for hours after they'd left his office. He'd accomplished next to nothing for his lessons and even missed several students who'd been out in the corridors after hours. When he'd finally climbed the stairs to his dormitory, he was exhausted but completely unable to sleep. They had such high hopes when they'd gone to meet him. He never once thought Dumbledore would forbid the use of the enchantment. It was a turn of events he'd not anticipated and it was unsettling to say the least.

Merc was right in her assessment. They had checked every book in the restricted section. He felt like he'd read some of them twice. They'd practiced defensive charms while working on the Deliquesco spell. Nothing showed the promise this enchantment did. He climbed into his four-poster bed, understanding the obvious silence meant he was not alone in his musings. As he settled into his pillows, he heard the bed hangings to his left shirr down the rod. He looked over to see Ron, his head propped on his elbow, staring at him.

“We're still going to do it, right?”

“Of course,” Harry replied without hesitation.

“Good,” Ron flopped over onto his back. “Now I can get some sleep.” Harry smiled and bid him good night. It was a matter of minutes before Ron's breathing became deep and even. Harry was not so lucky.

He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling of the dormitory, pondering the wrath of Dumbledore should he find out Harry's intentions. His thoughts wandered to his fifth year as he thought of his Occlumency lessons. If Snape was an accomplished Legilimens, Dumbledore certainly was. Harry would have to expunge his thoughts before drifting off or the Headmaster might know their plans before Harry did. He turned his head to the bedside table, looking for something to focus on. His eyes fell upon the glint of a gilded spined book. It was the history book Dumbledore had given him for Christmas. If it compared at all to Binns' class, he'd be sure to bore himself to sleep in minutes. He slipped the book from the table and began leafing through the pages.

As he suspected, the historical accounts of ancient wizarding families was not exactly riveting. He felt his eyes beginning to glaze over as he flipped through the pages. Just as his mind started to drift, he fell across some familiar names in odd combination…Godric Gryffindor and Salazar Slytherin. It was enough to draw his attention to the first few paragraphs.

Among the greatest witches and wizards of the age were Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw, Godric Gryffindor, and Salazar Slytherin. This group of accomplished wizards opened the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry together. Such an undertaking was representative of the strength of their bonds to each other. The connections shared among the four were nearly as famous as the school that resulted from them. Though it experienced its own trials through the ages, the school remained a testament to the friendships forged, and lost, among the founders.

In the years following the creation of the school, Gryffindor and Slytherin's friendship deteriorated. Speculation abounds, both in historical and fictional text, as to the cause, but after several years of unerring loyalty, the two wizards broke ties in spectacular fashion. In doing so, Slytherin's relations with Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw suffered and he discontinued his association with Hogwarts. As testament to the ferocity of their dispute, it is rumored Slytherin built a chamber within the halls of Hogwarts to house a monster, capable of destroying those within the castle. Only after the chamber was opened initially (in approximately 570 a.d.) did the founder's descendants realize the rumored creature's target was those students with allegedly impure bloodlines.

“I could've told you that,” Harry muttered, remembering the basilisk he'd dispatched during his second year.

The descendants of Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff worked tirelessly to find the chamber and the creature within and protect the school from additional attacks. Sadly, they were unable to accomplish this feat on their own. The Slytherin family had long since become pitted itself against the other three founders' heirs and showed no interest in protecting muggleborns. The Gryffindor family might have been eager to help, if any had survived.

When the initial breach erupted in their friendship, Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff stayed on the fringe of the dispute. Their efforts to reconcile the two powerful wizards went largely ignored and they eventually chose to watch the battle unfold between the two former best friends. Gryffindor and Slytherin's animosity soon erupted into a blood feud between the two families. While casualties were sustained on both sides, the Slytherin family took no interest in fighting an honorable battle.

“Figures,” Harry thought to himself as his eyes fluttered in exhaustion. Although it was an interesting read, it wasn't telling him anything a duel between he and Malfoy couldn't have explained. For as much as history is supposed to change, it would appear the Gryffindor and Slytherin houses are uncanny in their resemblance to their original founders.

Above the increasing objections of Rowena Ravenclaw and Helga Hufflepuff, the Slytherin family continued their clandestine slaughter of the Gryffindors, thus ending their association with any of the original founders of the school. Before the Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff families could intervene, the Gryffindors were decimated and their descendants lost. Godric Gryffindor's death, at the hands of his former best friend, gave the entire wizarding world pause. The outcry over his murder forced Slytherin into hiding where he chose to continue his anti-muggle agenda through stealth and the creation of secretive organizations. The Slytherin name became synonymous with dark magic and the remaining founders of Hogwarts introduced Defense Against the Dark Arts as a standard course of study.

Harry's head slipped from his propped hand and he curled into his pillow. The book fell closed on his bed as he formed one last thought before drifting off to sleep. Just because those best friends didn't last, doesn't mean we won't. The last thing he heard before dropping into blackness was the sound of Ron snoring.

-->

22. Turning Point

Author’s Note: There is quite a bit of Latin in this chapter. I’m quite sure most of it is grammatically incorrect, so if you converse in Latin over the dinner table, please cut me a break J In general terms, the Latin only describes what you already know of the enchantment. It joins body, mind, and soul, together in a willing eternal union and if anyone breaks it their magic will be destroyed…..it just sounded a lot damn cooler in Latin!

The enchantment cast in this chapter is not entirely my own idea. Although I’ve made the casting and the phraseology etc. my own…I have to give credit where it’s due. I would probably never have come up with this idea or angle to the story had I not read Ebony’s Trouble in Paradise early in my HPFF musings. I don’t think this enchantment bears a great deal of resemblance to what she depicted, but the overall idea of the trio being magically bound together is hers.

Big thanks to Melissa and Jane for their expert beta-work. Your suggestions were wonderful, and as usual I just “accepted” every grammar change that was made…it’s important to know one’s limitations.

You will (hopefully) recognize a familiar location in this chapter. You will also bid farewell to at least one canon character – not saying which. As for the end of the chapter…it ends a rather long journey…well over 400 pages of it…as this roller coaster has finally crested the top of the last LONG drop (that will end at the end of chapter 24)…all I can say is this…

Please keep your hands and feet inside the car until the train has come to a complete stop.

VLeigh

Chapter 22 – Turning Point

Harry staggered down the stairs and flopped into the squashy sofa. His dreams had consisted of green-clad Slytherins running amok at Number 4 Privet Drive. Dudley, himself sporting the robes of the snakes, had Mark Evans hanging from the ceiling like a punching bag whilst he set upon beating the fire out of him.

The sun hadn’t thought to peek from the trees yet. It was only five o’clock in the morning, so the common room was deserted. The house fireplace contained the dying embers of a fire long forgotten. The waning moonlight streamed across the table where his books were piled. Harry, nearly catatonic from a persistent lack of rest, stared at them while attempting to force his body from the sofa to resume his studies. It was well into April and N.E.W.T. exams were approaching at breakneck speed. While Hermione managed to stay atop her studies with her infernal multi-colored homework planner, Harry’s had become little more than a paperweight. This is not to say he didn’t study — he studied with her, but he also had Quidditch practice and the crushing stress of the prophecy distracting him from his revision.

He closed his eyes and let his head fall back along the cushions. The weight that had taken up residence in his chest months ago grew heavier. He could feel the tension in every muscle of his body and couldn’t stop the constant flurry of activity that overloaded his brain and exhausted him. When he was thinking about the prophecy, he felt guilty for skiving off revising for the N.E.W.T.s. When he studied for N.E.W.T.s, he felt like he was signing his own death warrant. Quidditch practice always his mood. He left the pitch after each practice thinking of the time he’d wasted on a game, not preparing for either his exams or his fate. He hadn’t experienced a restful night’s sleep since the evening of the Valentine’s Dance, and on top of that, he couldn’t get Dumbledore’s words out of his head. He’d named Harry Head Boy and kept his residence among the other Gryffindors, because he felt Harry’s leadership would be vital this year. As he lay on the sofa, doing absolutely nothing, he wondered what kind of example he’d set.

His thoughts drifted to the heartening smile where they always ended eventually…Hermione. After the meeting with Dumbledore, Ron walked Merc back to Ravenclaw Tower, whilst Harry and Hermione returned to Gryffindor Tower alone. Hermione didn’t attempt to make conversation and Harry returned the favor. Taking advantage of the silence, he contemplated the discussion they’d just had in the Headmaster’s office and his refusal to allow the trio to cast the enchantment. The longer he thought about it, the more it agitated him. By the time they’d parted for bed, he’d made up his mind.

From their exchange before nodding off to sleep, Harry knew Ron agreed with him. But he’d yet to ask Hermione her opinion. This enchantment required three people, and if she was swayed by Dumbledore’s warnings, then Harry and Ron’s inclination to cast the enchantment in secret would be null. The fact she’d not exited his office in a fiery temper might have indicated her complicity with Dumbledore’s order. As he lay on the sofa thinking of her, half-formed images of a familiar scene floated across his field of vision.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione were side by side…an explosion of blinding green light…hands clasped together…a chilling laugh…Harry moving in front of the other two…a blood-curdling scream.

Harry’s eyes sprung open as his hand flew up from the sofa. He ran his palm over his heaving chest as if to prove it had only been a dream. As his breathing slowed, his brows furrowed in thought. He realized that it couldn’t have been a dream; he was awake. Before he could consider the possibility that he’d learned more in Divination than he’d imagined, the answer became evident.

“Harry!” a startled voice echoed across the room. Hermione was standing in a dressing gown at the foot of the dormitory staircase. Her hair was disheveled and her misty eyes matched the crimson of her robe. Finding the energy that eluded him before, Harry rose from the sofa and crossed the room. Hermione’s gaze remained steadfast to the floor as he wrapped his arms around her.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked. The breath she’d strangled in her throat escaped her lips as she relaxed against his chest.

“I didn’t want you to worry,” she squeaked as her tears began to soak his shirt. He pulled her closer and kissed the top of her head. They stood at the bottom of the staircase, holding each other, until her sobs quieted. Harry wanted so desperately to shield her from this…all of this. He didn’t want her to worry. He didn’t want her to be in danger. He didn’t want her to cry. More than anything, he didn’t want to lose her any more than he wanted to leave her widowed before they could speak their vows aloud.

He guided her to the sofa and they sat down together. He kept his arms wrapped firmly around her shoulders and she threw her legs across his, leaning her head against his chest as she wiped her tears with the back of her hand. “When did you start having this dream again?” he questioned.

“It’s been recurring here and there since the summer. But I’ve not had a night free of it since we started practicing the Deliquesco charm,” she sniffled. Harry was taken aback by her response. He hadn’t realized she’d been suffering any additional stress aside from the ones they’d all shared. He certainly hadn’t realized it had gone on so long. However, her confession answered a long bothersome question.

“That’s why you refused a kip on the couch when I asked you,” Harry stated. Hermione’s head bobbed along his chest in assent.

“When I passed out that night in the Room of Requirement, I’d already seen flashes of it. I knew when I fell asleep I’d relive it in its entirety.” She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her dressing gown. “I didn’t want you to know.” Her shoulders began to hitch as Harry held her close.

Harry was more upset with himself for not recognizing her distress than he was with her for not telling him about the dream. They sat on the sofa together, Harry’s hand lazily tracing along her arm as the two fell into companionable silence. Hermione’s shoulders eventually fell still and her breathing grew deep and relaxed. Although his legs had long since fallen asleep, Harry held her while she slept, hoping she’d find the few minutes of peace that had eluded him.

The morning sunlight eclipsed that of the moon and began to fill the Common Room with the warmth of spring. Harry felt sure the rumbling of his stomach would rouse Hermione, but so far she was still asleep. However, it wasn’t long until another roaring stomach joined him.

“This is cozy,” Ron said as he dropped into the squashy chair next to them. Harry shot him a reproving look and Ron threw his hands in the air in defense. “I’m only having you on,” he replied. “What happened?”

“I couldn’t sleep, so I came down to do some work.” Harry sighed and looked at Hermione who continued to rest peacefully in his arms. “She had a nightmare and came downstairs,” he said. “She didn’t know I was here.”

“Did she tell you what the nightmare was about?”

“I already knew. I’d seen it over the summer, the first time she’d had it.” Ron raised a suspicious eyebrow. “The three of us are holding hands and I step in front of you both to save you from the killing curse.”

Ron looked away and fidgeted his hands together. In an erstwhile attempt to lighten the mood he responded. “She always did say you had a ‘saving people thing,’” he replied with a forced chuckle. Harry, ignoring his failed attempt at humor, continued to stare into the fire. “You don’t think she’s seeing what he’s seeing, do you?”

Harry’s eyes darted to Ron’s. Although they’d spent seven years together, he was still stunned any time Ron or Hermione appeared to read his thoughts. “That’s what I’ve been thinking about.”

“And…,” Ron pressed.

“I don’t think so. In order for him to get to Hermione, he has to go through me.” Harry adjusted his arms around Hermione and laid his cheek on the top of her head. “I practice Occlumency on a regular basis now. I rarely feel the scar anymore.” Ron nodded his head and drew a breath. “I reckon it’s just another nightmare to her now.”

“It’s hardly just another nightmare,” a sleepy voice resonated against his chest. Harry pulled his head back and watched Hermione’s eyes flutter open as she yawned.

“Hi,” he whispered.

“Hi,” she replied.

“How are you feeling?” Harry asked.

“Better now that I got a little rest,” she answered. She rubbed the back of her hands against her eyes and glanced toward Ron. He was sitting forward in the chair with his elbows on his knees, staring at the two of them. “Good morning, Ron.”

“Morning,” he echoed her greeting. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine. I just have…well…a difficult time with that dream,” she lamented. Ron continued to look at her questioningly. “It brings back a few memories I’d rather do without,” she continued. Harry’s heart dropped as he remembered her experience on Privet Drive. Although he’d logged it as just another narrow escape and moved on, he realized Hermione was not likely to ever forget watching Harry fall victim to the deadliest curse of wizard-kind.

Looking for a reason to change the subject, he slid her off his lap and onto the sofa. “We’ll wait for you to change your clothes. Breakfast should be ready in the Great Hall,” Harry said. Hermione nodded and dragged herself up the stairs while Harry tried to rub the circulation back into his legs.

“What do you think?” Ron asked after watching her disappear up the dormitory staircase. Harry didn’t need an explanation.

“Dunno,” he replied, wincing at the pins and needles that radiated down his legs. “But it’s not like she’s never broken a school rule, is it?”

“Of course not,” Ron replied as his face broke into a grin. “She’s always had the misfortune to hang around with us.”

“Indeed.”

Thirty minutes later they settled themselves at the Gryffindor table and tucked in to breakfast. None of them spoke in great detail. Harry spent his time mentally practicing multiple versions of the same conversation.

“Listen Hermione, I know what Dumbledore said but we think he’s wrong.”

Right…because your judgment is clearly more astute than Albus Dumbledore’s…

“Ron and I have decided…”

Have you taken leave of your senses?

“Hermione, we need your help.”

“Why don’t you two just tell me what you’re up to?” Hermione broke through Harry’s thoughts as efficiently as she’d broken the silence.

“What are you on about?” Ron asked with noticeable hesitation.

“You’re up to something…both of you,” she replied, placing her fork on the table and crossing her arms over her chest.

Before Harry could respond, Ron’s discomfort got the best of him. “We need to set some ground rules in regard to this whole empathy thing, Hermione. It’s not right for you to just…”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Ron!” she scoffed. “This has nothing to do with empathic ability and everything to do with the look plastered across your faces.” Harry furrowed his eyebrows and looked around in a ridiculous attempt to assess the look on his own face. Not finding any answers, he inspected Ron’s expression and found him returning the favor.

”What look?” they chimed.

Hermione gave an impatient roll of her eyes and drew a breath. “The same look you’ve had the last fourteen times you’ve decided to do something stupid.” They snapped their heads toward each other and back to Hermione, whose penetrating stare had yet to be interrupted. Her eyes narrowed. “You want to do it anyway, don’t….”

“Shhhh,” Harry admonished. He could feel the eyes of the Headmaster penetrating the side of his face. He didn’t dare look toward the staff table for fear Dumbledore would see right through him. However, at the moment, the swift manner in which he’d silenced Hermione posed a greater threat. Her eyes were blazing. “We’ll talk about this, but let’s not do it here,” he added, inclining his head toward the staff table. Hermione held his gaze for a moment before picking up her fork and stabbing an unsuspecting sausage.

They finished their meal in silence. Ron then left his seat as Merc settled herself at the Ravenclaw table. Harry watched him drop onto the bench next to her and exchange a greeting with Luna. He and Merc spoke for a few moments before Ron rose from the table with a smile. After a quick peck to her cheek, he turned and gave Harry a significant look before leaving the Great Hall.

Harry wiped his mouth with a serviette and pushed his plate away. Hermione glanced up at him and followed his gaze toward Ron’s retreating figure. She took a final sip of her pumpkin juice and rose from the table. Harry joined her as they left the Great Hall and followed Ron’s trail out onto the front lawn.

Ron sat down under their favorite willow tree and plucked at the grass. “Is Merc coming out?” Hermione asked.

“No,” Ron replied. “She said she had some work to catch up on in the library.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Hermione replied, apparently thinking Ron was put off by her alternate plans.

“I’m not,” Ron replied. He looked between Harry and Hermione. “I’d rather she not know what we’re planning.”

Harry waved an imaginary insect from his face in order to avert his eyes from Hermione. “What exactly are we planning?” she questioned, continuing to stare at Harry. His eyes scanned the landscape and wandered back toward the castle entrance. Feeling assured no one was within earshot, he sat down next to Ron.

“Hermione,” he began. It hadn’t escaped his attention that she remained standing with her arms crossed over her chest. He thought of the hundreds of ways he’d practiced starting this conversation. Now that the moment was upon him, he realized what a waste of time it had been. “You know what we want to do. The only question is will you do it with us.”

Surprisingly, Hermione didn’t respond. She didn’t move, she didn’t speak, and she didn’t seem to breathe. Harry began to wonder if he’d said anything aloud or if he’d merely thought to say it. He glanced at Ron and saw that he, too, was looking at Hermione, clearly awaiting her answer. Harry followed Ron’s eyes back toward her as she flopped onto the grass in front of them.

“I don’t know,” Hermione lamented. “Dumbledore said we shouldn’t,” she continued. Harry dug little patches of grass with a twig while Ron grumbled next to him.

“Since when have we bothered about the rules?” Ron muttered. Harry felt, more than saw, the scathing glare this question elicited from Hermione. She sat up straight and batted her hair over her shoulder.

“And how many times have we nearly been killed, Ron?” she snapped. Harry couldn’t help but flinch at the implication.

“Yeah, well if we don’t do it, Harry will be killed for sure!” Ron replied as he yanked a tuft of grass from the ground and tossed it toward the lake. If Harry learned anything through his course of time at Hogwarts, it was to recognize the starting gun of a signature Weasley-Granger row. Such an event would plant them both in the corners of their own stubbornness and he’d never get anywhere.

“Listen,” Harry interjected before Hermione could respond. “This isn’t about me. It’s about all of us.” He looked between Ron and Hermione as their stance softened and they considered his statement. “We’re either resolved to do this together or we’re not.”

Silence fell between them as Harry’s words resonated in the air. Ron continued to pick at new blades of grass while Hermione watched the progress of a butterfly as it fluttered across the lawn. Just when he’d resigned himself to creating a Plan B, Hermione spoke.

“Well, if we’re going to do this, we’ll need a plan.” Harry felt his face light up as he and Ron all but tackled her together. Pushing them off of her in exasperation, she laughed, “geroff, me.” They pulled away and looked at her questioningly. She rolled her eyes and scoffed, “you knew I’d go along with you anyway. But, we’ll need to figure out when and where, and we need to figure out how we’re going to keep Dumbledore from finding out.” Before she’d even finished the sentence, Harry was waving his hand in front of her dismissively.

“I know just the place,” he said.

“I don’t see any reason to wait,” Ron added, glancing back toward the castle doors.

“And Dumbledore?” Hermione questioned. Harry and Ron looked at each other, each with equally blank expressions. Harry wasn’t sure there was a way to keep Dumbledore from knowing anything. However, he’d all but memorized the enchantment since first reading about it, and it didn’t appear to take a great deal of time. The trick wasn’t keeping their plan from Dumbledore; it was casting the charm before he had time to stop them. In such case, he reckoned Ron was right…the sooner the better.

“The place I’m thinking of is off Hogwarts grounds,” Harry began. “If we’re clever about it, we should be able to cast the enchantment before he finds out.”

“He’s going to be furious,” Ron added with a mischievous gleam in his eye. Harry was certain he was trying to lighten the mood, but his humor was lost on Hermione.

“I don’t care,” she whispered. “Not if it keeps Harry alive.”

***

Hermione tucked a zippered jumper into her bag as she glanced through the window. The sun hadn’t started its lazy descent in the sky so she was not in a panic yet. She, Harry and Ron returned to the castle to formulate their plan. Ron refused her suggestion that they work in the library, so they ended up working it out in the Common Room amid endless interruptions. Their progress was slow and the plan wasn’t completed until the waning hours of the afternoon. As it turned out, that was beneficial. The enchantment was supposed to be cast as the sun set. That left little time for her to overanalyze and rethink the decision she’d made that morning. She tugged the zipper on her bag closed and pulled the strap over her shoulder. Without realizing it, she ambled to the window and silently repeated the incantation from memory.

This enchantment was founded in ancient magic, so it was unlike any spell they had cast before. The incantation was complex. Parts of it were said by an individual while other parts were repeated in unison with Harry and Ron. She knew the spell had devastating effects if broken; she hoped it was more forgiving if the casters didn’t speak the words correctly. Either way, she wasn’t taking any chances. She’d repeated her portion of the incantation endlessly since they read it in detail this afternoon. She didn’t feel the need to encourage Harry and Ron to do the same. It appeared, from their diligence with the task, that they had the same concern she did. When they parted ways to gather their things, Ron was so lost in his own mutterings he tripped on his way up the stairs…something Seamus enjoyed whole-heartedly.

She watched the waning sun glisten off the rippling water in the lake and wondered where they’d be going this evening. They’d discussed everything as they worked through their plan, but Harry made little mention of the location he had in mind. When she asked him about it, several times, he merely told her that it was taken care of and she should bring a jumper. Needless to say, she was less than enthused. Her mind ran the gamut of possible locations and in the end, she knew only what she knew in the beginning…it was off Hogwarts grounds. What she didn’t understand was how they were going to get there by sundown when Harry assured them they still had time to eat supper in the Great Hall.

“Oh, my! Packing a bag are we?” a giggling voice asked. Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil burst into the room with little thought of who would be inside. Hermione, lost in her own musings, only vaguely recognized the voices of her bubbly roommates. She turned to find them both, with raised eyebrows, inspecting her at the window.

“So what if I am?”

“Nothing…nothing…” Parvati replied with a grin. “It’s just that you and your boys have been doing an awful lot of clandestine planning today.” Hermione rolled her eyes at the implication and straightened up.

“Putting in another late night?” Lavender asked with mirth.

“Why don’t you consult your inner eye and tell me,” Hermione glowered as she breezed past them and headed out the door. “Honestly,” she muttered to herself as she descended the stairs to the Common Room. She’d dealt with Lavender and Parvati for seven years and could generally stand their flippancy. But with the implications of The Plan looming over her head, she could scarcely imagine how anyone could be so carefree. She found it rather annoying.

“All right, Hermione?” Harry asked as she made her way across the Common Room.

“Fine,” she replied. “I can only take so much of Trelawney Junior and her seeing eye-dog.”

“Blimey,” Ron remarked. “You’re in a state.” Hermione cast a sideling glance at Ron and composed herself before succumbing to her temper. Starting a row with Ron would not be the least bit helpful to any of them.

“I’m just hungry,” she declared as she pulled open the portrait hole and stepped through. Harry and Ron followed her. They made their way to the Great Hall and were treated with the house elf specialty…roast duck. As much as she wanted to devour it, her stomach was in knots.

“I thought you said you were hungry,” Harry asked. Hermione realized she’d been doing little more than pushing a potato around the plate and put her fork down. Harry and Ron exchanged a concerned look and set their eyes upon hers. “Hermione,” Harry whispered. He reached across the table and took her hand in his. “Everything will be fine.”

Her shoulders relaxed as she felt the stress ebb from her. She’d spent the last few hours obsessing about The Plan and everything that could go wrong. Primary among her concerns was her own fear of making a mistake, followed closely by her anxiety regarding Dumbledore’s reaction should he find out what they’d done behind his back. Amid all of her apprehension, she’d failed to consider the one thing, quite literally, staring her in the face.

She wasn’t doing this alone. She was in the exact place she’d been so many times over the last seven years…beside Harry and Ron. Her eyes drifted to the redhead sitting next to Harry and his face broke into a warm smile. Echoing Harry’s sentiment, he added, “We’re in this together, Hermione. It’s going to be all right.” He winked at her and she couldn’t stop the chuckle that escaped her throat. “Now, eat something so you don’t screw it all up.”

Hermione would’ve jumped across the table at Ron had he and Harry both not exploded with laughter. It didn’t make it any better than Ron managed to mimic her audible mumbling with frightening clarity. He’d just finished echoing her derisive comments about “insensitive gits,” when Hermione realized he’d become anything but. The smile faded from his face as she realized his eyes were searching the table behind her with an obvious purpose.

“What’s the matter?” she asked. Ron shook his head and glanced toward the Great Hall’s entrance.

“Merc,” he replied. Hermione turned around to see what her friend was up to, only to find the explanation for Ron’s query. Merc wasn’t there. Before Hermione could offer an explanation, Ron voiced the same one. “She can’t still be in the library,” he said incredulously.

Hermione chuckled as her hunger revisited her. She took a bite of duck and replied, “Yes, she can.” Ron goggled at the reply while Hermione sipped her sunflower juice. “Merc doesn’t study much, but she takes N.E.W.T.s as seriously as I do. She just doesn’t want anyone to know about it.”

“Well, if we don’t want anyone to know about this, we’d best get moving,” Harry interrupted as he pushed his plate away and gave a furtive glance to the enchanted ceiling as the sun cast a brilliant palette of color across the sky.

Hermione took a roll from the basket and threw her bag over her shoulder as they rose from the table together. Hermione noticed, with some amusement, that Ron’s eyes continued to search the Ravenclaw table for any sign of Merc as they left the room. Hermione lagged a step behind Harry and Ron, as she had no idea where she was going. They quickly walked out of the castle and, when sure of their privacy, set off at a run toward the Quidditch pitch.

“Harry,” Hermione exclaimed as they ducked into the Gryffindor changing room. “The pitch is hardly a secluded place to do this!”

“Which is exactly why we’re not doing it here,“ he replied, pulling his wand from his robes and opening a locked cabinet at the far end of the room. Without further explanation, he pulled out Ron’s Quasar and quickly dove back into the closet to retrieve his Firebolt. “Come on, we haven’t much time,” he directed as Ron took off through the door onto the pitch. He took Hermione’s hand and pulled her through the door after him until the trio stood on the pitch together. “You know where you’re going, right?” Harry asked Ron.

“Right,” Ron replied.

Harry tapped his wand to Ron’s head and watched him shiver as a disillusionment charm enveloped him. “Then take off. It’s best if both brooms don’t leave together,” Harry instructed. For what she could see of him, Ron nodded his head and shot out of the pitch toward the northern edge of the grounds.

Fear settling in the pit of her stomach, it became all too clear what she would be expected to do next. “Harry,” her voice wavered.

“I’ll be right here the whole time,” he answered. He turned and tapped her head with his wand while muttering the disillusionment spell. She felt as though raw eggs were slipping over her scalp and down the neck of her robes. She couldn’t help but shiver at the sensation. Harry disillusioned himself and straddled the broom in front of her. “Come on,” he encouraged. “I promise not to go fast.”

Hermione threw one uneasy leg over his Firebolt and scoffed. “Your definition of fast and mine might not be the same.” He wrapped his arms around her as she felt her feet lose contact with the ground. The wind caught her hair as they rose from the pitch and turned northward. She was just about to feel comfortable with their progress when she felt his arms tighten around her. “Harry?”

“Just hold on, Hermione,” he replied. Knowing such a direction could not bode well, she squeezed her eyes shut and grasped the handle of the broom with deadly force. She would’ve screamed as he leaned her into the handle and sped across the sky, but the force of the wind against her chest made it nearly impossible to breathe. The only calming presence was that of Harry’s chest lying warmly along her spine. She realized after a few moments that his chin was settled on her shoulder and his cheek pressed against her ear. “This isn’t so bad, is it?” his voice broke through the rushing wind in her ear.

It quickly became clear why Harry kept the location part of The Plan a secret. Had she known she would’ve been flying there on an international standard racing broom, she surely would’ve been sick before ever leaving the ground. As it was, she wanted to hex him for keeping such an important piece of information from her. With her eyes as tightly shut as ever, she barked, “I could kill you!” She felt his chest bouncing along her back as he laughed. It did nothing to lighten her mood.

“Hermione,” he said in her ear. “Stop shielding me,” he directed. “Let yourself enjoy it a little. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

It was no secret to anyone how much she hated to fly. She wasn’t even sure why she felt that way. In part, she imagined she disliked it because she wasn’t very good at it. She would certainly never match the abilities of Harry, Ron, Merc, or even Ginny for that matter. It seemed everyone but Hermione loved to fly, and her friends all excelled at it. But even more disconcerting to her was the total lack of control she felt when she was in the air. She liked her feet on the ground for the sheer ability to control her own fate. Up here, she was either in her own less-than-capable hands or in the hands of whoever was riding with her. And being totally dependent on someone else was not a situation she cared for. Hermione was beginning to feel sick from the entire experience. She weighed her options and realized she could either throw up all over the man she pledged to love for an eternity, or take his advice and hope to assuage her stomach on his endorphins.

Begrudgingly, she chose the latter.

She took a deep breath and allowed his emotions to flood through her. She leaned back into him as her churning stomach began to subside and a smile broke across her face. Harry either felt what she was doing, or realized it from her response. “That’s my girl,” he chimed as he pulled the broom handle to the left and spun them in a circle. What normally would’ve caused Hermione to curse him, elicited a laugh instead. They cackled together as he playfully drove them toward their destination. Ahead of her, she saw a rocky cliff that overlooked the lake far below. She glanced behind her to see that Hogwarts was a mere aggregation of sparkling golden lights off in the distance. Ron, having already reversed his disillusionment charm, was preparing a fire as they set down. She swung her leg off the broom with a bright smile and dropped her bag by Ron’s side.

Ron looked up at them both as the fire grew in warmth and intensity. His eyebrows knitted together as he inspected their beaming faces. “You weren’t that far behind me,” he scoffed. Hermione, trying her best to look offended, slapped him on the shoulder and replied.

“Honestly, Ron! Can’t a girl enjoy a broom ride without you making a lewd suggestion?” She shivered as Harry reversed their charms as Ron had done.

“Sure, if it’s any girl but you. You hate flying, Hermione.”

“Well, Harry helped me out with that,” she answered. She turned to Harry who was laying his broomstick next to Ron’s and pulling on a hooded jumper. “Thank you,” she said. He wrapped an arm around her and placed a warm kiss on her temple.

“Anytime,” he answered with a smile. “Now that you’re properly relaxed, I believe we’ve got a task to accomplish.”

“Already started,” Ron answered poking his wand toward the fire so a great flame licked up toward the sky. Harry and Hermione walked toward him and dropped down on the ground. The sun hadn’t quite made contact with the horizon. The trio looked between the dancing flames and the drifting sunlight and fell into silence. They sat motionless, watching the sun sink lower in the sky, each immersed in their own thoughts.

She couldn’t speak for the other two, but there were more thoughts coursing through Hermione’s mind than she could categorize. Her life with Harry and Ron flashed before her eyes. She thought about their adventures, each playing in her mind’s eye as the setting sun cast ribbons of color through the clouds. She thought of the future they hadn’t experienced. She tried not to think of the prophecy and what lie ahead. Apparently, she wasn’t the only one lost in these musings.

“I just want to say,” Harry croaked. “In case I never get the chance…you two are…well, you’re…” He fell to silence, struggling to find the right words. Hermione grasped his hand in hers for support.

“It’s all right, mate,” Ron whispered. “We know.” Ron drew a breath and looked skyward. As he let the air leave his lungs, his eyes drifted to the sparkling lights of Hogwarts castle. “It seems like an eternity ago,” Ron muttered and returned his eyes to Harry and Hermione, “since we met on that train. So much has happened. So much has changed.”

“I don’t think all that much has changed,” Hermione whispered. Ron looked at her with the question stamped across his face. “No matter what has happened, no matter what’s changed…we’re still here. We’re still together. I don’t think anyone, not even Voldemort, could change that.” Ron nodded in appreciation.

“I guess that’s why this enchantment doesn’t scare me,” Harry added. “It’s always been the three of us. It will always be the three of us. What’s there to be afraid of?”

Hermione found the words she was sure Harry couldn’t voice. “I love you both,” she replied as she took Ron’s hand in her free hand. “If this is the key to making sure we all survive what’s coming, then I’m all for it. My life wouldn’t be as meaningful if I didn’t have you both.”

Ron cleared his throat, trying without much success, to give the appearance that the bonfire’s swirling smoke caused him to tear up. “Speaking of,” his voice wavered. He pointed his wand toward the sunset. “I reckon it’s time.”

They rose together and with a last glance to each other spaced themselves around the leaping bonfire and drew their wands. For all the attention Hermione gave the incantation, she had a fleeting thought as she looked between Ron on her left and Harry on her right (both partially obscured by the flames). She prayed that they had the ability to cast this charm, regardless of their ability to speak the incantation. It required the proper combination of body, mind, and soul dwelling within three wizards. While they’d assigned themselves the roles as they saw them…magic was an unbiased judge. Before she had time to give it additional thought, she heard Harry’s voice above the flames.

“Ad foederis a lex et tres paciscor.” He raised his wand skyward and stared into the flames. Hermione repeated the opening verse and raised her wand with Ron following her incantation similarly. A flame shot upward, breaking from the fire below and swirling into the air until it fell to graceful embers.

“Vinculum ter infinitas,” they spoke together lowering the tips of their wands into the raging fire before them. “Vinculum ter infinitas,” they repeated.

“Ad corpus,” Ron chanted as he pulled his wand from the fire and a blazing flame swirled high over the bonfire.

“Ad mentus,” Hermione answered similarly, her own wand alight with the bonfire’s flame.

“Ad animus,” Harry chanted. The three trailing flames crashed together above the bonfire producing a brilliant white flame that illuminated the ground as if by daylight.

“En oraculum votum a foederis coniuro,” Hermione chanted with the others. The flame from her wand was drawing closer to her hand. The heat was prickling the hair on her arm as her wand shuddered. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she wondered if they weren’t doing something wrong and their wands were being destroyed as a result.

“Annulo es tres ad foederis discerpo.” The flames were searing the skin on her hand as she grimaced and fought to keep pace with the others’ incantation. She desperately wanted to drop her wand and conjure a cooling charm.

“Ad perdo praesentia, ad perdo valeo, ad perdo vires,” she spoke through clenched teeth. It was all she could do to maintain her stance among the burning flames and violent shaking of her wand. As her body screamed for her to break the incantation, she caught a glimpse of Harry from her eye and wrapped her hand tighter around her burning wand.

“Ad corpus.” She felt tempered relief to hear the strain in Ron’s voice as well.

“Ad mentus,” she gasped.

“Ad animus.” Harry’s voice sounded similarly strained.

“Ad foederis a lex et tres paciscor,” they repeated together. The flames from the bonfire leapt skyward and joined the blinding white light that sat above it. “Ad foederis a lex et tres paciscor.” The bonfire cackled as the piercing light shuddered down to the base of the flames. “Ad foederis a lex et tres paciscor.” It took all the strength Hermione had to repeat the final incantation. She dared not look at her hand, inevitably swallowed by the fire from her wand. The three of them pulled their wands down, snapping the contact created by their flaming wands, and gasped as the swirling column of light plummeted into the bonfire. Hermione dove to her left, behind a rocky outcropping, as the bonfire exploded behind her, sending fiery embers in a shower over the sky. She realized quickly someone was beating her back. She looked up to see Ron, who’d apparently sought the same shelter, whipping his cloak against her.

“Ron?” she shouted in confusion.

“You’re on fire!” he barked as he continued to swing his cloak through the air. Before Hermione had time to panic, it was over. “There,” he said, gasping for breath. “It’s all right,” he declared as he helped her to her feet. Harry was coming around the remains of the bonfire, brushing himself off.

“Are you both all right?” he panted.

“Yes,” they echoed.

“Right. Let’s not do that again,” Ron said in relief.

***

“Read it again, Daddy!”

“Not tonight, sweetheart. It’s past your bedtime.” A warm smile crossed the face of a dark-haired man. His face seemed aged beyond his years and his eyes were tired. His right hand showed the scar of a long forgotten chemical burn. His stubble tickled her cheeks as he kissed her goodnight. He leaned across the bed and extinguished the lamp with a swish of his wand. “Sleep well, Mercury. You have a big match tomorrow.”

She smiled as her father pulled the door to her room closed and quietly trod down the steps. Merc lie in her bed watching the shadows dance across her ceiling. She did have a big match tomorrow. The Sheffield Starlights were set to battle for the Seven Year Old Wee Witches Cup at noon.

She turned over and looked at her broomstick, sitting idly in the corner of her room. Her eyes drifted to a well-memorized picture of a striking witch with both arms wrapped around an obvious bulge in her tummy. She laughed and fluttered about in the frame as a young version of her older brother continued to walk in and out of the photo. Her eyes continued to inspect her quiet room. Quidditch trophies and flying ribbons littered her shelves and reminded her of the task she was supposed to be falling asleep to prepare for. But she couldn’t help it. Her father had made the cardinal mistake in reading her tonight’s bedtime story.

She flopped over in her bed and picked up the toy wand she’d stuffed between the mattress and box spring. It wasn’t good for much, but it had a weak Lumos spell that worked well in a darkened bedroom. She flicked the wand until it lit the space before her and reached for the book her father left on the nightstand.

Although she was an above average reader, the stories in this book were a bit beyond her reach. Rather than an anthology of fairy tales and children’s stories, this book contained mythological tales grounded in the roots of magical and muggle history. Among her favorites were the Greek stories recounting the trials of Persephone, Hercules, and Athena. She loved to hear her father talk about her mother as if she were Aphrodite herself. She relished in the tales of the meddling goddess of love. Bearing homage to her nickname, her father usually read her the story of Hermes (or the Roman god Mercury) before key Quidditch matches. But tonight she’d managed to divert his attention to the other stories at the back of the book.

The final few chapters were composed of mythological tales from cultures aside from ancient Greece or Rome. Although read less frequently, she enjoyed the stories of the Egyptians, the Norse, the Chinese, the Native Americans, and even the early Arabic cultures. It seemed every muggle culture had devised explanations for things that were difficult to explain. Many of them drifted closer to the truth than the world’s wizarding ministries would care to admit. But tonight she’d been intrigued by a muggle tale she’d never heard before.

She flipped the book open and turned the pages until she got to the back of the book. Struggling to decipher the words, she settled on searching for the pictures she’d gazed upon while hearing her father recount the story. Her hand stopped on the familiar pages he’d just read. It was a tale of crazed warrior men who charged into battle with little care for their safety or well-being. Their solemn glory was to die on the battlefield for the cause they’d chosen to honor. The illustrations showed them without armor, without cover, many without proper clothing and bare-chested in the waxing moonlight. Others deliberately wore shirts made of scratchy hairs and fibers, turned inside out, to send them into an uncomfortable frenzy.

The muggle history books could scarcely explain the existence of such formidable warriors. The “berserkers,” as muggle history would dub them, inspired the very essence of fear on a battlefield. They fought without conscience or consequence. Regardless of their lack of protection, they seemed to kill more muggles than could ever kill them. Medieval muggles even added the word “berserk“ to their vocabulary to describe them. That word was still used today. Merc reckoned that was why this story captivated her. It was the explanation of the origin of a word that reminded her of the nickname her father had chosen for her.

As Merc leafed through the pages, she saw the same men depicted with wands in hand. What the muggles didn’t know, and couldn’t have understood any better than they comprehended the existence of a berserker itself, was that these men were wizards. They used charms and enchantments to protect them on the battlefield and willingly fought wizards and muggles alike. They had little concern for their prey as long as they were victorious in the end. They were fearless. They were ruthless. They were legend. She stared down at an illustration of a berserker. His wand was clutched in his hand, his cold grey eyes leapt from the page as his long raven hair floated carelessly in the midnight air. She felt herself falling into the depths of his soulless glare when the sound of an opening door startled her.

“I said it’s past your bedtime,” Madam Pince scoffed as Merc picked her head up off the table. Her books were splayed across the table and her right cheek mirrored the creased paper of her Charms text. Her heart was hammering in her chest, her brain racing toward an answer that had eluded her for hours.

“I’m sorry,” Merc replied as she stifled a yawn. “I should go.”

“Too right,“ Madam Pince snapped as she returned to shelving the stack of books in her arms. Merc began to gather her things, all the while replaying the memory she’d relived in her dream. Admittedly, it was an odd dream. She’d never spent much time reliving childhood memories in her sleep. But something about this was bothersome. It wouldn’t allow her heart rate to return to normal. It wouldn’t keep the sweat from breaking through her palms. She searched for an answer, racking her brain for clues from the dream as it faded into oblivion.

Frustrated, she muttered, “I’ve lost my mind. These N.E.W.T.s will surely land me in St. Mungo’s before it’s all over.” She shoved her books into her bag and recapped the bottle of ink next to her quill. She gave a fleeting glance to a nearby window and realized the sun had long since set. “Great, I missed dinner too,” she growled as her stomach rumbled. She tossed her bag over her shoulder and began walking toward the library’s massive mahogany doors. Faced with the prospect of a hungry evening, she continued to deride herself. “I mean what do Norse fairy tales have to do with Charms?”

That stopped her dead in her tracks.

She stood in the middle of the library, staring with unseeing eyes at the door in front of her. Time seemed to derail itself as she turned in place. Students were studying in slow motion. A balled up bit of parchment flew lazily toward a bin. Her mind worked at a frenzied rate to wrap itself around the truth that burst so obviously into her mind.

“Are you all right, dear?” Madam Pince’s voice echoed from some distant source far away. “I said, are you all right?” It grew louder. She forced her mind to the present and saw the librarian looking at her with a mix of concern and confusion.

“Er, yeah. I’m fine,” she replied.

Madam Pince huffed with indignation. “I doubt that. I’ve seen it before. On the verge of a breakdown you are. You should see Madam Pomfrey straight away.” She walked off, muttering about the undue stress of the N.E.W.T. exams. Merc barely heard any of it. N.E.W.T.s were the last thing on her mind right now.

Just as quickly as her mind had slipped out of gear, she regained her composure. Her head snapped to the end of the book stacks where the History texts were compiled. She tossed her bag on a nearby table and bolted for the last row on the left. As she hurried along the bookshelf, her fingers played on the spines of the shelved tomes. Her eyes darted from one title to another, rapidly searching for the book that would confirm the rationale for the pit that opened in her stomach.

Her index finger trailed along a text bound in blue leather entitled, “Where Muggles Meet Magic: A Historical Discussion of Cultural Mythology.” She flopped onto the floor and quickly searched the index for her quarry. Finding the entry marked, “Norse Berserkers,” she turned to page 639 and her eyes flew across the page.

As she read, her heart jumped in her chest. Her breath grew short and rapid. Her finger shook as she scanned it along the paragraphs with increasing celerity. As she reached the final sentence, she looked up with blind eyes and spoke her thoughts aloud. “Riley’s right. He’s been here the whole time.”

Giving little consideration to the sanctity of a library volume, she tore the page from the binding and leapt from her place on the floor. Without stopping to gather her things, she raced through the library entrance with one thought controlling her legs.

***

“So, do you reckon it worked?” Ron asked. Hermione was looking at her wand hand, trying to determine if her eyes were deceiving her. It looked perfectly normal. It felt as good as ever. Yet only minutes ago, when fighting to maintain her will against a searing flame, she was sure it had been engulfed in the fire. She rolled her wand over her palm, inspecting it for some mark to convince her they’d cast any enchantment at all. There was nothing awry. She glanced around, noting the dying embers of the fire Ron conjured but seeing little else to confirm their activity at all.

“I dunno,” Harry replied. She noticed he was engaged in the same activity, gazing at his wand with an incredulous expression.

“I don’t feel any different,” Ron continued.

“Maybe we should try a spell,” Harry offered. “Hermione? What do you think?”

“Huh?” she replied, only vaguely understanding he’d asked her a question.

“I asked what you thought…about testing a spell to see if the enchantment worked,” Harry reiterated.

“Er, yeah,” she replied, shaking herself from her reverie and getting to her feet. The others followed suit. She walked toward the dying fire and was joined by Harry and Ron at her side. “What kind of spell?” she questioned.

“Well,” Harry mused. “It shouldn’t matter should it? This enchantment is supposed to concentrate our magical ability. Seems like any spell we use should tell us, provided we know how powerful it was before.”

“Well, I’m not volunteering for a stunner this time,” Ron said. Hermione snapped her head toward his. He threw his hands in the air in submission. “Just in case,” he added. Harry chuckled next to Hermione and looked around for inspiration.

“What about this?” Harry picked up a rock and set it upon the rocky outcropping overlooking the lake. “Ron, transfigure this into a mouse.”

“Er, Harry,” Ron hesitated. “Transfiguration is not exactly a strong suit for me.”

“That’s my point. It is a strong suit of Hermione’s. Go on, give it a go,” he encouraged. Ron pulled out his wand and pointed it toward the rock. With a swish and flick he mumbled the incantation and the rock shuddered as it burst into a two foot long rat. It jumped from the outcropping and streaked across the ground toward Ron’s foot.

Before Ron could hop away to safety, Hermione jabbed her wand in its direction and shouted, “finite incantatem!” The rat disappeared, leaving only the stone skidding across the ground.

“Thanks for that,” Ron gasped. Hermione burst into laughter at the look on his face and was quickly joined by Harry. They could barely hear Ron over their own cackling as he wondered aloud. “So does that mean it worked?” The question sent Hermione into another fit of giggles such that her eyes began to water.

“I think that means it worked, Ron,” she replied between laughs.

“We could test a stunner on you,” Harry added, wiping the tears from his own eyes.

“No, thank you.” Ron kicked the rock over the edge of the cliff and stalked to where he’d lain his bag down.

“Well, one thing is for certain,” Hermione said, regaining her composure. “If I didn’t imagine all of that, there’s no way the whole of Hogwarts didn’t see that light. I wouldn’t have believed it happened if I wasn’t still seeing spots.”

“You think Dumbledore knows?” Ron asked, pulling a jumper from his bag. Before Harry could answer he heard the gentle rush of wings settle on a branch behind him. He closed his eyes and waited, not for the soft hoot of Hedwig, but for the warming warble of a brilliant crimson phoenix.

“Fawkes,” Hermione said in awe. “What does that mean?”

“It means it’s time to go back to the castle. Dumbledore doesn’t like for his students to be this far away from the grounds at night.” As if he’d said the magic words, Fawkes gave a solemn blink of his eyes and took to the skies again.

“How do you know that?” Hermione questioned. Harry walked to his broomstick and beckoned her over.

“Let’s just say I’ve heard that before.” She gazed at him with curious eyes. “One day, remind me to tell you the story of the last trip I took up here,” he mumbled as she gathered her bag and ambled to where he stood.

“Ready then?” Ron asked, floating up to where Hermione stood on the ground. She was about to send him on when she felt her eyes glaze over. She could feel it coming, and she was helpless to stop it. It was too much; it was too strong…there were so many. “Hermione?” Ron’s concerned voice echoed in her head.

When it hit her, it knocked her clear off of her feet. She crumpled to the ground and gasped for breath. In a second, she felt Harry and Ron at either side of her. Although their hands clamped around her arms, they didn’t try to move her. They didn’t even speak. The shock of their behavior was enough to clear her thoughts. She raised her eyes and looked at them. They both had their eyes closed and seemed to be laboring under the same enemy as she was.

Harry, no doubt using his Occlumency techniques, shook his head and opened his eyes. While Ron’s were still squeezed shut, Harry quickly turned his attention to Hermione. “Shield it, Hermione,” he ordered.

“It’s too strong,” she gasped. She could feel herself slipping into the chasm Madam Pomfrey had warned her about when first introducing the concept of shielding. If Hermione couldn’t shield herself from a certain emotion, be it positive or negative, she would be unable to control it and fall victim to whatever will the emotion dictated. She felt the anger welling inside her. Her blood began to race with hatred and fear.

“Hermione, look at me,” Harry implored. “Fight it!” She shook her head as her eyes flashed with rage. She leapt to her feet, knocking both of them away from her, admonishing herself to find her wand so she could unleash an unforgivable curse. Somewhere in the deep recesses of her brain, buried beneath the anger, Hermione begged herself to stop. She knew she was losing the battle. “Ron,” Harry’s voice called out in desperation. “Help me!” Ron appeared in her blurred field of vision and stood next to Harry. “She needs our help to shield it.” Ron and Harry closed their eyes and Hermione suddenly felt lighter. The fury ebbed to a manageable level. She could feel Harry and Ron’s presence beside her as she struggled with the onslaught of emotion. “That’s it, Hermione,” Harry’s voice encouraged. “Fight it!”

She worked to construct the imaginary fortress around her mind that Madam Pomfrey had given life to. As she assembled it, brick by brick, the anger washed from her blood. Before she knew it, her knees exploded in pain. She had collapsed onto the rocky surface, her chest heaving from exhaustion.

Ron and Harry ran to her side and held onto her. “Hermione?” Ron gasped. “Hermione? Are you okay?” It was all she could do to nod her head as she gasped for air. They helped her to her feet and she raised her head until the unmistakable green eyes of Harry Potter met hers.

“Does it always feel like that?” he questioned, his face etched with relief and worry at the same time. She would’ve smiled at the memory of a similar question she’d once asked him if she felt anything about this situation was heartening.

“No,” she replied, finally managing to calm her thumping heart. Just as she was about to embellish the answer, their eyes were drawn to the flashing beams of light careening about the lawns of Hogwarts castle.

“Bloody hell! What’s that about?” Ron exclaimed.

“Oh my god,” Hermione whispered, the full realization of her episode crashing through her. “There are so many of them!” she gasped. That was all she needed to say. The trio raced to where Harry and Ron had discarded their brooms and mounted them simultaneously. Ron shot from the cliff with Harry and Hermione following closely behind.

With strategy born of the Quidditch captaincy, Ron pressed his broom low enough to the lake to drag his feet in the water. Harry followed suit, leaning Hermione closer to the broom handle to increase his speed. Shielding her emotions in this case meant blocking Harry’s as well. She was on her own to maintain her composure at the breakneck speeds they were flying.

Reaching the edge of the lake, they pulled up sharply and careened over the canopy of the dark forest. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, redoubling her efforts to shield the emotions saturating the air. She looked down at the ground below. To her horror the very earth beneath them seemed alive. Hundreds of stalking bodies were making their way through the thinning trees, their wands leveled at the castle.

As easily as she’d detected their presence, they noted hers. “Ron! Look out!” she screamed as a blast of red light jumped from the trees and flew toward the twigs of Ron’s broomstick. Without answering, he threw his weight to the right and pulled the handle of his Quasar around. He’d managed to miss the stunner by a matter of inches. But that was the least of their problems.

Now that the ground forces had been alerted to their presence, the forest erupted with multi-colored beams of light. Some marked Ron’s broom, while others sped directly for Harry’s Firebolt. “Hold on!” Harry barked as he dodged a purple jet of light and weaved through two stunners. Ron was flying similarly, bobbing and dodging the rays of light as they continued to fly from the trees. “Ron, pull up!” Harry shouted. The higher they flew, the more time they had to see the curses coming.

Whether Ron heard him over the flurry of whizzing hexes or not, it didn’t matter. Ron pulled up and flew toward the Astronomy Tower. Harry pressed Hermione flat against the handle and sped to catch him. Just as they reached the back of his Quasar, it ignited in orange flame.

“Shit!” Ron barked as he struggled to keep his broom steady.

“Ron!” Harry yelled, unable to offer any assistance. “Get to the tower!”

Ron managed to get his broom over the Astronomy Tower’s wall but lost control thereafter. He pummeled into the stoned observation deck and skidded into the wall, his broom tail still flickering with orange flames. Harry and Hermione dropped to the floor and scrambled off the Firebolt. As they dropped to his side, magical alarms sounded throughout the castle. The din was deafening.

The floor shook beneath them. They’d seen Hogwarts lockdown once before, when Sirius had managed to gain entry to the castle. Hermione recognized the distant sound of metal works as the tumblers and cross bars of every door sealed themselves against outside intrusion. The problem was, they were on the roof…and no one knew about it.

A familiar voice sounded above the foray of crashing metal doors and wildly cast spells. “Tha’ door’s open! Get back ter the castle you lot! Run fer it!” Harry and Hermione pulled Ron to his feet as they raced to the tower’s edge to watch the scene below.

Hagrid had been conducting a twilight Care of Magical Creatures class…presumably to show a class of fourth years the luminous qualities of nocturflies. They watched as several students ran across the lawn to the one open door still spilling light onto the castle grounds. The scene had a quality eerily reminiscent of their Astronomy practical O.W.L. when Umbridge and her cronies had attacked Hagrid under the cover of darkness.

Several hooded figures darted out of the woods toward the open door. Most of the students were nearly there. One of the hooded wizards shot a stunner toward the group of frenetic students only to have Hagrid land a well-aimed arrow in his chest. The advancing intruder was knocked clear off his feet and moved no more. Hermione’s hand flew to her mouth as they continued to watch the scene. All but three of the class had made it through the castle doors when one tripped.

It was a girl. They could hear her scream as the sound of her popping ankle carried all the way to their perch on the tower. Hagrid quickly turned to see her lying defenseless on the ground. Two more hooded figures sent stunners toward her but Hagrid was closer to her position. He threw himself in front of the streaming red light and was knocked backward. He stirred quickly and scrambled to pick up the girl. Hesitating momentarily, probably in astonishment that Hagrid was still moving, the hooded figures failed to make it to the castle doors before the half-giant could throw her inside. Not having enough time to scramble in the doors himself, he pulled them shut in front of him, securing the safety of his class and leaving himself alone with an advancing onslaught of enraged attackers.

“Yer not getting’ in this castle if it’s the las’ thing I do!” Hagrid bellowed, completely helpless to make good on his threat. Hermione could hear the clamor of the door locking at his back. The advancing horde slowed to a walk and a lone figure emerged at the front of the skirmishing line.

He spoke in a voice too low to hear from the tower. The trio exchanged worried looks as Harry pulled his wand from his robes. “No,” Hermione hissed. “Hagrid wouldn’t want you to give our position away!”

“But we have to do something, Hermione,” Harry snarled.

“Harry, please,” Hermione begged. She was about to launch into a litany of reasons why trying to save Hagrid from the top of the Astronomy Tower was doomed to failure, but the sound of Harry’s name issuing from Hagrid’s mouth redirected their attention to the scene below.

“I told yer! I dunno where ‘arry is, and I wouldn’ tell yer if I did!” The hooded figure spoke in hushed tones again. He leveled his wand at Hagrid as the other attackers did the same. “I’m not afrai’ o’ death, an I’m certainly not afraid o’ you!”

“Oh, Hagrid,” Hermione moaned as she clutched Harry’s arm with an ever-tightening grip. “Don’t argue with them,” she begged.

The cloaked form’s voice grew cold and serious. They strained to hear his demand but could not make out any of the words. Hagrid’s response left little room for interpretation. “Lily an’ James died fer him…Sirius died fer him…Tha’s right good comp’ny, that is! I’ll gladly die before tellin’ you lot where ter find ’im!”

Harry would’ve leapt from the top of the Astronomy Tower had it not been for Ron and Hermione holding him back. Between the eruption of voices below, Hagrid’s taunting voice, and Harry’s desperate scream, it was amazing Hermione heard the words at all. But they were as unmistakable as the flash of green light reflecting off Harry’s anguished face. When the voices quieted, all that could be heard was the echo of Harry’s tortured voice resonating a single word from the castle walls.

“Noooooo!”

As if things couldn’t get any worse, Harry was rooted to the spot, staring down at a figure Hermione couldn’t stand to think about. But she felt the triumph in their hearts. They knew where he was…and they were coming. “Harry!” she jerked on his arm. “We have to move! Now!” she screamed, tugging him backward. Ron joined in the effort and they pulled him bodily toward the door. Hermione slapped her hand along her body, trying to find the wand she’d lost track of on the cliff. Not having the time to search for it, she snatched Harry’s from his hand and tried to open the door. “Alohomora!”

Nothing happened. She and Ron tried it together. Still nothing. Hermione felt the panic rise within her as the sound of approaching brooms drew closer. They were as good as dead up here. They couldn’t outrun them on brooms…there were too many. They couldn’t get into the castle, it was sealed. This battle was going to take place on the top of the Astronomy Tower and Harry was completely unprepared.

“Harry!” She yelled as she shook him by the arms. His blank stare was still fixed on the place he’d been standing only seconds ago. He wouldn’t budge; he didn’t look away. He appeared to be in shock. As her terror became palpable, she looked over her shoulder and saw the first hooded figure appear above the tower wall. In a split second, the wizard drew his wand and was quickly joined by a throng of cloaked attackers.

Thinking of nothing better to do, she opened her mouth to scream just as a flash of crimson fire erupted in front of them. Still clutching Harry, she managed the presence of mind to grab onto Fawkes’ tail with her free hand. In a flash of warm fire she found herself sprawling across the staircase landing on the opposite side of the Astronomy Tower’s door with Ron and Harry skidding along the flagged stone next to her.

As a flurry of raging fists pounded on the door, she and Ron clamored to their feet and grabbed Harry. They set off at a run down the tower stairs and raced along the darkened corridor. Although they were back inside the castle, they were far from safe. As she ran past the hundreds of paintings lining the walls, one thing became clear. They couldn’t go to the Common Room…not a single portrait’s occupant could be seen within its frame.

23. Five Days

Author’s Note: My heartfelt THANK YOU to my fab betas (Melissa and Jane) who turned this around so quickly in an effort to get this chapter posted before flying off to the “Big D” to convene the first ever meeting of the TOV!

22 hours and 30 minutes….

The history teacher in me couldn’t help but be excited that I finally got to the long planned history lesson in this chapter. Special recognition to Sweetman (Eric) from the Snitch – who I believe is on the TOV too – who figured this plot twist out as soon as I planted it – probably 250 pages ago. I think a few others have suspected it along the way…but Eric came right out with it in a review.

Here’s your “hidden agenda,” Eric. I hope you like it.

If you follow my LJ you know that I’ve undertaken the challenge of the National Novel Writing Month (all of the TOV has). That challenge starts in November. Hence…I have made a promise that The Triumvirate of Resolve will be complete by October 31, 2004. Happy Halloween!

Only one chapter to go after this…the light at the end of the tunnel grows brighter.

Chapter 23 – Five Days

Harry, Ron, and Hermione flew down the corridor in silence. They spun around corners and ran along the corridors until it was apparent to Hermione that they had no idea where they were going.

She was disconcerted by the fact that every bustling portrait was devoid of its occupant, but she was terrified of something else…there were no doors in the corridor! Classroom doors, lavatory doors, even the broom closets where she’d evicted multitudes of snogging couples were replaced with smooth stone walls that left no indication a door ever existed. Equally perplexed, the three slowed to a halt and stood, dumbfounded, in the ninth floor corridor.

“What do we do now?” Hermione panted. Ron turned in place while Harry absentmindedly ran his hand along the corridor wall. A shiver ascended Hermione’s spine as she struggled to find a solution and none presented itself.

“What about the Room of Requirement?” Ron suggested. Hermione couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of it sooner. But there was a critical question that leapt to her mind as soon as Ron mentioned the secret room.

“Do you think the door will open?” she asked.

“I dunno,” Ron replied. He looked to Harry as if to ask his opinion and appeared to think better of it. He inclined his head toward him and Hermione looked around. She expected Harry to be as frightened as she was; she expected him to be sorrowful over the loss of Hagrid. At the very least, she expected him to be concerned about their situation. What she found, however, was none of the above.

Harry’s face was a complete blank. He broadcast no emotion whatsoever. He didn’t appear the least bit concerned the castle was under attack, nor did he reflect any anger or sorrow over what he’d just witnessed. He was nothing but an empty shell, emotionless, drained…waiting for the inevitable.

No amount of advancing Death Eaters could have inspired the fear that rose from her soul as she looked upon his hollow eyes.

“Harry?” she inquired. She cast a fleeting look toward Ron when Harry didn’t respond. “Harry,” she reiterated as she reached out for the hand dangling by his side. He might have been mistaken for catatonic had he not squeezed his eyes closed when she grasped his hand in hers. Before she had the opportunity to pounce at his reaction, a resounding explosion echoed through the corridors and the floor shook beneath them. Her head snapped around and her eyes peered down the darkened path they had just traversed. The cacophony of approaching footsteps set her heart hammering inside her chest.

“Run!” Ron shouted. Hermione, still clutching Harry’s hand in hers, took off at a sprint down the corridor, pulling him along behind her. They reached a crossroad as a group of Death Eaters thundered down the corridor behind them. A stream of red light shot past Hermione’s head and exploded into the corridor wall ahead of her. She screamed, more from the fright of hearing the spell whiz past her ear than watching it blacken the remaining stone. Harry’s arm descended around her shoulders and pulled her down a connecting corridor. The three ran toward a darkened spiral staircase. The farther they scrambled down the winding stairs, the better Hermione felt. She couldn’t hear the Death Eaters behind them. She couldn’t feel their heightened emotions beating a dirge against her psyche. She managed to catch her breath as she realized they’d lost them.

If ever there was a time Hermione hated being wrong….

They dropped onto the eighth floor landing and turned down the east corridor. Harry, who had managed to take the lead, slid to a halt as a dozen cloaked figures approached from the shadows ahead. Instinctively, they turned to run in the opposite direction and saw a near mirror image approaching from behind. The thunderous roar from the stairs above could mean only one thing.

They were trapped.

Hermione’s mind went blank. She couldn’t think, nor could she react. She understood they were outmatched ten to one, but she was helpless to surmise a defense. She realized her hand had turned ice cold but it was sweaty, because the heat from Harry’s hand, still grasped in hers, was the only thing warming her. She felt the cold stone of the corridor wall through her robes as both Harry and Ron stepped in front of her. The boys exchanged a pointed glance and Ron grabbed Hermione’s other hand. The familiarity of that, more than anything else, roused her from her mental paralysis.

Hermione stood tall and stepped between the boys, presenting a united front to the Death Eaters whose heckling had already begun to resonate from the corridor walls. Neither predator nor prey required introductions; they’d all met before.

“We should thank the little hero for our stroll down memory lane.” The unmistakable voice of Bellatrix Lestrange echoed from the corridor walls, followed closely by the cackles of her advancing cohort. “It has been some time since I’ve been in these corridors after hours.”

“Let’s hope the head boy doesn’t give us detention,” a deep voice chided from beside her. Darkened figures blotted Hermione’s vision along every viable means of escape. In front of them, five Death Eaters, led by Lestrange, approached. They drew to a halt mere feet from where the trio stood. Through stubbornness of will, Hermione kept her eyes trained on Lestrange and her back straight, but it wasn’t lost on Hermione that her hands were shaking uncontrollably. It was obviously clear to Harry and Ron as well. They tightened their grip as that of a vice and Harry’s voice soon filled the silence between them.

“What do you want?” he asked. The dark figures running the length of the corridor exploded in laughter. Lestrange threw her head back with such mirth that her hood slipped down to her shoulders revealing the same darkened face Hermione had once memorized from the pages of the Daily Prophet.

“That’s the problem with education today,” Lestrange said, wiping a tear from her eye. “These professors will have you believe there’s no such thing as a stupid question.” Her audience bellowed again. She took a menacing step toward Harry. “The Dark Lord has come for you, Potter.”

Hermione couldn’t contain the shiver that slipped through every cell in her body. The moment she realized the castle was under attack, she knew that the prophesied battle was close at hand. But something about hearing Lestrange verbalize Voldemort’s intentions gave the prospect a chilling finality. What’s more, it was a finality she wasn’t willing to accept. “Well, he can’t have him.” For a fleeting moment Hermione thought to look for the source of those words…until she realized it was her own voice mingling among the laughter of the assembled Death Eaters.

“Enough talk, Bellatrix,” the same deep voiced man barked. Hermione could see enough of his features beneath the cloak to recognize him as Antonin Dolohov. He advanced toward them. Hermione, remembering her last duel with Dolohov, instinctively stepped back until she was leaning against the wall. Harry and Ron, still holding her hands, moved in front of her as the remaining Death Eaters closed their distance as well.

“No!” Lestrange shouted as Dolohov raised his wand. She threw up her hand and knocked his wand to the floor. “I gave my oath to the Dark Lord that I would not allow this boy to escape me for a third time. The glory will be mine…” she locked eyes with Harry, “…and mine, alone.” The rest of the Death Eaters in the corridor halted their advance and waited for Lestrange to take the lead. She leveled her own wand toward the trio as her eyes sparkled with excitement.

“You can’t kill me,” Harry said flatly. Both Hermione and Ron snapped their heads toward his. For one, Hermione couldn’t believe his arrogance. They were outnumbered, trapped, and facing a throng of Death Eaters far more skilled in the dark arts, and Harry had the audacity to challenge Lestrange. “Unless you’d like to steal that glory from your master.” Hermione tried to crush his hand in hers if only to get him to shut up.

“I have no intention of killing you,” Lestrange replied as her wand flicked toward Ron and Hermione. Ron straightened up and Hermione felt the breath escape her lungs. Lestrange jabbed her wand along Ron’s throat, forcing him back against the wall where he stood next to Hermione. They were holding each other’s hand so tightly she was sure they’d cut off the circulation to their own fingers. “I’m so indecisive. Which one should it be, Potter? The redhead or the mouse?”

Before Hermione could gasp the breath that eluded her, Harry’s wand erupted with a streaming jet of light. She’d barely heard the incantation, but recognized the impedimenta jinx as she watched Lestrange hurdle through the air. She landed with a sickening thud against the opposite wall and slid into a heap at the foot of the gathered Death Eaters. Dolohov ran to where she lay. She was already struggling to her feet when he attempted to help her stand. She threw his arms off of hers and glared at Harry across the distance. The sanctity of silence was absolute. For a seemingly interminable moment, no one spoke or moved.

Hermione looked from one opponent to the next. Lestrange was livid. Her eyes flashed with a raw hatred Hermione had never seen before. The emotion was so consuming it wafted from her as aroma from morning coffee. The impact of her fury on Hermione was in direct contrast to Harry’s disposition. From him, Hermione felt nothing. Even though his shoulders were squared and his eyes burned with indignation, she couldn’t feel the emotions that were driving him. Hermione worked to break through his shield when Lestrange’s voice distracted her.

“You had your chance,” she growled. Before Hermione could react, Lestrange’s gray eyes burned through her own. Time seemed of no consequence. The world as Hermione knew it slowed to geologic pace. As she watched Lestrange’s mouth open, the words issued forth with a warped liquidity that barely registered as intelligible. As the end of Lestrange’s wand erupted with a blinding green light, Hermione gasped at the realization she’d observed this scene before. She knew what would happen next — she’d watched it for months — but she never saw its resolution.

She didn’t want to see it now.

Hermione heard her own voice screaming. Her eyes were not locked on the advancing curse, but on Harry’s body. Just as had happened in her dreams, he threw himself in front of the curse…still grasping her hand.

She’d been witness to the killing curse once before. She’d watched Harry die at the hands of Damien Keres…or so she thought at the time. She couldn’t watch it again. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut in a futile hope that when she opened them this would all have been a horrible nightmare. She felt her entire body tingle with palpable electricity as she heard Harry’s voice groan. His body collided with hers and her wrist popped as the force of them falling backwards together strained the grip she maintained on Ron’s hand. In a burst of dancing light, fireworks exploded in her darkened field of vision as her head collided with the stone floor.

The sheer absurdity of it awakened the nagging logic in her head. How could she hit the floor if she was pressed against the wall?

Her eyes popped open. The wall in front of her appeared translucent. Parts of it were crumbling to rubble and there was an obvious indentation where the curse blasted part of the stone away. The muffled voices of every Death Eater erupted in furious argument while the expression on Bellatrix’s face morphed from triumph to terror.

Hermione didn’t breathe. They were laying only feet away from their determined enemies. The only thing separating the mass of aggravated Death Eaters from the three of them was a stone wall that seemed entirely opaque. Apparently, she was not alone in her distress.

“Can’t they see us?” Ron whispered.

“Shhhh!” Hermione hissed, terrified the Death Eaters would realize their folly and jump through the wall in the manner the trio had somehow managed.

“Impossible!” Bellatrix cried. “The curse went straight through him!”

“Where did they go?” another Death Eater demanded.

“They must’ve apparated!” another voice insisted. Ron shushed Hermione before she had the chance to spout passages from Hogwarts: A History.

“No one can apparate on Hogwarts grounds, you idiot!” Lestrange barked. Hermione harrumphed as the muffled words echoed in the corridor.

“Unless we intend to tell the Dark Lord they can fly through walls, we’d better split up and search for them!” Dolohov commanded. Without further commentary, the assemblage of Death Eaters divided and set off in different directions. Only Lestrange was left. She was staring directly into Hermione’s eyes…yet apparently saw nothing. Hermione didn’t breathe. She didn’t blink. She couldn’t believe it when Lestrange cursed aloud and ran down the corridor in search of those who were, literally, staring her in the face.

“What in bloody hell…” Ron began. Hermione understood his confusion at their startling escape and felt positive that was the direction of Ron’s query. If she hadn’t been so infuriated, she would’ve ventured a hypothesis.

“You won’t stop until you’re dead, will you?!” Hermione rounded on Harry. The simple nonchalance of his features changed immediately to one of marked confusion. “Don’t give me that look like you don’t know what I’m on about, Harry Potter!” she blasted. Harry’s mouth opened to respond but Hermione was not about to let him offer a word in his own defense. “First, you play the hero for Dudley Dursley, and now you’re leaping in front of killing curses on my behalf!” A muffled rebuke issued from Harry’s throat but Hermione continued to chastise him. “I can take care of myself! I don’t need you to off yourself to complete your hero complex!”

The color rose to Harry’s cheeks and his eyes darkened. A tenuously held rage seeped through the steel curtain of his psyche. It was obvious he’d heard enough. “And what a bloody good job you were doing of taking care of yourself…had your jaw been any lower to the floor you could’ve swallowed the killing curse!” he shouted.

Hermione startled at the callousness of his tone. “Well, excuse me if I wasn’t born to be savior to the entire bloody world!” she retorted. She felt a hand grasp her upper arm and in a distant corner of her consciousness recognized Ron’s efforts to get her to calm down. But there was no stopping her now. She wasn’t even sure why she was so angry, but it made little difference. Harry’s emotions were erupting through his carefully constructed façade, and be they good, bad, or indifferent, the important thing was that she could feel him again. It was a connection she’d lost for a terrifying, albeit brief, moment, and she wasn’t about to let it go again.

“Well, I must be the only savior that is throttled for having a ‘saving people thing,’” he snapped as he turned his back on her and stormed to the window.

“Don’t turn your back on me, Harry!” she yelled and wrangled out of Ron’s grip. She chased after Harry and grabbed him by his left arm, spinning him toward her. “You’re not leaving me that easily,” she sputtered as her throat constricted. They stood facing each other, her words still beating a repetitive echo against the walls, and she realized the true nature of her fury.

She wasn’t angry at all. She was terrified.

The full measure of what they’d done, what they’d witnessed, and what lie ahead crashed into her with horrifying clarity. For all she’d experienced, she considered herself one of the luckiest girls in the world. She’d not only found her soul mate, but she’d done so at a young enough age to orchestrate a long and fruitful life together. But the events of the past hour reminded her that she was no more ordinary than he was…and the life that she envisioned had a very good chance of ending before it ever got started. Tears stung her eyes as her vision glassed over. She felt Harry’s arms wrap around her as he crushed her to his chest. She felt the contact shatter his resolve. The veneer of indifference he’d constructed on the Astronomy Tower collapsed as he crumbled to the floor with her still held in his embrace.

“Oh, Harry, I’m so sorry,” Hermione pleaded against his chest as they rocked back and forth together. “I’m so sorry,” she repeated. It was all she could think to say. She was sorry for her words, she was sorry for Hagrid, she was sorry for the sum of a fatidic life that would’ve destroyed most grown wizards. It was all she could do to mutter the same apology over and over. It was apparently all he could do as well. Hermione stayed, happily clutched in his arms, until their tears ebbed away.

“All right, Ron?” Harry’s voice resounded in the ear Hermione had pressed against his chest. Feeling sheepish for having forgotten the presence of her other best friend, she lifted her head to see Ron staring out of the window. He turned, unable to mask the emotion from his features, and offered a less than satisfactory response.

“I’m fine,” he answered. Harry and Hermione exchanged a significant look and rose from the floor.

“Ron?” Hermione asked as she crossed the room toward the window. She didn’t need to ask the question; the answer was obvious. “She’s all right, Ron. I’m sure of it.”

“How do you know that?” Ron cut his eyes toward her. “Are you the first empathic seer at Hogwarts?” he said sarcastically. Hermione, blessedly incapable of another emotional outburst, drew a calming breath. “No, I’m not. But I have to believe she’s all right. What else do we have?”

“You have him.” He glanced toward Harry before returning his attention to the darkness outside.

***

Merc had read her share about deities. She’d read about those associated with muggle religion and she’d read about the mythology of uncounted ancient cultures across the world. As she passed Barnabus the Barmy three times, she prayed to every deity in recorded history that the door would appear.

Praise the gods.

She seized the handle and threw herself into the room before the mirage dissolved into nothingness. She spun around and slammed the door in its frame. Pulling her wand from her robes, her voice echoed with the colloportus charm and the door locked before her. She stood there, frozen, daring to believe she was safe from the Death Eaters. Her heart, still lodged in her throat, pounded as she whipped around to survey the room with her wand extended.

“Who’s there?” she barked. It was an odd question to ask. She wasn’t sure if anyone was in the room, or why they would answer her if they were, but it seemed a valid inquiry as she’d barged into the Room of Requirement without stopping to see if it was already occupied. To her relief, the only sound filling the room was that of her hastened breathing.

Her shoulders slumped as her wand hand dropped to her side. She slid down the locked door and buried her face in her hands. She wasn’t normally one to let the tears fall, but the combination of the deafening silence and the desperate situation was too much to bear. Merc had run the gamut of emotions in the past hour and she still hadn’t done the one thing she’d intended…she hadn’t yet found Ron.

She scarcely remembered why she’d set out from the library at a run. After sprinting across the castle, the Fat Lady guarding Gryffindor Tower refused to give her any information. As a matter of fact, she acted as if Merc’s questioning was no more bothersome than the blowing breeze. It wasn’t until Dennis Creevey bustled out of the portrait hole that she learned that Ron, Hermione, and Harry were not there.

She had a sinking suspicion that she knew what they’d skived off to do but couldn’t even hazard a guess as to their location. Without stopping to offer her gratitude to Dennis, she took off down the corridor toward destinations unknown. She had no idea where she was going, but she knew she had to find Ron. She’d paid little attention to anything as she flew down the corridors in search of any sign that would lead her to him…and to Harry and Hermione by default. The flash of red light that erupted before her didn’t register in her mind as dangerous. The resounding footsteps and echoed screaming from the darkened corridors seemed like an alternate universe. Surely nothing terrible could happen here…not at Hogwarts! Surely, she would’ve had more time!

It wasn’t until her eyes fell upon the lifeless body of a Hufflepuff third year student that reality set in. Staring with disbelieving eyes, her steps slowed and she stood in the middle of the corridor as obvious as a naked house elf.

Merc’s head fell backward against the door with an intentionally painful thud. If she’d learned anything from Harry, Ron, and Hermione, it was the need to react quickly. She should’ve at least had the wherewithal to duck.

The spell came searing from the blackened depths of the corridor. The sound of it streaming toward her was the only thing that dragged her eyes from the body splayed on the floor in front of her. She looked to her left just in time to see an amber fireball hurtling toward her. While she’d sidestepped the lion’s share of the impact, the spell glanced across her left arm. In the relative peace of the Room of Requirement, she suddenly realized the pain throbbing through her upper arm. She pulled her elbow across her body and surveyed her injuries.

The arm of her robe was torn, as was the sleeve of the jumper beneath it. The mist blue cashmere that once wrapped her arm in warmth now absorbed the blood still trickling from her wound. She sat upright, shrugged her right arm out of her robes, and gingerly shimmied them off her left. Her skin prickled and burned from where the flames had singed her. Along the center of the wound, her arm was sliced open from the top of her shoulder to the front of her bicep. Steeling herself for what was required, she reached for her wand lying on the floor beside her.

With her right hand, she waved the wand over her upper arm, gritted her teeth, and chanted, “mendicorpus.” She let out a howl as the laceration appeared to zip back together and the blood stopped flowing to her elbow. The pain pounded through her arm as she ripped what was left of her jumper sleeve from her arm and wrapped it around the burned skin.

She mopped the tears from her eyes and shivered from head to toe. She wondered how much blood she’d lost and if her body was going into shock from the injury. Glancing back toward her arm, she reasoned that her injury, while painful, couldn’t possibly cause such a significant reaction. She pulled her legs into her chest and coiled her own arms around them. Yet she was cold…and alone.

Perhaps that’s why I’m cold.

For someone who’d set their personal worth by the standard of self-sufficiency, it was significant to note that the only thing Merc wanted were two strong arms to wrap her up and convince her everything would be all right. She’d settle for knowing whether or not he was alive.

With that thought, her forehead dropped to her knees and her sobs interrupted the silence of her isolation.

***

“Incendio!” Harry felt Hermione tense against his chest.

“Flamare!” She grabbed at his jumper and began grinding her teeth.

“Ignatio!”

“Ron!” Harry winced at the sharpness of Hermione’s tone and sighed inwardly.

Round 4,570.

Taking his chances against the Death Eaters was beginning to look pleasant next to the prospect of refereeing another row between his best friends. He’d barely kept Ron and Hermione from scratching each other’s eyes out over the course of the time they’d spent here. The only praise he gave this mysterious room was its apparent ability to remain soundproof. A few hours ago he’d had to scream to be heard above their bickering when the four o’clock patrol passed. The same two nameless Death Eaters, whose faces Harry now recognized as well as his own, didn’t spare a glance toward them as they made their rounds of the castle. Hermione’s voice drew his attention away from the translucent wall across from him.

“Are you incapable of learning!” she barked. “Those spells have never generated a puff of smoke, let alone a flame in that fireplace! You’re driving me mad!” she shouted.

“Well, excuse me if Miss Know-it-All hasn’t realized that it’s bloody cold in here!”

“I know it’s cold, Ron! I’m cold, too, but you’re never going to get that fireplace to light!”

“What in bloody hell is that supposed to mean? I guess you think I’m too thick to know how to light a fire!”

“Knock it off!” Harry interrupted. Hermione snapped her head to his with a shocked expression. “That goes for you, too,” he answered her seething glare. He looked back toward Ron who was standing menacingly over Hermione. Ron’s face broke into a grin. Harry continued before he could escalate the argument. “I mean it, Ron. I’ve had it with the both of you!” Hermione clamored up from the floor and stormed to the other side of the room. She crossed her arms and stared through the misty window with her back to them both.

It would work…for a while. That’s the pattern they’d fallen into. Harry noticed the fading sunlight glinting off of Hermione’s hair and looked to the wall above his head. Ron watched as he picked up the sharp stone he’d been using and etched another mark into the wall.

Thus began day five.

Harry had started counting the days and nights after the first sunset following their escape from Lestrange and her overstuffed band of cronies. The trio spent the majority of the first day in either utter boredom or paralyzing fear, until they realized the Death Eaters on patrol could not see or hear them. Ron’s rather inappropriate gesturing toward the hourly guardsmen kept the trio fully entertained through the second day. By the third, their situation ceased to be a joke. They’d lasted twenty-four more hours since that time and Harry was quite sure they wouldn’t last much longer.

If they didn’t kill each other, hunger or hypothermia would.

Although none of them spoke of it, they all understood what was happening: Hogwarts was under siege. Oddly enough for those orchestrating the invasion, they used one of the oldest muggle techniques in history. The security measures in the castle were far too daunting to overcome. Since they couldn’t find a way to get to the students, they would force the students to come to them…or have them die of their own stubbornness.

During the last seventy-two hours, the castle had become bitingly cold. The fires would not light. The owls did not fly. The food did not come. They had done everything they knew to do and nothing helped. If they didn’t leave this room soon, they’d die in it, and it wouldn’t be the kind of death Harry considered befitting of his parent’s sacrifice.

“We’ve got to do something,” Harry said. Hermione’s shoulders slumped and she looked toward her feet. Ron flopped down to the floor in resignation.

“Why hasn’t anyone come?” he whispered. “The school is under siege and no one on the outside has noticed.”

“I don’t believe that,” Hermione mumbled. Ron turned his head toward her.

“Do you see the Order? Do you see Dumbledore? Do you see the Ministry organizing their Aurors?” Ron questioned. “It’s been four days, Hermione. How long do they think we can survive?” Ron’s face contorted in a grimace and he rubbed his stomach. Normally, that look would’ve been associated with a vicious growl from his stomach, but their stomachs stopped growling two days ago. Although Harry was acutely aware of his own hunger, he was more concerned with the lack of water.

Hermione tossed a hand to her forehead and swayed dangerously. Both he and Ron jumped from the floor toward her, but she waved them off before they reached her. “I’m fine,” she mumbled, steadying herself against the wall. She snapped her hand off the frozen stones and tried to shake the cold from her fingers. Harry wrapped his arms around her and drew her back to where they’d been sitting. “You’re dehydrated,” he said as the trio sat down together.

“We all are,” she answered. “I’m completely knackered.” She coiled in his lap and rested her head on Harry’s chest. Ron sat down next to Harry and threw Hermione’s legs over his own as he and Harry leaned into each other. It was the best they could do to stay warm.

“Take a kip, Hermione,” Harry said as he kissed the top of her head. He looked toward Ron and continued, “We’ll think of something to do.”

“What?” Ron whispered.

“I don’t know,” Harry replied. “Something.”

The trio fell silent. If there was anything calming about their situation it was the inherent predictability of it. Every hour of every day was the same. They blurred together; time dissolved. Harry found himself watching the sunlight to keep grounded in the passage of time. After the first day, it was the real purpose behind keeping a tally on the wall. It was his connection to reality.

He felt Hermione’s breathing become slow and steady and before long Ron followed her in sleep. Harry sat propped against the wall, unwittingly running his fingers through Hermione’s hair as he thought. He replayed the various arguments that had transpired between Ron and Hermione over the past few days. Each had valid points.

They weren’t entirely sure how they got into this room, so the mere act of getting out of it was daunting. Although the walls appeared to be made of a misty haze, they were indeed solid. There was no door with which to gain egress. Even if they were able to traverse the stones in some manner, what was to say they’d be able to seek refuge here again?

That was another issue. They were hungry, dehydrated, and exhausted. He didn’t expect any of them could sprint away from a well-fed and highly motivated Death Eater if given the opportunity. For the first time in his life, Harry felt truly weak. He was weak in spirit and he was weak in strength. That didn’t bode well for defending yourself against an onslaught of attackers.

He ran through a tactical list of assets and liabilities. The list of assets was short. They had themselves. Their broomsticks and his invisibility cloak were forgotten on the roof in the wake of Hagrid’s murder. The liabilities seemed endless. Aside from their physical health, he had no intelligence on the castle. The Marauder’s Map was tucked safely in his trunk in Gryffindor Tower. He had no idea how many invaders there were, where they were, or what they were doing. Additionally, he had no reason to suspect the portraits had returned or the doors had been revealed. Ironically, after seven years in the castle, it was quite likely they would get lost the moment they set out. They had no means of communication. The fires were magically extinguished, apparition impossible, and he hadn’t seen an owl flying about the castle since the siege began.

Harry closed his eyes and bounced his head against the wall willing his cobwebbed mind to devise some meritorious idea. He needed a means of getting information on the castle, a means to communicate with someone…anyone…that might be of some help. He needed a place to hide while they devised some sort of plan. His eyes popped open.

He needed the Room of Requirement.

His heart began to pound with some modicum of hope. They were on the eighth floor. The Room of Requirement was one floor beneath them. He remembered the first D.A. meeting where the room produced a whistle merely because he thought one would be useful. He dared to imagine the things the room could produce in this situation. He wondered if the room could manufacture heat or food based on the wishes of its occupants. He doubted whether anyone knew enough about that room to extend the same spells that the Death Eaters had used to control the rest of the castle. A mirage of shepherd’s pie, pumpkin juice, and treacle tart erupted in his mind and watered his mouth.

He thought about the door. Would it be affected by the disappearing spells that Hogwarts had enacted? The door was never visible in the first place? The portraits may be missing, but Barnabus the Barmy is a tapestry. It doesn’t move like the portraits and should still be visible to mark the door.

But would it open?

After four days of hunger, cold, and bickering…that was a chance he was willing to take, even if he had to take it alone.

“Hermione,” he whispered, shaking her shoulders gently. Ron startled awake and rubbed his eyes. “Hermione,” he reiterated. She began to stir and lifted her head from his chest.

“What’s the matter?” she asked wearily.

“I’ve got an idea,” he answered. Ron turned an interested face toward him and Hermione sat up straight. “I can’t believe we haven’t thought of it.” The three looked at each other and Harry pled his case.

“You’re not going alone!” Hermione argued after Harry finished explaining.

“If you go, we all go,” Ron agreed. Harry looked between their stony expressions and felt warmer than he had in three days.

“So…” Harry hesitated to ask. “Are we going?”

“Well, I, for one, am not going to stay in this room like a coward and wait to die,” Ron declared as he rose to his feet and stretched.

“Neither am I,” Hermione echoed.

“Well, this is either a brilliant plan or a death wish,” Harry laughed as he stood up.

“Why do you say that?” Ron inquired.

“The two of you just agreed on something. That’s got to be a sign of the apocalypse if ever I’ve seen one.” They dissolved into welcome laughter and upon settling down; Harry posed the key question for their task. “So how do we get out of here?”

“Well,” Hermione said through chattering teeth. “I’ve given that a lot of thought.” Harry and Ron exchanged a knowing glance. “We’ve always thought of the deliquesco charm as defensive because it allows spells to go through you unharmed, right?” They nodded in agreement. “What if it also allows you to ‘act as the spell?’” She gestured quotation marks with the first two fingers on both hands for emphasis.

“What do you mean?” Ron asked.

“Well, if spells and solid objects can go through us…why can’t we go through solid objects?” she offered.

“Like stone walls,” Harry whispered.

“We had to get in here somehow,” she answered. Harry turned to the wall and ran his hand across the stones in speculation. “If the spell does sublimate our bodies…in theory…it should work,” Hermione finished.

“In theory,” Ron echoed.

Harry turned around and drew a breath. “I don’t have any other theories. Do you?” Ron shook his head. “The guards won’t make their rounds of this floor for at least an hour.” Harry said as he drew his wand from his robes and held out his hand to Hermione. She drew her wand and looked at Ron. They stepped toward Harry together as he turned back toward the translucent stone wall that had protected them for four days.

***

Merc lay on the small sofa in the same position she’d occupied for what seemed like an eternity. The Room of Requirement, either in its wisdom or folly, had not provided a window for her when she opened the room. Therefore, she’d lost all concept of the passing time. The lamps that burned dimly in the corners of the room served as her only company — the simple upholstered sofa, her only comfort. She’d wished, prayed, chanted, and begged for the things she desperately wanted. Alas, the room wouldn’t provide her with sustenance, a fire, or the one person she couldn’t stop thinking about.

She knew only a few things with certainty. She was hungry, she was cold, and she was alone. It had been this way for an interminable length of time. In the moments that her wits were sharp and her predicament fully realized, she dwelled in a hollow of despair where the tears fell and her lacking sense of self-worth reigned supreme. In those moments, this room became nothing more than a coffin from which she’d never be freed. In order to free her, someone would have to realize she was missing and put forth an effort to find her. She didn’t believe that would ever happen. Her only confidence lie in the understanding that starvation would eventually send her to the waiting arms of her mother.

Oddly, it was in these despairing moments that she would begin to see Ron in her mind.

Either through exhaustion or sheer boredom, she imagined the majority of her hours passed while she slept. That was the reason she discounted sleep deprivation as the source of her illusions. Over the course of her captivity, she’d seen Ron in this room a hundred times. She’d spoken to him even more often. They’d discussed everything from politics to the flavor of their favorite ice cream. He’d made her laugh, he’d made her love and he’d given her the warmth this bloody castle failed to provide. And yet, somewhere in the far reaches of her mind, she knew that these conversations never happened. Ron had been nothing more than a meticulous production of a desperate imagination.

That’s the reason she’d discounted his presence as quickly as she’d realized he was running toward her.

“Merc?” his voiced echoed across a distance. That was the last straw for her. If she was going to die here, she would die sane. She was tired of talking apparitions…she was tired of talking to them.

“No,” her voice croaked aloud. She squeezed her eyes shut and covered her face in a vain attempt to block out the psychosis. “You’re not real,” she assured herself. “You’re not real!”

“I am real,” his voice called again.

“No, you’re not!” She moved her hands over her ears and tried to shake the voice from her head. Her eyes popped open as two strong hands wrapped around her wrists and pulled her hands from her ears. She blinked several times, trying to clear his image from her vision. He wasn’t going away.

Her heart began to pound in her chest. He didn’t look like she’d envisioned him. His red hair wasn’t combed and neat. He bore no smile. Rather, an anguished expression was etched upon his features that struck her to the core. His eyes were clouded with tears. He looked more scared than she’d ever seen him…and more serious. Moreover, he was doing the one thing her visions could never do…he was touching her.

She could feel the warmth radiating through her arms from his hands clasped around her wrists. Tentatively, she reached out toward his face, daring herself to believe the room had finally produced the one thing she required above all. Her hand brushed against his cheek and caught the tear that escaped the corner of his eye. “Ron?” she croaked. His face ignited and he nodded his response. Merc heard a relieved gasp issue from behind him and realized he was flanked by both Harry and Hermione.

“We’re all here,” Hermione said. Merc looked between the three of them as reality crashed into her. The tears sprang to her eyes as quickly as Ron pulled her from the sofa. He wrapped his arms around her and crushed her to him. The embrace was nearly painful, but Merc didn’t care. She welcomed the ability to feel anything.

“It’s really you,” she muttered as he pulled her tighter. “I can’t believe you’re really here,” she cried.

He pressed his lips to her cheek and muttered, “I didn’t know what happened to you. I was scared you…you…”

She pulled back from him and caught his eyes. He had obviously feared the worst, just as she had done. Days ago, she’d made a promise to herself that she’d never speak the words aloud. She didn’t want to hear them now. She pressed a finger to his lips. “Don’t say it,” she implored. “We’re okay…we’re both okay,” she assured as the tears streamed down her cheeks.

Before she could say another word, he pulled her finger from his lips with one hand and curled the other around the back of her neck. If she didn’t realize the full measure of her salvation upon hearing his voice, she felt it as he pulled her to him. Their lips met in a passionate exchange of both exuberance and relief.

She was saved.

***

“I don’t know that we’re any better off,” Harry lamented as he flopped onto the sofa. He knew it was only his frustration speaking. At least half of their party was far better off now than before. His eyes floated across the room where Merc was curled in Ron’s lap. They both appeared to be asleep, but the absence of Ron’s snoring led Harry to believe that his eyes were closed simply because he was relishing in the moment. When Ron kissed her on the temple, Harry’s theory was confirmed. His eyes floated over Merc. Not that he meant any disrespect to Hermione, but excepting the bandage around her upper arm, Merc seemed to have fared the ordeal a bit better…better than all of them.

“Harry, what are you looking at?” Merc’s quiet voice wafted across the room. She popped one eye open and smirked at him.

“Er, nothing,” Harry fumbled. He glanced toward Hermione. She was sitting in another chair, opposite Harry, and eyeing him suspiciously. Harry cleared his throat and tried to divert the conversation back to the topic that had taken most of their attention since reuniting. “So, the room won’t provide a fireplace?”

“Not even a spark.”

“What about food?” Ron mumbled.

“I have managed a bit of that,” Merc replied.

“WHAT?” they chimed together. Merc startled on Ron’s lap and looked around in amazement.

“You mean…you haven’t had anything to eat?” she exclaimed.

“No,” Ron answered. “And let me assure you that I have been thinking about it since we opened the door to this room.”

“Me, too,” Harry and Hermione responded together.

“So why hasn’t the room produced anything?” Hermione wondered.

“That’s just it,” Merc replied. “Maybe the spells the Death Eaters cast are interfering with how the room operates. The food always appeared at odd times, as did the blanket and such. It was hardly ever what I’d been thinking about, but it was edible nonetheless.” Hermione hopped up from the chair and started pacing. Harry had seen that look before. This problem had just elevated itself to a personal vendetta. She was not likely to rest before she’d discovered the answer. Meanwhile, Harry’s frustration was burgeoning. He felt like an animal trapped in a cage merely waiting to be plucked out and meddled with. Before he knew it, he was on his feet pacing in time with Hermione’s steps.

“You’re both going to make me queasy,” Ron argued. Harry, feeling his temper rise, glared at him and set back about his musings. If they couldn’t find a way out, they at least needed to find a way to fight. He was not going to allow Voldemort to win by default, but he wasn’t going to charge in unprepared either. However, his situation had not improved. His invisibility cloak was still on the Astronomy Tower with his broomstick. The Marauder’s Map was still locked in his trunk, and he had no means of communicating with anyone outside the four corners of this room.

“Merc!” Hermione exclaimed. Harry whipped around at the shrillness of her tone. “Where did you get this?” Merc twisted in Ron’s lap and looked to where Hermione was holding something up in the dim lamplight.

“The room,” she answered nonchalantly. “I was cold and…”

“The room did not provide this for you,” Hermione interrupted. Harry crossed the room to get a better look at what she was holding. The closer he got, the more he blinked his eyes in disbelief. Hermione was clutching a poorly knitted hat with lopsided earflaps and a knobby red pom on top. Harry recognized it immediately. Hermione caught his eye and handed it to him. “You do know what this is, don’t you?” she asked.

Harry flipped it over in his hand and said, “I’d say it’s an original Hermione Granger…circa October…you hadn’t figured out how to do those crazy ‘V’ shaped ones yet.”

“Or make the ear flaps the same length,” Ron chimed. Hermione scowled and snapped it back from Harry’s hand.

“It’s called an ‘elongated chevron’ if you must know, and the ear flaps are harder to knit than they appear,” Hermione growled as she inspected the elf hat she’d knitted during fifth year. Harry almost didn’t hear her mumbling over his and Ron’s laughter. “But, how did it get here?” Hermione began pacing again and stopped as abruptly as she’d started. “Hang on,” she gasped. She looked at Merc and continued. “You said the room produced things at odd times?”

“Yes, why?” Merc asked.

“Because the room didn’t produce any of it,” she answered. Harry’s chuckling ceased the second the words issued from her mouth. As if on cue, the answer to the quandary became painfully clear.

“Ugh!” Harry exclaimed as his knee buckled and he fell to the floor. He was pummeled by a short, poorly dressed house elf that was squealing his name and leaking giant tears all over his robes. “Dobby…” he croaked as the elf latched around his neck. “Dobby!” he gasped.

“Harry Potter!” Dobby exclaimed as he leapt backwards and bent over in a bow. “Dobby has been searching everywhere for Harry Potter and his friends! Dobby was distraught he could not find them!” the elf cried as he bent lower toward the floor.

“Dobby, please stand up,” Harry said in exasperation. Harry got to his feet and brushed himself off, pulling Dobby up by the arm.

“All this time, you were bringing me the food,” Merc questioned.

“Dobby brought Miss Beatrice the blanket and hats, too.” Merc’s eyes nearly exploded from her skull and Hermione gasped.

“Beatrice!” she shot an inquisitive look toward Merc. “Your real name is Beatrice?” Merc buried her face in her hand and grumbled something to Ron. He tried to restrain a chuckle as he answered her.

“No, I didn’t. But honestly, how long do you think it would have been before they found out?” he responded. Harry looked back at Hermione and shrugged noncommittally. Although it was an interesting bit of information, he really didn’t care too much for gossip mongering. He saw an opportunity in the house elf before him and wanted to exploit it as best he could. Unfortunately, that was not going to be easy.

Dobby’s eyes were as wide as quaffles as he stared across the room toward Merc and Ron. “Dobby spoke out of turn! Dobby betrayed Miss Thompson’s secret! Dobby must be punished!” Harry could only discern that he must be tired and hungry. Although Dobby sped directly past him, he was not fast enough to intercept the elf before he lunged headlong for the wall. As if watching his self-punishing behavior wasn’t bad enough, Harry was sure the whole castle could hear Dobby throwing himself into the wall.

“Dobby! Dobby! Stop it!” Harry yelled over the elf’s wailing. Ron leapt from the chair, leaving Merc sitting lopsided where he’d been, and crossed the room as Harry did. Ron wrestled Dobby from the wall and implored him to stop as well.

“Stop it, you bloody nutter!” he barked.

“Ron!” Hermione admonished.

“Well, he is! He’s throwing himself into the wall, for Merlin’s sake,” he argued. At this, Dobby stopped fighting against Ron and looked up with mournful eyes.

“Dobby is aggrieved to betray Miss Thompson, sir,” he wailed.

“You didn’t betray anyone,” Ron scoffed. “You saved her life by bringing her food and warm blankets.” He set the elf down and brushed the dirt from the mismatched scarves coiled around his neck. Ron looked over his shoulder at Merc who was smiling at him in earnest and returned his attention to Dobby. “Thank you, Dobby.”

After the ensuing fifteen minutes of hysterical house elf theatre, Harry was ready to set Dobby to more important tasks…like helping them devise a plan to save Hogwarts. “Dobby, are you able to get into Gryffindor Tower?”

Dobby finished mopping his eyes with his scarf and replied. “Yes, the kitchen elves have been sneaking into all the house dormitories with whatever food and blankets we can gather.”

“Are all the students accounted for?” Harry asked.

“Except for Harry Potter and his friends, all but three are locked in their house dormitories,” Dobby explained.

“What three? Are they missing?” Hermione pressed.

Dobby’s bat-like ears collapsed around his face and his eyes dropped to the floor. “No, miss. They are not missing.”

Merc’s hand flew to her mouth as she gasped. “They’re not…” she began. Harry interrupted before she could finish. It was obvious to him what the fate of those students was, and he couldn’t bear to think about it. Aside from the fact, Dobby’s enormous eyes were welling with tears again and he didn’t have the patience for Act II.

“I need you to collect some things for us?” he ordered. Dobby perked up instantly and bounced in place. Harry took that as an affirmative response and began listing the things he’d been thinking about for the last four days. “First, my invisibility cloak and our broomsticks are at the top of the Astronomy Tower. I also have the Marauder’s Map locked in my trunk. I’ll also need the sneakoscope Ron gave me for my birthday…you can keep the sock I have it wrapped in.” Dobby gasped with delight.

“Yes, sir! Dobby will collect your things right away, Harry Potter!” Dobby waddled toward the door and raised his hand. Just before he snapped his fingers Harry remembered something else.

“And the hand mirror! The glass is broken, but it might work anyway,” Harry barked just before Dobby disappeared. He wasn’t sure if the elf heard his final request, but he only need wait to find out.

“A mirror?” Ron lamented. “You couldn’t have ordered a bit of shepherd’s pie while you were at it, could you?”

***

“Remus Lupin,” Harry said as clearly as he could.

“Oi, are you going to tell us what you’re playing at?” Ron said. “You’ve been barking Lupin’s name in that mirror for two hours.” Harry looked up to see the three of them staring at him expectantly. The Marauder’s Map was spread in front of them with the sneakoscope twirling by the door. Ron and Harry’s broomsticks were standing in the corner and his Invisibility Cloak was obscuring the right arm of the sofa. He put the mirror down and took another bite of the ham sandwich in front of him.

“Sirius gave it to me,” he replied. He noticed the darkened expression that crossed each of their faces in turn but paid it no mind. “He and my dad used to use them to talk to each other. I saw his at Grimmauld Place this summer. I guess I was hoping Lupin picked it up.” Harry looked over to the spider-webbed glass that was held together with spell-o tape. “I reckon it won’t work looking like it does.” He wanted to chastise himself for having broken it two years ago, but it was merely a shot in the dark to think Lupin would’ve had the mirror anyway. It probably didn’t matter that Harry shattered his in a fit of anger at Sirius’ death. Harry cleared his throat and settled back to his place around the map. “So, what do we have?”

“Well,” Hermione began. “Dobby’s right. All of the students are in their houses. The teachers are divided up among them as well. But it doesn’t look like there is any rhyme or reason to their location.” Her eyes searched the moving dots on the parchment. “See here,” she pointed to the map. “Professor Snape is in Hufflepuff’s house.”

“They must’ve ducked into the closest house,” Merc proposed. She pointed to her own house. “Professor Tonks is in Ravenclaw.”

“How many of them are there?” Harry asked. No one needed an explanation for his question. They’d counted the number of Death Eaters at least four times. The number never changed.

“Sixty-five,” Ron answered.

“And where is he?” Harry asked whilst scribbling down the latest numbers on some parchment the room had produced.

“Harry,” Hermione said mournfully. “We’ve been over this.”

“I’m not buying it, Hermione. He’s here. I know he’s here.”

“But he’s not showing on the map,” Hermione replied. “Didn’t Lupin say the map doesn’t lie?” Harry was shaking his head before she’d ever finished the sentence.

“I heard his voice. He’s the one that killed Hagrid, Hermione. He’s here.”

“Maybe the map doesn’t know where he is?” Ron offered. Merc was flipping the pages back and forth and scouring over the map as they spoke. Harry was about to ask who she was looking for when she interrupted him.

“He’s there.” The three of them hovered so closely over her wand tip they nearly cracked heads.

“Where?” Hermione asked.

“I don’t see anything,” Harry agreed.

“Of course you don’t,” Merc answered. Harry exchanged a skeptical glance with Hermione and wondered if Merc wasn’t slipping into the state of delusion they’d found her in. “See this one dot moving here,” she directed. “It doesn’t have a label.” Much to his amazement, Harry realized she was right. Of all the meandering dots of ink, each had a label to denote whom it represented. This one did not.

“Why wouldn’t it be labeled?” Harry whispered.

“Just because it doesn’t have a label doesn’t mean it’s him,” Ron added.

“Yes, it does,” Hermione looked at Merc and nodded. Harry was about to shout for an explanation when Hermione continued. “He Who Must Not Be Labeled.” Harry’s eyes shot back to the parchment. Suddenly, everything made sense. The wizarding world lived in fear of Voldemort’s spoken name. The map has no voice; it speaks through the words imprinted on it. Is it so unreasonable to think it wouldn’t label “Lord Voldemort” as plain as day?

He felt his spirits lifting. He may’ve had no idea what to do with the information, but he knew exactly how many Death Eaters were in the castle, who they were and where they were. And most importantly, he knew where Voldemort was. That was information the Dark Lord didn’t appear to have for Harry’s own whereabouts. What encouraged him more so than that was the occasional blink of a name from the edge of the Dark Forest. He’d already seen Remus Lupin and George Weasley appear for a flash before retreating back into the woods, where the map couldn’t reach. The Order hadn’t abandoned them.

They were here…and they were waiting.

***

He’d be more comfortable in saying they’d had a good night’s rest if he actually knew what time of day it was. Without the engravings on the wall or any windows in the Room of Requirement, Harry lost track of the days they’re been under siege. But he felt better than he had in months.

Dobby had been successful at sneaking them enough food and water to restore his energy levels and assuage the grumbling of his stomach. He’d brought Harry everything he’d asked for, and the room actually produced some of the more benign articles. He sat at a long table with sheets of parchment scattered around him bearing notes, drawings, names and anything else that marked their discussions over the past day or so.

Harry crouched over the Marauder’s Map again, keeping a wary eye on the nameless dot that didn’t seem to move much. Voldemort appeared to have taken up residence, ironically, in Tonks’ office. The students were still massed in their houses and the teachers accompanied them.

He’d seen enough flashes from the Dark Forest tree line to safely assume that the entire Order of the Phoenix was assembled therein. He had even seem some names he didn’t recognize and guessed (or hoped) they were Aurors with the Ministry. He unrolled a spare bit of parchment and drew a dividing line down the center. He labeled the left column ‘assets’ and the right ‘liabilities.’ Before he could begin listing the advantages and disadvantages of the situation, a sleek pair of arms ran over his shoulders and down his chest. Hermione curled over his back and nestled her chin on the top of his shoulder.

“Have you slept at all?” she whispered. Harry put down the quill he’d been using and pinched the bridge of his nose. He tried sleeping. He’d even managed a few minutes here and there, but his brain refused to turn off. Even in slumber, an idea or question would erupt in his mind and he’d be back at this table, hovering over the only intelligence he had, trying to come up with something.

“I’ve slept,” he answered.

“And I’m the Queen,” Hermione replied. Harry chuckled and ran his hands over her arms, kissing the inside of her elbows. “I’d ask you to take a break, but I know you too well.” She kissed him on the temple. “What can I do to help?”

“You can go over this with me,” he suggested. “I’ve been looking at it so long I know there’s something I’m not seeing.” Wordlessly, Hermione sat down next to him and began studying all the parchment he’d filled with his slanted, spiky handwriting. Harry dropped his head into his hands and waited for her appraisal before continuing.

“Well,” she took the two-columned parchment from his hand. “We have the edge in total numbers.”

“True, but I don’t think you can count a first-year student as much of a match for a Death Eater,” Harry lamented.

“No, but I’m sure they can be useful in another way,” she added. “We have Order members both in the castle and outside the castle. They may already be communicating with each other and we just don’t know it.”

“I would classify that as a liability.”

“As is the fact each House entrance is guarded by no less than four Death Eaters. I don’t think anyone could get out of a portrait hole without being ambushed,” Hermione posed.

“Not that we could organize anything in the first place,” Harry growled. He stood up from the table and began pacing the floor. “If only we could use a fire or an owl!”

“Or Morse Code,” a sleepy voice resonated from behind him. Harry turned to see Merc stirring.

“What is that?” he asked. She smiled and got up from the sofa.

“I was only joking,” she retracted. “It was something muggles historically used to communicate, especially during the early wars of the twentieth century.” She walked over to the table. “Still nothing?”

“Nothing,” Hermione said in defeat.

“There’s got to be something we can do,” Ron said as he joined them at the table. He looked to Hermione in question.

“What?” she asked, apparently taken aback by his expression.

“Can you get a message to people in the different houses?” he asked.

“With what?” Hermione scoffed.

“That whole empath thing…”

“Ron, I’ve told you…it doesn’t work that way,” she admonished.

Ron threw up his hands in surrender. “I just thought I’d be thorough. We do know people in all of the houses. I just wasn’t sure how well we knew them…that’s all.”

“Don’t be silly. Just because we know people, doesn’t mean I would trust them all. It’s not like they all signed secrecy agreements on hexed parchment now, is it…” Hermione’s retort drifted off.

“What?” Harry inquired.

“The D.A.,” Hermione answered.

“So?” Ron prompted. Hermione waved her hands to silence him and continued.

“The coins! Harry, don’t you see? The coins are still in the houses. Even the D.A. members that left Hogwarts saw it as a personal tribute to Umbridge’s downfall to leave those coins here. I heard some of the third years talking about it a few weeks ago,” she explained.

“Fred and George have theirs,” Ron whispered.

The possibilities leapt to Harry’s mind. He jumped from the table and started pacing back and forth trying to make some logical plan of this new information. However, their incessant chattering was not helping him form a cogent thought.

“Harry Potter,” he heard a voice say. He threw his hands over his ears in the vain attempt to block it out. “Harry Potter!”

“Shut up!” Harry exclaimed.

“It’s not us, mate,” Ron defended.

“Harry Potter!” Harry whipped around in search of the intrusive voice and nearly fell over from shock. The face of Remus Lupin was shining in the cracked mirror. Harry hopped over the chair in front of him and picked up the mirror before Lupin disappeared.

“Remus!” he exclaimed. Before Lupin could respond, the other three had barreled across the room and surrounded Harry.

“Harry! Thank the gods! Where in bloody blazes are you? Minerva, Tonks, and Snape split up among the houses to locate you and no one knows where you are!” he blasted.

“We’re in the Room of Requirement,” he answered. “Ron, Hermione, and Merc are all here with me.” Lupin’s face softened and he broke into a genuine smile.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“We’ve been better. We’re cold and hungry, but we’re okay,” Harry answered.

“They’re using some very old siege works spells to dampen the fires and restrict access to food. Luckily, the house elves have been thwarting their plans. I don’t think he expected the students to hold out as long as you have, but he clearly underestimated the house elves…if he thought about them at all,” Lupin explained. Harry suddenly felt sick. He’d poured over the map for hours on end. He stared at names, wrote down patterns of patrol teams, matched numbers of students to enemies…never once did he think about the one hundred house elves that were working to keep them all alive. He shook the guilt from his mind and refocused his attention on the mirror. “We’re trying to formulate a plan, but we’re split up and outnumbered.”

“We know,” Harry said.

“What do you know?” Lupin asked with a furrowed brow.

“I’ve got the map,” Harry answered. “We’ve been charting their movements and locations, but haven’t been able to contact anyone.”

“The Order can communicate with each other and there is one of us in every house but Slytherin,” Lupin replied. Harry could tell from how his head bobbed in and out of the mirror’s frame that Lupin was gathering material. He looked back at Harry and directed him to gather his own material so they could exchange information. Harry grabbed the mirror from the table and the group settled down at the table where they’d been working. As they hovered over the information they’d gathered, Harry felt lighter than he had in days. They were not going to sit idly by and allow the Death Eaters free reign of Hogwarts any longer. Surprisingly, an odd calm fell over him as he realized, win or lose, he could finally stop wondering about the outcome of his fate. He knew the day had arrived…and he was ready.

***

“I still don’t like the idea of using students,” Remus said as he looked around at the empty tent.

“We don’t have to use students,” Harry said with glaring eyes. Remus looked into the mirror and startled at the resemblance of his surrogate godson to his best friend. Harry was obviously frustrated and was running his hands through his unruly hair as James had done a thousand times in years gone by.

“Absolutely not,” Remus replied.

“Why not?! He’s after me! I know where he is. I don’t see any reason to put anyone else in danger over this. It’s between me and him…you know it is!” Harry argued.

“Have you lost your mind, Harry? Voldemort doesn’t play by the rules. He has no integrity or sense of moral obligation. He will not let the students escape his grasp without making a statement…and he’ll do that whether you give yourself up or not!” Lupin replied. “You’re not going alone,” he added with finality.

“I wouldn’t be alone,” Harry rebuked.

“No.”

Harry growled aloud. “Then we have no other choice but to follow the plan we came up with…students and all.” Remus was silent and Harry scoffed again. “Why do you think we’re so incapable of handling ourselves?” he demanded.

Remus rubbed the pounding headache from his temples. He wasn’t sure he could make Harry understand the answer to this question. It wasn’t that he thought the students incapable…well, perhaps he did. After all, these are trained, malicious, evil to the core Death Eaters against mere children. His concern stemmed more from the fact he didn’t want the students to have to do it. He didn’t believe in sending anyone on a mission he couldn’t undertake himself, and asking children to fight such a battle was even more disconcerting. “Harry, I have faith that you can handle yourself. I even believe Ron and Hermione are equally as talented. Maybe even a good number of seventh year students, but…”

“That’s why we’re not using anyone younger than fourth year,” Harry countered.

“Right, because we certainly didn’t engage in questionable activity prior to fourth year,” Hermione’s sarcastic voice echoed from the other side of the mirror.

“You’re not exactly average students,” Remus lamented as he drew a breath. Harry was right. They’d agreed to leave the youngest students in their houses, and without the additional help that only the students could provide, this counter attack was doomed to failure…if it wasn’t already. “Right. Let’s run through this one more time.”

He could hear the harmonized groaning from the other side of the mirror.

Using the mirrors, Harry and Remus recanted the plan they’d devised over the last three hours. Hermione, Ron and Merc offered insight and suggestions as they continued, as did Fred, George, and Arthur and Molly Weasley from the other side. They’d combined their intelligence and come up with the only plan that seemed reasonably capable of working.

The siege works spells only applied to the creation of heat, food, and standard communication. All other magical capacities seemed relatively unscathed. The castle’s own protections, namely the vanished doors and portraits, helped their cause. That being the case, Dobby would fetch the D.A. coins that Harry, Ron, and Hermione kept in their dormitories and Lupin would alert Tonks, McGonagall, and Snape to instruct the other students with coins to do the same. Those coins would be the signal for a simultaneous response around the castle. They could further coordinate with the Order members in the forest through the coins Fred and George already retrieved from their flat in Diagon Alley.

Fourth through seventh year students would be briefed by the Order member in their house. Based on the patrol patterns Harry, Hermione, Ron and Merc had charted, each group of students would be assigned to a team and a location. Their orders were clear — stun first, ask questions later.

In preparation for the inevitable, Hermione charmed one of Dobby’s sickles with the same charm as the D.A. galleons. He would direct the full count of house elves to offer aid to any student or teacher that required assistance. Wherever possible, they would use the elf passages throughout Hogwarts to move injured students to the hospital wing. Those stationed in the forest (which consisted of a few Order members and a rogue band of Aurors that had scoffed at the Ministry fairy tale that all was well at Hogwarts) would attack from without while the students mobilized within.

Their plan had two key objectives. First, siege works spells must be cast, and maintained, by a vast number of wizards. Harry was, in part, relieved to understand that Dumbledore had lived in the same general state as the students during this time, and in part terrified that a wizard as powerful as the Headmaster was unable to combat the siege alone. Not even Dumbledore, who was monitoring their conversation from his office, would be able to disarm the charms by himself. The students would have to overtake the majority of Death Eaters in order to break the enchantments cast upon the castle. While they worked to regain control of the castle, Harry, Hermione, and Ron would be charged with finding Voldemort.

“Harry,” Remus asked. “Are you sure about this?” The trio was silent on the opposite side of the mirror. Remus could only assume Harry was looking at Hermione and Ron as he contemplated the answer to his question. After a time, he nodded imperceptibly, and replied.

“I can’t avoid this forever, Remus. I don’t want to.” Harry looked pointedly off the edge of the mirror and smiled. “I have plans for my life, and I don’t want this bloody prophecy hanging over my head any more.” He looked directly at Remus. “This ends tonight.”

Remus nodded. “I understand, but Harry…we could wait. If we waited until tomorrow I could be of some help to you. I could fight with you!” Harry was shaking his head before Remus finished the sentence.

“No,” Harry replied. “If I can stop this now, I will. The school is starving. We can’t last another day.”

Remus looked through the open door of the tent they’d constructed. His eyes fell upon the setting sun and shuddered to think what would replace it in an hour’s time. He wondered if Voldemort knew the fortuitousness of his timing. The same anger he’d kept buried for years pulsed with renewed vigor. He wasn’t there when Voldemort killed James and Lily. He couldn’t stop Lestrange from killing Sirius. The damned lunar cycle aided Pettigrew in returning to Voldemort’s side, and somewhere inside him he understood that Peter was behind the timing of the siege. By definition of his lycanthropy, Remus would be useless to help Harry face his fate.

He squeezed his hands into fists and fought the urge to beat something –anything – to within an inch of its existence. James had entrusted Harry to Sirius. Sirius had entrusted him to Remus…and Remus felt the cold hand of guilt closing around his throat.

“It’s all right, Remus,” Harry’s voice broke through Lupin’s anger. “We never would have made it this far if not for you,” he continued. Remus felt the prickle of tears stinging the corner of his eyes. Now was not the time to lose his composure. With that thought in mind, he cleared his throat and spoke in a forcibly comfortable tone.

“So, that leaves the same question we had before,” Lupin said. “This whole plan can only work with the element of surprise. There are Death Eaters at every House entrance. How do we get the students out?”

“Two problems,” Lupin heard Hermione’s voice from a distance. Harry turned to his left with a furrowed brow. “Both of you claim that we will need all of the students older than fourth year to succeed.” Harry was nodding in time with Lupin. “We haven’t designated any teams in Slytherin.” The cacophonous argument came from both sides of the mirror. Lupin could barely hear the objections of Harry and Ron over those in his own head.

“Settle down!” Lupin shouted over the din. He kept his voice elevated to continue being heard over the muffled grumbling. “What’s your point, Hermione?” Harry’s face slid from view and Hermione’s filled the frame.

“My point…” she glared off the opposite side of the mirror, “…is that a quarter of our student population is not involved in this at all. Dumbledore once said that the houses had to come together and I believe him. Even the Sorting Hat sang about house unity! If we don’t include everyone…well…” she trailed off.

“Hermione,” Lupin said gently. “Voldemort is the heir of Slytherin…”

“…so that means everyone in Slytherin is like him?” Hermione interrupted. “Excuse me for saying so, but you of all people should understand why it’s so important to judge people for who they are…rather than what they are.” Remus had nothing to say in response. Hermione was right. But they still faced a rather daunting logistical concern.

“We don’t have any contacts in Slytherin,” Lupin said, looking over the rolls of parchment where he’d been keeping his notes. “Snape is in Ravenclaw Tower.”

“We do have a contact,” Hermione corrected. Lupin could hear the explosion that came from Harry and Ron at the mere prospect of her suggestion.

“Like hell we do!” He heard Ron’s voice bark. Hermione whipped her head to the side and her features darkened.

“This is more important that your testosterone-ridden obsession with protecting your sister!” she screamed.

“You’re barking mad, Hermione, if you think we can trust fucking Malfoy for the time of day!” Ron’s voice bellowed. Remus could tell from the scenery changing behind Hermione that she had gotten to her feet with the mirror in hand. He tried to calm them, but proved as effective as Harry.

“Sooner or later you’ll have to realize that the world does not revolve around what you want, Ron! Ginny believes he’s changed! Put your trust in her!” Hermione shouted.

“Right! The last time I did that, I ended up staring down a Gelidus Bear!” Ron’s voice echoed. Just as Remus was about to shout over the both of them, the room fell oddly silent. Hermione’s focus shifted and Remus could hear the quiet muttering of a fourth voice but couldn’t make out the words.

“You can’t believe you forgot to tell us what?” Hermione questioned. Remus strained to listen and found the effort wasted in a moment’s time. Hermione’s face zipped off the left side of the mirror and a wizened Merc Thompson appeared in the frame.

“Professor Lupin, you’ve got to get out of there!” she pleaded. Remus was sure his face couldn’t mask his confusion. “The bear!” she stammered.

“What bear?” Lupin asked. In all, he thought this was a rather odd tangent to get sidetracked on. The full moon was beginning to rise and he had little time to finalize their plans before he would be effectively out of commission for the evening. While his mind was on the subject, he slugged back the last of his wolfsbane potion and tried to redirect the conversation from whence it came. “Its okay, Merc. Bears are notoriously more afraid of us than we are of them. If there’s a bear in the woods, I’m sure it will keep its distance.”

“No!” she shouted. “That’s just it! That Gelidus Bear is not a bear at all!”

“What?” The question came from both sides of the mirror.

Merc took a gasping breath. “Something had been bothering me for days and I couldn’t put my finger on it. It was something you said.” She locked eyes with Lupin. “It stirred something in my memory and I ended up in the library. It’s why I wasn’t in my dormitory when the Death Eaters attacked.” She gulped another breath and continued. “My father used to read to me from my mother’s old mythology books. I loved the stories. He made up nicknames for me from ancient legend. He called me Athena and Persephone. When he couldn’t brush my hair I became Medusa,” Merc smiled in spite of herself. Remus looked through the open tent doorway and dread began to settle in his stomach.

“Get to the point, Merc.”

“The point is, I found one of those old mythology books and it triggered my memory. I re-read the story in the back of the anthology. It was about a band of fierce warriors. No weapon could touch them, no enemy could best them. They fought in a frenzied rage and cast terror on the battlefields of Europe. Muggle history books refer to them as Berserkers. Oral history turned into written legend about their ferociousness and seeming immortality. They ran into battle with no visible sign of protection. They generally clad themselves only in bear skins! Muggle theorists thought they saw the skins as some conduit for the animal’s strength. They thought the Berserkers wore them to channel the bear’s spirit. What the muggles didn’t know is that these men weren’t men at all — they were wizards. That’s why they were rumored to blunt swords with a single glare. That’s also the explanation for why muggles saw them turn into bears on the battlefield.”

“Animagi?” Remus wondered aloud.

“Yes!” Merc answered. “Even the word ‘Berserker’ is derived from the words ‘bear’ and ‘shirt.’ They were vicious warriors with no loyalty or principle. They would kill their own kind, rape their own women, and pillage their own communities as well as others.”

Remus’ heart began to pound in his chest. “Riley was right,” he whispered to himself. “He’s been here the whole time.”

Merc nodded. “I overheard you telling Dumbledore about Norse fairy tales and something about Damien Keres fell into place. Berserkers are Norse legend. The wizard lines of Berserkers are Norse descendants.”

“Are they as invincible as Muggle legend would have you believe?” Remus questioned.

“Wizard mythology claims they can only be killed by one of their own kind. When engaged in such frenzied battle, they lose their ability to discern family from foe. They are blood-thirsty warriors who will stop at nothing short of a kill,” Merc explained.

“He’d kill his best friend if he got in the way,” Lupin whispered. He looked back through the mirror to Merc’s anguished face. She was nodding hesitantly, but Remus knew from the look in her eyes that she understood exactly what he did. “Two can play that game.” Without giving a second thought to his actions, Remus tossed the mirror aside and ran out of the tent into the rising moonlight.

24. The Triumvirate of Resolve

I know I say this every time, but the betas outdid themselves on both this chapter and the epilogue, which is to follow. They worked on 70 pages of text, in an exceptionally short period of time, and made both this and epilogue vastly better. For all your effort, thanks so much to Jane and Melissa. ToR wouldn’t be ToR without you both!

V.Leigh

Chapter 24 – The Triumvirate of Resolve

Harry, Ron, and Hermione huddled over the table as Merc reviewed the best strategy they’d managed to devise. “So according to the map Dobby brought,” she said as the bat-eared house elf squeaked behind them, “all of the D.A. are in their respective houses. There’s a group of students here,” she pointed her wand to the kitchens, “and another group locked in the hospital wing.”

“It’s best for them to stay there. With no means of contacting them, they wouldn’t know what to do if they were freed,” Harry speculated while pulling at his chin. Hermione couldn’t help but watch him. In the hours that passed since Lupin ran out of the mirror, she’d seen the side of Harry that only appeared in the direst of circumstances. During their fifth year, she’d begged this Harry to teach them defense. Last summer, Dumbledore made this Harry Head Boy. In both instances, he’d answered the call and carried out his responsibilities with marked success. It was that history, and the stalwart determination in his eyes, which gave her hope. She had to believe their plan would work because she refused to consider what would happen if it failed.

“What about Madam Pomfrey?” Ron suggested. “She’s in the Order,” he said, pointing to her name on the map as it flitted about the students in the infirmary. Normally, such a discussion would’ve been more guarded. After all, until the siege, Merc knew nothing of the Order of the Phoenix, its membership, or its mission. However, that all changed after she’d shared the fruits of her research with Lupin. Her discovery had been its own right of passage and Harry, Ron, and Hermione filled her in on the Order and its relationship to the three of them. Merc took the news, including the story of the “murderer” Sirius Black, in stride.

“No.” Harry shook his head. “I have the feeling she’ll be attending to other matters. I don’t want to draw her attention away from the students,” he finished. Ron gave a grim nod of understanding and Merc continued with the synopsis.

“There are three coins here,” Merc said as she spread Harry, Ron, and Hermione’s D.A. galleons over the map. “You will take two of them, while I’ll keep Harry’s with me.” Ron grumbled. Merc gave him a stern look and continued. “Hermione’s charm is still intact, so I can change the coins as the reconnaissance changes.”

“I wish you’d change your mind,” Ron argued. Merc’s stern look ebbed away. Hermione wondered if Merc didn’t wish the same. However, she remained steadfast in the decision she’d made over three hours ago.

“No, you don’t, Ron,” she whispered. “I would be a liability.”

“No, you wouldn’t! I don’t want to leave you here alone!” he snapped.

“I’m safer in here than you will be out there,” she retorted. “Someone has to stay here and coordinate between the Order, the map, and you three.” Hermione watched Ron’s face contort as he tried to think of a response. She knew he wouldn’t find one, though; Merc was right. “Besides, I’m not a Gryffindor, Ron. We’ve already had this conversation.” Hermione wondered how that conversation transpired, but she felt confident that she could guess its outcome. In the years she’d known Merc, Defense had always been her weakest subject. What little self-confidence she had evaporated in the face of adversity.

Hermione saw Ron looking toward the tattered and blood-stained sleeve of Merc’s jumper. “I know,” he lamented. “I just don’t want to let you out of my sight.” Merc flashed a warm smile.

“As long as the coins keep changing, you’ll know I’m fine.” Harry cleared his throat and Merc blushed. “Sorry, where were we?” she muttered.

“We’re going to hope these dusty old Death Eaters have gone soft in Arithmancy,” Hermione interjected. “Merc will encode the movements of the Death Eaters, D.A., and the Order so we won’t be surprised.”

“It’s a good thing we have you then,” Ron lamented. “She could give me the arithmantic code spelled out in great big letters on parchment and I’d be hexed trying to decipher it.”

“I still don’t like it,” Harry mumbled.

“That’s why I never took Arithmancy,” Ron replied. Harry furrowed his brows and looked at Ron in confusion. After a moment’s pause, he seemed to realize they were not discussing the same thing.

“I was talking about the plan, Ron,” Harry said.

“Oh,” Ron answered and looked back to the map.

“What’s bothering you?” Hermione asked as she rose from the bench and stood behind Harry. She brushed his hand off his shoulder and began rubbing the knot in his muscle with the heel of her hand. She felt him relax and expel a breath. He picked up his wand and pointed to the map.

“We are trying to coordinate our response from four different locations. I like the idea of the coins counting down to signal the start. But, look here,” he pointed to the corridors outside the House portrait holes. “They’ll bottleneck trying to come out of there. Even if the first one manages to surprise anyone, the second and third will not.” He put his wand down and rubbed his eyes. “It’s suicide.”

“The only House not guarded is Slytherin,” Merc responded.

“Of course. Their bloody parents are running around in hoods. They won’t attack their own useless sprogs, will they?” Ron scoffed.

“One might,” Hermione added. The group fell into the same uncomfortable silence it had every time she alluded to Malfoy over the past several hours.

“Hermione,” Harry’s voice wafted from behind his hands. “We’ve talked about this.”

“No, we haven’t,” she replied and stopped rubbing the knot from his shoulder. “To talk about something implies the other parties listen to what someone has to say. You and Ron have declared Malfoy untrustworthy and completely ignored the resource we have in the Slytherin Common Room.” Both Ron and Harry were glaring at her. “Look,” she argued and pointed to the map. “Even now, he’s not associating with Crabbe and Goyle.” Everyone looked to the map and saw what Hermione was talking about. The dot indicating “Draco Malfoy” was secluded in a dormitory whilst the other Slytherin students were gathered in the Common Room.

Harry let out a huff of air and buried his head in his hands. “Hermione, you cannot discount six years of rivalry and contempt. He’s not going to change.”

“And in your testosterone-driven discussions, you’ve endeavored to keep an open mind, I’m sure,” she retorted. Harry opened his mouth to speak but Hermione, feeling her second wind, pounced before he could reply. “What’s the one part of this you’ve harped on for hours, Harry? It will take every resource we’ve got for us to have a chance at defeating the Death Eaters! You’re consciously ignoring twenty-five percent of the student body!”

“And who’s going to coordinate with them, Hermione?” Harry snapped. “There aren’t any Slytherins with D.A. coins!”

“Ginny has one,” Hermione replied. The look on Ron’s face was murderous. “Like it or not, Ginny is in love with him and he’s a natural leader in that House. There must be some students who will listen to him!”

“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of!” Harry blasted. Hermione had reached her limit. She’d argued this point for hours and they were no farther along in resolving the situation. She was as entrenched in her position as Harry and Ron were in theirs. For the most part, Merc avoided the fray. Hermione couldn’t blame her. In choosing a side, she’d be required to alienate either Ron or Hermione. It was clear she didn’t wish to make that choice. Hermione held her temper in check over this point of contention for hours. She’d finally lost it entirely.

“What’s it going to take, Harry?!” she screamed. “Don’t you get it? He’s in the Great Hall waiting for you! The prophecy says at least one of you will DIE in this fight!” Her voice started to warble and the tears sprang to her eyes. She’d tried to stay as emotionally reserved as possible, but she was fighting a losing battle. The stress of the situation and the thought of his lifeless body lying on the floor combined to wreak havoc in her mind. As she watched him rise from the bench in front of her, she couldn’t stop the visions of Damien’s killing curse as it slammed into Harry at Privet Drive.

“Why won’t you use every resource you have?” Hermione’s voice quaked as she tried to keep shouting. “Your bloody pride will make me a widow before I’m even married,” she cried.

The tears began pouring down her cheeks as Harry crossed the room to where she stood. She felt him wrap his arms around her and pull her head onto his shoulder, and she tried to resist. She didn’t want him to comfort her. She didn’t want him to tell her it would be all right. She wanted to rage at him — she needed to make him understand. But she couldn’t do it. The warmth of his arms and the gentle strength of his touch melted her anger and drove it away. She grabbed hold of him with all her might, willing away the danger that faced them. She sobbed on his shoulder until the tears stopped. When they did, she thought to feel embarrassed until she realized Ron and Merc were similarly situated on the other side of the room. The sight of Merc sitting on his lap, wrapped in his arms, gave her pause. She’d managed to forget she was not the only one in danger of losing the only man she ever loved.

“Hermione,” Harry’s quiet voice resounded in her ear. “Why didn’t you tell me how much this was bothering you?”

Hermione sniffled and pulled back from his embrace. “Isn’t it obvious?” she scoffed.

“Need I remind you of my marks in Divination?” Harry replied. Hermione couldn’t help but chuckle. Harry failed that O.W.L. with one of the lowest marks in recorded history.

“Harry,” she croaked. “It’s not that I want to trust Malfoy,” she said and raised her eyes to his. “I just can’t stand the thought that you might…”

“Shhh,” he interrupted. “Don’t say it…please,” he begged with a hint of desperation in his voice for the first time. “I need you to believe I can do this.” His eyes glassed over and he shook his head. “If you don’t believe in me…”

“I do believe in you, Harry.” She threw her arms around his neck and buried her head in his shoulder. She would’ve protested the force with which he was squeezing her to his chest, but it felt good. If she could have, she would’ve held him tighter. “I love you so much,” she croaked. He turned his head and pressed his warm lips against her cheek. As he peppered her face with short kisses, she couldn’t help but taste the tears on his cheeks.

“That’s all we need,” he whispered, pulling back from her and wiping his eyes with his sleeve. He smiled at her and she dropped her forehead to his, wondering what resolution would come from her meltdown. “Hermione,” Harry began. She picked her head up and looked at him quizzically. “I don’t trust Malfoy. But I trust you…and your judgment. If you think we should involve Malfoy,” he drew a breath, “then we will.”

“What?” Ron’s voice sounded from across the room.

Harry did not remove his eyes from Hermione’s grateful smile. “That’s my decision, Ron,” he countered. He smiled in return and turned back to the map on the table. Ron grumbled and stalked to the table with Merc in tow. “So, where were we?”

“Bloody Malfoy,” Ron groused.

Harry didn’t take the bait. “Well, Hermione’s right. Ginny has a coin.”

“How do we get it to him?” Merc asked. They all looked around at each other in question until a crash behind them signaled the answer. They all turned slowly to see Dobby setting the transfigured chess board back on the table. His giant ears flopped toward the ground as he realized they were staring at him.

“Dobby is sorry, Harry Potter,” he cried. He began shuffling around the room, no doubt looking for a dull object with which to beat himself, before Harry stopped him.

“Don’t worry about it, Dobby. Ron was cheating anyway,” he replied.

“What?!”

“Dobby, I need you to do something for us.” Hermione didn’t hear the rest of Harry’s instructions as she was too busy watching Ron return the chess pieces to the arrangement that existed prior to Dobby’s mishap. When Harry finished directing him, the House Elf snapped his fingers and disappeared from the room.

“Ron?” Merc’s voice sounded. His eyes were locked on the place Dobby had been standing. “Ron, are you okay?”

“Apparition.” Hermione heard him mumble.

“What?” Harry asked, looking in the direction his eyes were focused.

“You’re right,” Ron replied. “Going through the portrait holes will be suicide.” His vision cleared and he snapped his head to Harry’s. “We need to talk to Dumbledore.” Hermione and the others looked between each other in confusion.

“Why?” Harry asked.

“He’s the most powerful wizard in the world, he’s in the Order, and he’s in the castle. If anyone can lift the protective enchantments on the castle, he can,” he answered.

“Why would we want to do that?” Merc asked.

“So we can apparate,” Ron responded.

“Ron, everyone knows you can’t apparate on Hogwarts grounds,” Hermione said, making a mental note to buy him a copy of Hogwarts: A History after this was over.

“Exactly,” Ron said with a smile breaking across his face. “What better way to surprise them? The seventh years can apparate out and cause a grand enough distraction that the younger students can use the portrait holes without getting leveled.”

“Brilliant,” Harry remarked. Before anyone could say another word, Harry turned on his heel and raced across the room to where the mirror lay on the table.

***

The shrouded moonlight cast a murky haze over the dark forest. The chilled air from the castle enchantments condensed Remus’ shortened breath into wisps of rising smoke. He stepped over felled branches and cracked through the decaying forest floor with one thought racing through his mind.

“Keres!” he shouted. His voiced resonated between the tree branches and echoed from the depths of the forest. A flock of ravens startled and leapt into the sky replacing the fading sound of his voice with the soft rush of wings. Remus turned on the spot, searching through the dark crevices of the forest for the foe he’d failed to best at Privet Drive. “I know you’re out here!” he called. Silence.

Remus stalked further into the forest. He wasn’t sure where he was going, but he knew one thing for certain. Damien Keres was hiding among these trees and he wouldn’t stop until he found him. As he trekked through the forest, he wondered if Damien’s existence here was related to the siege at Hogwarts. He wondered if Voldemort kept him under contract or if Keres decided to finish his assignment of his own accord. He wondered what Tonks would think of him traipsing through the woods in search of a murderous animagus.

Then he tried not to think of Tonks at all.

“Show yourself, you bloody coward!” he heard himself bark through the long shadows of the foliage.

“I’d rather be a coward than a fool,” a deep voice chided from behind him. Remus spun around, throwing his wand arm out in front of him. He peered through the wispy branches of the tall pines until he heard the voice again. “Hypothetically speaking, of course, as I am neither a coward nor a fool.” Damien’s tall silhouette emerged from the shadowed trees as he stepped toward Remus.

He was exactly as Remus remembered him. His inset eyes were the color of cold steel and an obscured moonbeam highlighted his glossy black hair which was tied in a loose ponytail. His clothing was less resplendent than what he’d worn at Privet Drive, yet he remained meticulously well-appointed. A long black cloak draped gracefully over his shoulders and danced along the forest floor below. The darkness of his wardrobe had the effect of illuminating his pale skin. In the midst of shadows, his murderous features glowed in contrast to the dimness of the forest. “I cannot say the same for you, however.”

Remus felt the anger stir within him. As a result of his affliction, he’d been relegated to the sidelines of Harry’s life for the majority of it. He’d taken it upon himself to assume the role of surrogate godfather in the wake of Sirius’ death. He’d failed in that role once. He had no intention of disappointing his “godson” or failing his godson’s parents again.

“You are a coward,” he reiterated. “You hide in the trees and attack children.”

Damien bellowed a laugh. “Potter is hardly a child.”

“If you’re so impressed by him you’d think a warrior, such as yourself, would’ve had the courage to face him without the disguises,” Remus replied.

Damien’s laugh faded and a grin etched itself across his features. “That’s the problem with you, Lupin. All of you. You seem to think the manner of victory is important. What matters is the kill, not the hunt.” It was Remus’ turn to laugh.

“Well, I’m glad to say you’re a miserable hunter as you’ve had at least three opportunities and couldn’t claim victory in any one of them.”

“I’m not finished.”

Remus’ eyes lowered to a scathing glare as he replied, “Yes, you are.” Keres didn’t flinch nor did he appear moderately fussed over Remus’ declaration. If Remus hadn’t been watching him so intently, he would’ve missed the indiscernible upturn of his pursed lips.

“My goals are well-supported. You’re out of your league, half-breed,” Keres announced.

Remus felt an angry fire erupt in his stomach. “Underestimating your opponent?” he derided. “That’s so unlike a Berserker.”

Keres raised an appreciative eyebrow. “It’s about time. I was afraid I’d have to draw you a picture.”

“Picture this!” The forest lit up with a blood red hue as Remus dropped behind a moldy burn and fired a stunner toward his foe. Keres spun behind a tree, his robes trailing off behind him, as the spell shot through the air and exploded against a tree behind him. The decaying bark shattered and showered the sky with a confetti of fiery embers. Remus looked up from his position as Keres’ wand erupted with a familiar green light. He threw his hands over his head and ducked as the deadly jet careened over his head. Remus, seeing a defensive position amid the trees to his left, leapt to his feet and set off for the grove.

As he ran, multiple jets of colored light ricocheted among the trees around him. He ducked from one side and dove to another, hearing the hiss of a curse as it sped past his ear.

And then it was silent.

Remus dove behind the trees he’d marked as his rasping breath drowned out the sounds of the forest. He peered between the branches hoping to see a moving shadow that would betray Keres’ position. He saw nothing. Remus tugged off his robes and gave a fleeting look toward the sky.

A blanket of billowy clouds obscured the moonlight. A silver glow behind a moving sea of white was the only indication that the moon was in full cycle. For the first time in his life, Remus cursed the moon for an entirely new reason.

He knew the eerie silence would soon be shattered by the cry of a ravaged bear. He also knew the Gelidus Bear’s ability to stave off ordinary spell work. He wasn’t powerful enough to defeat Keres with a wand and he wasn’t strong enough to defeat him with his hands. Before Tonks’ voice could begin chastising him, he looked around from his position for anything to aid his cause.

“You really got yourself in a spot this time, Moony!” James laughed as Sirius wiped the tears from his cheeks.

“You could be a chum and get me down!” Remus suggested as the blood rushed to his face.

“But you’d make a magnificent Christmas ornament, swinging upside down in that oak, Remmy,” Sirius laughed.

“It’s May!” Remus shouted.

“I know!” Sirius replied, dissolving into laughter again, as he dropped onto the grass and watched his friend sway in the breeze.

“Come now, Sirius, be…serious,” James hesitated. “We can’t leave him flapping about the tree for months when I’m quite sure we’ll need him to save our arse from Filch at some point,” James reasoned.

“Too right,” Sirius remarked as he got back to his feet. They pulled out their wands together and released Remus from the hex he’d inadvertently cast on himself. He dropped to the ground in a heap and James pulled him to his feet.

“Thank you,” Remus said.

“No worries,” James replied. “I’ll send you an invoice.”

“Invoice?” Remus scoffed. “Certainly! You should expect payment when your first born takes his N.E.W.T.’s”

“Close enough,” Remus whispered aloud. He grasped his wand and stepped out of the grove into the clearing he’d just traversed. The only thing that surprised him was the celerity with which Damien attacked. He’d not even gathered his breath when a great mass of fur and fangs slammed into his left side and sent him sprawling across the forest floor. As he skidded over the decaying leaves, his wand slipped from his hand, leaving him entirely defenseless. True to form, Damien took the opportunity to relish in the kill.

Remus was sure if animals could smile, the creature salivating at the thought of devouring him would be beaming. The massive bear stalked around him in a great circle, always keeping his eyes transfixed on the figure lying before him. Remus gathered himself from the ground and searched surreptitiously for his wand, distracting the bear by making a big production of brushing himself off. Nearly six meters away, he saw it. He locked eyes with the bear, who was still circling him like a vulture, and seized his opportunity.

“Accio wand!” he shouted and the thin polished wood flew through the air into his hand. He heard Damien growl and felt his rapid approach. He caught the wand in his right hand and spun around to cast a stunner just as the bear’s massive paw connected with his head. Stars exploded behind his eyes, but he kept a death grip on his wand and thought of his purpose in coming here.

This menace had one goal in mind — he would not stop until Harry was dead.

“Avada Kedavra!” he shouted as his wand erupted with the angry fire that continued to roll in his stomach. A horrifying eruption of green light shot from his wand and sent tingles through his arm. Damien, appearing more surprised than scared, failed to move in time and the curse connected with the bear’s massive torso. He was knocked backward and flipped over a fallen tree, landing on his back and falling silent.

Remus stood still as a statue, gazing upon what he’d done. The form of the Gelidus bear dissolved and Damien Keres’ body replaced it. He looked at the wand in his hand and back to the motionless man on the ground. He dared to believe it could be that easy…he loathed himself for feeling that way. He’d never used an unforgivable curse in his life and he’d managed to end a life in the same way Voldemort had ended James and Lily’s. He wanted to believe he was incapable of such hatred, but the proof was lying before him – his gray eyes wide and lifeless – staring toward the sky.

Remus took a breath and stepped toward Damien’s body, holding his wand toward him for fear he’d dreamed up the event. As he hovered over him, he felt a prickle at the back of his neck. He’d seen the muggle movies where the villain jumps to life and strangles the protagonist. He nudged his rigid body with his foot. Keres did not respond. He stared at his chest, looking for signs of respiration…none were obvious. But there was only one way to be sure. Slowly, he lowered himself to Damien’s side. He reached out, with two fingers, toward his neck, feeling the prickle of his spine spreading over his entire back. Just as he placed his fingers on the chilling skin covering his jugular artery, Damien’s hand shot up from the ground and grasped Remus’ wrist with painful jubilation.

“I told you I wasn’t finished!” Damien growled. Remus felt the pain shooting through him, but it wasn’t only coming from the crushing grip Damien held on his wrist. White hot knives burned through his back and seemed to slice him vertically along his spine. He threw his head back as the pain brought about a frightening scream. That was the moment he realized what was happening.

Damien dropped his wrist and Lupin looked back to the ground where he lay. Damien’s eyes were wide with an expression that could only be categorized as terror. As Lupin’s vision began to blur, he saw the reflection of the full moon in Damien’s gray eyes as the last line of clouds floated away.

His body exploded in pain and he heard his voice mutate from that of a man to that of a beast. He smelled the adrenaline in the air. He felt the frenzied struggling of another. Their eyes locked. Instinct eclipsed rationale. The forest echoed with the sounds of tearing flesh and breaking bone. The strangled cries of hunter and prey resounded from the trees as two warriors shared one purpose…to kill the other.

***

“Did you hear that?” Ron asked. His footsteps slowed as he strained his ears to listen again.

“What?” Hermione panted. Ron looked out of the corridor window toward an otherwise still Forbidden Forest. Harry caught his breath and flipped his galleon over in his hand. As soon as she saw him inspect it, Hermione felt the heat of her own coin burning in her pocket.

“It sounded like a werewolf,” Ron replied. Hermione hesitated as she pulled the coin from her pocket. She stepped to the corridor window and looked over the Dark Forest. She didn’t know what she expected to see. Certainly Lupin wouldn’t be standing at the forest edge posing for a photograph. Nevertheless, she was compelled to scan the trees for any indication of his whereabouts. It had been over seven hours since he ran from the mirror.

She strained her ears and listened for any familiar sound. However, what she heard wasn’t coming from the Dark Forest; it was coming from the far end of the corridor. She snapped herself back to reality. She thought to check the galleon for Merc’s latest indication of the Death Eaters position.

She didn’t need to.

“Come on!” Harry shouted as he grabbed her by the upper arm and set off down the corridor. Ron ran alongside them as colored streams of light exploded off the walls around them.

“In here!” a strange voice cried. Hermione looked to her left and a young witch in a portrait swung open to reveal a passageway. The three dove into the tunnel and pulled the portrait closed behind them.

“That was close,” Ron lamented as he gasped for breath.

Harry nodded. “We should move on,” he added. Hermione sank against the wall. She hadn’t eaten a proper meal in nearly a week. While Dobby had been successful at bringing them some matter of sustenance, it was only enough to keep them alive. After two hours of running the corridors and dodging curses, she didn’t think she had the energy to continue.

“Can’t we rest a spell?” she begged. Harry and Ron looked at her speculatively. “Please,” she added before they could respond.

“All right, but let’s not take long,” Harry replied.

Hermione nodded and drew a deep breath. She hadn’t felt as though she’d done that since they left the Room of Requirement. They’d enacted their plan just after sunset. It was rather simple. After some trial and error, Dumbledore managed to drop the protective charms on the castle which had the added benefit of calling the portraits back to their frames. Harry, Ron, and Hermione made their way through the castle toward Gryffindor Tower where the majority of the D.A. were located. Upon Merc’s signal, they would call for the eldest students to apparate into the corridors where they could engage the Death Eaters. Their end goal was to distract the invaders so the younger students could escape through the portrait holes and out of the castle to the stronghold the Order established by the lake.

Apparition was key to maintaining the element of surprise. Not only would it allow the students the opportunity to circumvent the portrait holes, it would also allow the Order to get in the castle unchecked. Although it was tempting to apparate away from the Death Eaters that had been chasing them through the corridors, Harry, Ron, and Hermione knew better. If the Death Eaters realized they could apparate into the Common Rooms the entire plan would be worthless.

Hermione hadn’t counted on the initial part of the plan to take as long as it did. It had taken the three of them over two hours and they still hadn’t reached their destination. They’d been forced to move slowly. They had to hide in broom closets and behind suits of armor, and they were forced to wait for patrols to pass. Merc continued to communicate the positions of the Death Eaters around them, but there were so many they’d been confused, and located, on more than one occasion. As soon as the Death Eaters realized they were moving through the castle, the patrols and search parties became relentless. Such developments only slowed their progress further.

Harry slid down the wall coming to rest next to Hermione. Ron flopped onto the dusty floor across from them. “Where do you reckon this goes?” he asked looking down the tunnel.

“Dunno,” Harry said. “I don’t recognize it from the map.” Ron’s face brightened.

“Brilliant,” he answered. “Fred and George will be completely chapped off.”

“Well, we’re on the right floor,” Hermione added. “If this tunnel branches toward the east, we might find it ends rather close to Gryffindor Tower.”

“Good,” Harry’s dark voice resonated from the stone walls. “I’m tired of running.” The three fell into companionable silence. Hermione was sure they were all thinking the same thing. Harry’s frustration alluded to the part of the plan no one talked about — the part of the plan she couldn’t bring herself to think about, even though it existed as factually as did the air they breathed.

He was here. He was waiting.

Hermione glanced up to catch Harry’s eyes. He didn’t strike her as scared or even intimidated. His expression wasn’t mired in self-pity. He didn’t argue about his fate or rant like a child deprived of his favorite toy. He looked…ready. She pulled the galleon out of her pocket and flipped it over in her hand. Merc encoded the movements of all the Death Eaters, including the location of Voldemort. As the code associated with the Dark Lord had not changed, Hermione reckoned he must not have moved.

In actuality, they were guessing that he was located in the Great Hall. The Marauder’s Map showed the location of every living creature in the castle and labeled each dot with the owner’s name. However, since they’d first inspected the map, one lone dot moved around the Great Hall with some regularity, yet did not have a name. It was Harry who declared it must be Voldemort. After all, if the wizarding world is terrified to speak his name, why would the map wish to spell it out?

Hermione looked across the tunnel to see Ron staring back. He broke a faint smile when their eyes met and gave her hand a supportive squeeze. They both looked to Harry, who reflected the same serene smile, and stood up. “We’re ready then?” Ron asked, brushing the dust from his robes.

“We’re ready,” Harry responded. Hermione was the first to take leave of their respite. She followed her instincts farther into the tunnel and found that it did branch in the direction she’d hoped. She motioned for Harry and Ron to follow her and pushed on the wall at the tunnel’s end. It popped open with a soft click and she peered out into the corridor. As her eyes swept along the familiar faces along the wall, she smiled as she gazed upon the Fat Lady, trying to hide her girth behind a wingback chair in her frame. She drew back into the tunnel and pulled the door closed.

“We’re here,” she announced. “The Fat Lady is directly across the hall.” Ron and Harry exchanged looks and leaned against the wall.

“The only question is whether or not Merc knows we’re here,” Harry said. “I’ve not seen this passageway on the map. I hope we haven’t disappeared from it.”

“We’ll know soon enough,” Ron answered as he squeezed the galleon in his hand. He was right. While Merc had means to communicate with everyone who held a coin, they could not communicate with her. Understanding this, they’d devised a plan. When Harry, Ron, and Hermione reached Gryffindor Tower, she would enchant the coins to reflect a five minute countdown. If the countdown didn’t begin, it meant that Merc didn’t know their location.

As Hermione inspected her coin, her emotions were thoroughly conflicted. She wanted the countdown to begin. It was their plan; it was their purpose for being in the tunnel. It was the only way to resolve both the siege and the prophecy once and for all. Yet at the same time, that countdown would signal the irreversible possibility that Harry would have to face Voldemort soon. He might die, and she wasn’t ready to say goodbye; she prayed she wouldn’t have to. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the visions of Harry’s defeat to dissipate, when the coin grew hot in her hand. Her eyes popped open…four minutes and fifty-five seconds.

Something inside her began to panic. Cogent thought evaporated from her mind and she all but forgot her name, let alone her part in the plan they’d devised. Her heart was pounding and her hand was shaking; there was so little time left. She looked between Harry and Ron at a loss for what to say – yet she felt she should say something. Should she tell them both how much she loved them or was that too foreboding? Should she make a joke and break the tension or was that too flippant? Should she try to review the plan or would that just confuse them all as she couldn’t remember it anyway? The panic began to rise in her chest…three minutes and thirty seconds.

“Er,” she began, desperate to say something in the time that remained.

“Hermione,” Harry whispered. She jerked her head toward his. It wasn’t until his hand closed around hers that she realized it was shaking. “Everything will be all right,” he assured. He looked between her and Ron. “We’ll get through this…together.”

Ron nodded in silent assent. It was the assurance Hermione needed to refocus on the task at hand. She drew a deep breath and looked between her best friends. It was difficult to imagine that their life, so long ago, was replete with mountain trolls, Quidditch matches, and study sessions. In some instances it felt as if the search for Neville’s toad was centuries ago, and at other times it seemed like yesterday. So much had changed yet remained exactly the same. She squeezed Harry’s hand and reached out for Ron’s. She had only enough time to close her eyes and breathe in the safety of their friendship before the countdown drew to a close, as did the life she’d become so familiar with.

“Ready then,” Harry’s voice broke the silence of her musings as the final seconds ticked off the coin.

“Ready,” she and Ron replied in unison.

“Right,” he croaked. “In three…” Hermione adjusted the grip on her wand. “Two…” she gave one last look to Harry and Ron. “One.” Her eyes locked with Harry’s and an eternity of things unsaid passed between them in a glance. With a final squeeze of their hands Harry, Ron, and Hermione apparated into the corridor beside the Fat Lady. Within seconds they were joined by Dean Thomas, Seamus Finnegan, Ginny Weasley, and Neville Longbottom. Seconds later, led by Professor McGonagall the younger students came barreling out of the portrait hole.

If the plan was proceeding as Harry and the Order intended, the same event was occurring outside of each House. The older students were apparating into the corridors while the professors locked within the Common Rooms were leading the younger students into the fray. Hermione couldn’t stop herself from examining the looks on the students’ faces. They were so young…they were so scared. They clung to their wands, and to each other, as if to a life raft as they tumbled past the Fat Lady together.

“Hermione!” Harry’s voice barked. She spun around to see the darkened figures of several Death Eaters charging toward them. Dean knocked over a suit of armor and pulled Seamus behind it with him. Neville grabbed Ginny and slung her behind him as he threw the first of a volley of curses down the corridor.

The younger students erupted in a cacophony of panicked screaming. For all McGonagall did to try and calm them, they were not listening. They bolted off down the corridor as errant hexes flew past their heads and slammed into the stone walls around them. Hermione watched them continue to file out of the portrait hole. Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil were set to bring up the rear and they’d not been seen as of yet. They needed more time.

Hermione spun around and caught sight of a purple hex hurtling toward her. She cast the shield charm just in time to deflect it into the ceiling above them. The impact splintered the rafter above her head and showered the corridor with a snowfall of debris. She flattened herself against the wall and shot a stunner down the foggy corridor toward the advancing guard.

The corridor was alight with hexes of every variety. Streams of brilliant light shot in every direction. The dust from blasted stone filled the corridor and obscured everything save the deadly streams of light that careened through their once hallowed halls. She saw Harry, with one eye on the portrait hole, shouting orders to the others in the fight. It took a moment before her brain realized some of those orders were directed at her.

“Hermione! Two on the right!” she looked along the scorch-marked wall and saw the outlines of two Death Eaters that had already eluded Dean and Seamus. They were headed directly for Neville and Ginny’s position when she saw one point its wand at her best friend’s sister.

“Expelliarmus!” she shouted before the Death Eater could cast their charm. Ginny snapped her head around and threw a stunner toward the two – now directly beside them – and ran away as they fell to the floor. Hermione watched her take off down the corridor with Neville throwing hexes behind them for protection. They ran past Harry’s position who also seemed preoccupied with their safety. He never saw the hooded figure appear in the corridor behind him.

“Harry!” was all she managed to shout before the corridor ignited with a sickening green fire. It hurtled toward him before he could respond to her warning. The sound seemed to evaporate from the fight as she watched the spell careen toward him. He turned around to shield it, but she knew better.

There wasn’t enough time.

Her heart dropped to her feet. The spell was quickly closing the short distance remaining between Harry and his attacker. She saw him suck in a gasping breath and close his eyes. For as much as she tried to move, to react, to defend him…she couldn’t. She was frozen in place watching the scene unfold before her.

Just as the spell cast a deadly light over Harry’s startled face a short, plump, hooded shadow tumbled from an alcove to Harry’s right. His hood dropped down to his shoulders as the green flames enveloped him. The man let out an excruciating squeal as he fell to the floor. Although she’d not laid eyes on him in years, Hermione recognized the man immediately. She turned away and squeezed her eyes shut as the green flames devoured Peter Pettigrew in a matter of seconds. A moment of stunned silence followed before she heard Harry’s voice again.

“That’s all!” Harry shouted over the ruckus in the corridor. Hermione looked around to see Lavender and Parvati running backwards with their wands extended, trying their best to protect their frightened housemates. Just as she felt some modicum of relief, she heard a cry she’d never forget.

“Dean!” Seamus screamed. She startled and turned back down the hall to be met with a blurry mess of raven hair as Harry tackled her to the ground. Her head connected with the stone floor and the stars burst in front of her eyes. She was moderately aware of the familiar green spell that narrowly missed her and exploded against the Fat Lady’s portrait.

The frame slid off the wall and crashed to the floor beside them. Harry grabbed it with one arm and slung it over the both of them as he peeked out to locate the remaining attackers. Hermione squeezed her eyes together and cleared her vision. She looked out from the tattered portrait and her eyes found Dean’s. He was laying on the floor behind the suit of armor where Seamus was crouched in shock. Dean looked like a muggle photograph. His eyes were wide and blank. He was looking directly at her, yet it was obvious he wasn’t seeing anything. He had no marks upon him. He had no burns. He had nothing but the look of someone who’d just fallen victim to the killing curse. She wanted to look away but she couldn’t. She couldn’t wrest her eyes from the shocked expression on his face…she couldn’t stop thinking that this couldn’t be happening.

She wondered if this was what Cedric looked like.

“Hermione, I need you,” Harry demanded. It was his voice that broke her catatonia. “Stunners on three!” He slid off of her as she rolled to her stomach. Harry’s eyes were connected with Ron’s (on the far side of the corridor) as he shouted “One! Two! Three!” She leapt from her place, with Ron and Harry at her side and they unleashed a current of red light the likes of which had not been seen before. A wave of red magic swept down the corridor and blasted the remaining Death Eaters off their feet. Hermione didn’t think to be impressed until they stopped skidding across the floor.

“Cor,” Neville whispered, as he stepped away from a rather wizened-looking Ginny Weasley. Although her posture cast a fire of indignation toward Neville’s efforts to protect her, Hermione noticed her eyes were glued to Dean’s body.

“Dean,” Seamus’ voice warbled. He crawled to where he lay and shook him by the shoulder. “Dean!” he called again. Dean didn’t move. He didn’t blink. Seamus began to shake him harder, his voice trembling among the rubble. “Dean, wake up,” he pleaded. Harry stepped away from Hermione’s side and crossed the corridor. He laid a hand on Seamus’ shoulder and bent over.

“Seamus, he’s gone,” he said quietly. “We need to move…now,” he pressed. Seamus’ eyes flashed and he whipped his head around.

“This is all your bloody fault!” he barked. To his credit, Harry didn’t flinch. It appeared as though he was either expecting Seamus’ reaction…or he agreed with it. Hermione thought to say something in his defense, but Harry responded before she could formulate a reply.

“They won’t be gone long,” he continued, unfazed. “We need to get the others out.” Hermione could hear the distant sounds of embattled spells and crashing stone. She could hear the voices of student and Death Eater alike…casting…screaming…fighting.

“Seamus,” Neville interrupted. “We have to go…now!” Neville, apparently hearing what Hermione had, tugged on Ginny’s robes and began to race down the hall. Ron and Hermione joined them, falling behind until they were sure Harry had convinced Seamus as well. When they popped up from the floor and followed, the lot of them set off at a sprint.

The younger students should’ve been well beyond them, but as they ran, they could hear the volleys of magic crashing in the corridors. There were so many voices, Hermione could barely make out any of them. As they turned the corner, her eyes burned with the vibrant light of powerful hexes. The rafters were on fire and smoke was filling the corridor. It had grown so hot, she almost didn’t notice the coin that was burning in her pocket.

She pulled out her galleon and gasped. “Harry,” she screamed. “Ten more! Behind us!”

“Damn!” he shouted as he dove for a large alcove. The others followed suit. Hermione peeked around the corner in both directions. The firefight continued down the corridor as she heard the footsteps approaching from the other end.

“What now?” Ginny asked.

“The first-years need more time,” Hermione offered. She looked at the smoky corridor and got an idea. “Harry,” she said, rounding on him. “They’re coming from the other direction! We can disarm them without disarming everyone in the corridor.”

“It will take them forever to find their wands in this!” Ron added, looking at the thickening smoke. Without responding, Harry jumped up from his spot and ran into the corridor. “Stay here!” Ron screamed at Ginny as he and Hermione stepped, unprotected, into the corridor. Since it was her idea, Hermione found herself taking the lead on the casting.

“On three,” she heard herself announce. “One…two…” An eruption of green light exploded just past their field of vision and headed directly for the three of them. There was no time to duck. There was no time to shield. Hermione heard Ginny screaming from the alcove and did the only thing that came to her mind. “Deliquesco!” She heard her voice harmonize with Harry and Ron’s as the spells connected with their bodies.

She felt an ice cold shiver prickle her skin and resonate through every organ in her body. It felt like someone had run her through with a white hot stoker, yet she was standing…what’s more, so were Harry and Ron. “Three!” she shouted as they cast the expelliarmus charm into the darkness. As the stunner before it had, their spells combined into a blinding wave of light that swept down the corridor, disarming everything in its path. She turned around to appraise the escort behind them. The first thing she saw was the face of another student, lifeless on the floor. She couldn’t help but wonder if they had fallen victim to the killing curse meant for her. As she considered this, the noise in the corridor dissipated and shadows of the remaining students trailed out of sight.

“How in Merlin’s name…,” Ginny’s voice trailed away as she stepped from the alcove with a shocked Neville and Seamus.

“We’ll tell you later,” Harry interrupted. The footsteps began reforming behind them. “Let’s draw them off…come on,” he ordered.

They set off down the corridor, allowing themselves to be seen, and turned the corner in the opposite direction from the fleeing students. Hermione was gasping for air among the smoky atmosphere as they ascended a staircase to the next floor. She heard the footsteps closing in from behind. Ron reached the landing first and turned the corner toward the North Tower. As Hermione rounded the same corner, she heard Ron groan.

“Ron?!” she yelled through the smoke.

“Hermione,” Harry’s voice replied as his hand grabbed her upper arm and threw her toward the wall. He stepped in front of her as every moving object in the corridor came to a halt. Ron’s arms were pinned behind him as a rather imposing figure had him by the shoulders. He was thrashing about in his captor’s arms but making little progress. As the group of cloaked figures in front of them stepped closer, those giving chase from behind appeared through the gray haze.

They were surrounded.

“Well, well…” a familiar voice crooned. “We meet again.” Hermione closed her eyes and her mind began to race for a solution. Just as quickly as she’d discovered it, it was taken away. The brightness of the Death Eater’s spell implored her to open her eyes. When she did, she saw a misty silver dome encapsulating them all. “That will keep anyone from trying to apparate,” the voice continued. “We’re only tricked once.” As if she couldn’t place the malevolent tone before, it was clear now.

“You’re too late, Malfoy,” Harry replied to the elder wizard. “They’re bound to be out of the castle by now.” Lucius threw his head back in laughter and his hood slipped down to reveal his silken white locks.

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” he replied. “We have impeccable intelligence.” Hermione’s mind continued to race as she felt the presence of those behind her draw closer. She was out of ideas. They were outnumbered, they were surrounded, and they couldn’t apparate. As she searched the blank annals of her mind she realized the galleon had begun to burn in her pocket. She stepped farther behind Harry, feigning the need for his protection, and slipped the coin from her pocket. She examined the code and blinked her eyes. Merc was a bit late…she already knew Malfoy was in the corridor. Just as the thought crossed her mind, she felt a hand brush along her back as one of those assembled behind walked toward Lucius Malfoy.

The Slytherin robes were a dead giveaway, as was the gasp from Ginny.

Hermione looked between Draco and Ginny, seeing their eyes meet with an indeterminate look from him. Her heart was pounding in her chest. She’d seen Malfoy stand up to his father before. She’d seen what their atrocities had done to him in the Hog’s Head. She saw the hopeful look that etched itself on Ginny’s face and smiled with the thought she’d stood her ground against Harry and Ron. The surreptitious wink Malfoy gave Ginny before turning around to face his father all but solidified her faith they would get out of this situation alive. He had something planned.

“Draco,” Lucius hissed. “I’m surprised you had the courage to show your face.”

“I’m full of surprises,” he replied with a sneer. Hermione looked at Ginny and noticed that she’d straightened up and stepped toward her brother…now stock still in the Death Eater’s arms. Ron’s wary eyes caught Hermione’s and she did the best she could to reflect that everything would be all right.

“So you’ve thrown yourself in with this lot,” Lucius chided. “And to think you were the pride of the Malfoy family name.” He looked around at the assemblage. “Heroes…blood-traitors…and mudbloods,” he scoffed.

Draco harrumphed. “You’ll never make it out of here alive, Father. The castle is being infiltrated with Aurors and the Order of the Phoenix as we speak.”

“So I’m told,” he replied. “Alas, I don’t answer to them. I answer to the Dark Lord, and he is waiting for him,” he responded coolly as he locked eyes with Harry. Hermione felt a chill rise through her spine. There were so many people, so many emotions, filling the corridor, she couldn’t sort one from another. She was flooded with hatred, deception, fear, pride, and anxiety such that she’d never experienced.

“Well, you can tell your boss he’ll have to wait,” Harry retorted amid the laughter of the Death Eaters.

“Too right,” Malfoy chuckled. “I’m sure I can persuade you to come along.” Lucius inclined his head toward Ron and the hooded man next to his captor slid a serrated dagger from his robes and pressed it to Ron’s throat. He sucked in a gasping breath and squeezed his eyes shut as Hermione was overcome with the fear he was broadcasting. She fisted her hands in the back of Harry’s robes and failed to breathe. “What’s the matter, Boy Wonder? Difficult decision?” Lucius chided.

“Don’t do it, Harry,” Ron replied through gritted teeth. Laughter again.

“No?” Lucius responded as he began to circle the six Gryffindors. “Perhaps we’ll sweeten the pot.” Hermione let out a scream as she was seized from behind and dragged to where Ron was held. She felt the cold steel of the dagger tracing a line along her throat.

“STOP!” Harry insisted. They laughed again. Hermione dared to open her eyes. Harry’s tortured expression was staring back at them both. She wanted to shake her head, to tell him not to give in, but the dagger remained tight upon her skin and she dared not move.

“Perhaps I should make him choose,” Lucius speculated. “The red-haired imbecile, or the filthy mudblood,” he spat, running his reproving eyes between them both.

“Draco,” Ginny squeaked. He turned to look at her and the corner of his mouth turned skyward.

“Yes, father…perhaps you should,” he answered without removing his eyes from Ginny’s. Hermione felt the blade poke through her skin as she turned her head toward Draco Malfoy. With all the charged emotions in the room she couldn’t have heard him correctly. Except, Lucius was laughing again…and this time the smile was directed at his son. “Frankly, I think they’re both expendable.”

Hermione could go her entire life and never see the look that darkened Harry’s features again. He was enraged. His eyes briefly locked upon hers as his jaw seemed to grind his teeth straight through to his skull. Ginny’s mouth was agape.

“No,” she warbled. This time Draco laughed with the assemblage of Death Eaters.

“Yes.”

“It’s not possible,” she cried as Neville grabbed her arm to keep her from crossing to Draco’s location. Hermione could see her shaking from where she stood. She could feel the rage pulsing from Ron. Regardless of the blood now trickling down her throat from the dagger, she wanted to exact her own revenge – if not for Ginny’s sake, for her own. She was the one who convinced Harry and Ron to trust Malfoy.

“So you are the leak,” Harry spat. “All of their intelligence has come from you!”

Draco stepped to his father’s side. “You give him far too much credit, Potter,” Lucius scoffed.

“I don’t understand,” Ginny sobbed, ignoring the other conversation. “You said you couldn’t live in his shadow anymore. You said you wanted to make a life for yourself.”

Draco huffed a breath of air. “Some life! To live on knuts and worry about where my next meal is coming from. I should thank you, Ginny. You showed me how to budget. You showed me how to get by with less. You showed me exactly why I despise being poor.” Ginny looked as though she’d been punched in the stomach. “If it weren’t for you, I never would’ve contacted my father to set things right.”

“You son of a bitch!” Ron barked as he began struggling to get at Draco. Neville pulled Ginny back with both arms and appeared to hold her upright. Hermione watched the entire scene as if it were an out-of-body experience.

“Now, I’ll not have Draco’s mother disrespected,” Lucius said comically as he pointed his wand at Ron. “Crucio!” Ron fell, screaming, to the floor. Hermione gasped for air as the curse resonated in her body as well. She fought through teary eyes and realized Harry was standing with gritted teeth and shaking limbs as well. Then it was gone. The hooded menace behind them stood Ron back on his feet as Lucius continued.

“Imagine my surprise when Draco tried to ‘weasel’ his way back into my good graces. I chose to prolong his punishment and only allow him reentry to the family if he maintained his ‘relationship’ with that.” He pointed at Ginny, now sobbing freely. “After all, didn’t some wise man once say it was best to keep your friends close and your enemies closer?” Hermione desperately wanted to point out that a muggle had made that assertion. However, given the circumstances, she chose to remain silent.

“Then he is the leak!” Harry reiterated.

“Not hardly. Although Draco provided us with excellent information regarding this grand escape of yours…the Order of the Phoenix was its own leak.”

“I don’t understand,” Harry answered.

“Oblivious lot, you are. Did no one ever wonder what happened to Mrs. Black’s portrait?” Lucius chided. Harry’s face furrowed in question. “It happens that a portrait of our family was commissioned after Sirius Black was banished from the family. Had he ever thought to ask Kreacher, before his unfortunate demise, he would’ve known it hangs in our dining room.”

“Mrs. Black’s portrait is the leak?” Harry wondered aloud.

“The heavy drapes that hang in front of the frame do little to deaden the sound and provide a wonderful means of obscuring her presence, when she chooses to make an appearance,” Lucius chimed. “They never thought to guard conversations in that house. It may be unplottable, but we never needed to find their headquarters when they so willingly brought the information to us.” Even Draco joined in the amiable laughter that was had at their expense. “Now, I believe I’ve had enough games. The Dark Lord is expecting his guests and I see no reason to make him wait.” He turned to his son. “I believe you have business to attend to elsewhere in the castle.” Draco nodded and began to sweep down the corridor as the assembled Death Eaters each grabbed a Gryffindor. He only took a few steps before turning on his heel and staring Ginny directly in the eyes.

Her breath audibly caught in her throat and she blinked through her tears. Hermione felt a twitch of hope. Perhaps this had all been a game…a joke…part of his plan to get them out of this situation. As she watched his mouth open with what could only be their salvation, she held her breath.

“Oi, Ginny,” he said. His lips curled into a grin and his eyelids lowered smugly. “You’re not a bad shag for a Weasley.”

Hermione couldn’t tell which sound filled the corridor with more noise: Ginny’s heart-breaking sobs or Ron’s declaration that he’d see Draco Malfoy dead if it was the last thing he did.

***

As the Death Eaters manhandled the six Gryffindors down the corridor toward the Great Hall, Harry couldn’t stop thinking how different this encounter would be. Throughout the last seven years, each time he’d faced Voldemort, he’d essentially done it alone. He’d been without aid and without witness to the things he’d accomplished in the name of saving his own arse.

This time it was different. Not only were Ron and Hermione being shuffled through the corridor at his side, but Neville, Ginny, and Seamus were struggling just behind him. In the back of his mind, he wondered why Voldemort would be so keen to have an entourage of witnesses. In reality, he already knew the answer to that question.

He’d seen the swaggering of the Dark Lord’s pride in the graveyard during his fourth year. He’d pranced, he’d danced, and sang the music of his own voice to the assemblage of Death Eaters that apparated to his side. Harry had the sinking feeling this would be no different except that he wanted Harry’s friends to watch him die. That was the only explanation for why they were still alive.

His escort had a vice grip on Harry’s arms and nearly bowled him over on two occasions when Harry wasn’t walking with the lumbering gait of his captor. He steered him through the rubble and tattered canvas that littered the floor. He slowed only long enough to kick the hood off a felled Death Eater’s head. It was MacNair. In some twist of irony, the executioner appeared to have fallen victim to a well-placed severing charm. When Harry’s escort kicked off the hood, MacNair’s head rolled away with it.

Harry squeezed his eyes closed and tried to block out the sounds of Neville’s wretching behind him. He turned his head to the side and felt his heart drop to his knees. Just within the shadows lay the crumpled body of a familiar student. The blue of the Ravenclaw’s robes had been stained red with blood and her face was obscured by her hair. But Harry didn’t need to wonder who else had fallen in the battle. Harry remembered…a flash of her robes whipping over the Quidditch pitch, a warm smile from the first meeting of the D.A. at the Hog’s Head Tavern, the sloppy wetness of a first kiss tainted with tears. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to block anymore memories. Cho Chang had been his first crush, and while Hermione taught him the difference between that and true love, the sight of her lifeless body was surprisingly morose. Harry barely had time to process it before he was shoved down the corridor again. His escort continued to toss him about, nearly tripping him down the stairs, until Harry finally had enough.

“Get off me,” he snapped, attempting to throw the oversized meat hooks from his shoulders.

“No,” the Death Eater laughed. “I was told to bring you to the Great Hall, and that’s what I’m doing.”

“I can get there on my own,” Harry growled through gritted teeth.

“And let you run off?” He laughed again. “I don’t think so.” He tightened his grip on Harry’s shoulders until it became painfully obvious he’d intended to shove him at Voldemort’s feet and claim a bit of glory himself.

“I’m warning you,” Harry hissed.

“What do you think you’re going to do, boy? You’ve not got your wand,” he jeered. An accompanying hooded figure began twirling Harry’s wand in his hand as they walked. Harry looked backward over his shoulder and saw Hermione and Ron struggling as well. It was more than he could take. An angry fire erupted in his gut and he threw his hand toward his wand.

“Accio wand!” The wand flew from the man’s hands toward Harry. He snatched it from the air and whipped out of his captor’s grip. He drew all the power he could muster and unleashed a banishing charm. His wand exploded with spell light and lifted the Death Eaters from their feet, leaving only the shocked Gryffindors standing in the corridor.

“Blimey!” Seamus gasped. Harry had no interest in explaining his newfound spell strength as the Death Eaters were scrambling to get back up. Their hoods slipped back from their heads and Harry wasn’t the least bit surprised to see Crabbe, Goyle, and Dolohov among their captors. Dolohov stepped toward Hermione to reclaim his grip and Harry raised his wand.

“Lay a hand on her and it will be the last thing you touch,” Harry threatened. Dolohov paused for a moment and gave a thoughtful glance in his direction. “I said we can get there on our own,” Harry reiterated. He had no intention of running away from his fate but he wasn’t going to be dragged to it like a toddler past time for a kip.

As Crabbe and Goyle grunted at each other, Harry looked to Hermione and Ron. His brow furrowed in question as he realized Ron’s breathing had grown rapid and Hermione was trying to clear her vision. “All right you two?” he asked. They nodded together and began to walk down the corridor at Harry’s side. Whereas the corridors were endless under Goyle’s grip, the long walk seemed to pass in record time now. They took deliberate steps toward the massive oak doors. Harry paused only a moment before pushing them open and entering the Great Hall.

The scene was exactly how he imagined it would be. The four house tables had been replaced with what could only be described as a grandstand along the Great Hall’s outer walls. The floor in the center of the room was uncluttered and cut a path to the Headmaster’s chair that sat as a throne at the front of the hall. The room was lit with several wall sconces that contained leaping orange flames. The moonlight from the cloudless sky cast an ethereal glow over the Death Eaters assembled for the show. Before him, the porcelain hue of Voldemort’s skin was eclipsed only by the piercing glow of his cat-like red eyes. Although they did not flinch, he could feel the trepidation wafting from Ron and Hermione. He had to remind himself, that while a familiar sight for Harry, this was the first time they’d laid eyes upon Harry’s lifelong nemesis.

“I’ve been expecting you,” his high voice hissed. Harry felt Hermione stiffen next to him and heard the warble from Ginny’s throat behind. “You’re late.”

Hermione grabbed Harry’s arm in a silent request for him to keep his temper. He begrudgingly bit back a comment about having lost his watch. “You have what you came for,” Harry growled. “You don’t need the others.”

“It’s not about what I need,” Voldemort replied as he rose from the chair before them. Without warning he snapped his wand from his robes and leveled the Cruciatus Curse at Hermione. She crumpled to the floor and screamed in pain. Harry fell to his knees, in part due to the residual effects of the curse, and in part to exercise the futile effort to comfort her. Voldemort prolonged her torture for what seemed an eternity before his laughter was all that filled the Great Hall. Hermione, quaking on the floor, gasped for breath as the assembled spectators joined in Voldemort’s amusement.

Harry’s eyes were drawn to the blond witch at the Dark Lord’s right hand who cackled with glee. It was the same laugh she expelled when she killed Sirius. Before Harry knew it, he was on his feet, tossing a volley of curses toward Voldemort, each as ineffective as the one before it. This only served to delight the audience all the more. The cacophony increased such that Harry never heard the curse Voldemort cast, but the purple stream of light connected with his chest and knocked him backwards into the wall. He slid down the stones into a heap on the floor. Blinking the stars from his vision, his eyes caught Hermione’s. She was still lying on the floor but looking at him with an expression that brooked no refusals.

Harry got to his feet without bothering to brush the dust from his robes.

He stepped back to where Hermione lay and offered her a hand. She didn’t take it. Following Harry’s lead she gathered herself from the floor and rose beside him. Ron joined the couple at Harry’s left side and the laughter rose from the stands again. Feeling the blood pounding in his ears, he looked around the gathered dark wizards and listened to their cackling; a smiling woman, an old man with a finger pointed jeeringly toward them, a smug couple…a young child. As he locked eyes with the boy he was reminded of the spectators at the Quidditch World Cup. The only thing missing from the child’s attire was a rosette that yelped “three cheers for the Dark Lord!” As the boy popped a fizzing wizbee in his mouth, Harry returned his attention to the front of the room.

He felt Hermione take his hand but it did little to assuage the anger boiling within him. His death, and that of his friends, was nothing more than entertainment for the darkest of wizarding kind. They had no qualms about bearing witness to his demise nor did they find it offensive for their children. It was no more injurious than any other spectator sport. Harry’s eyes found Voldemort’s smug demeanor and the audacity of it fanned the rage within him.

“Certainly you have more talent than that,” Voldemort said in reference to Harry’s retaliation. When Harry didn’t respond, the Dark Lord’s right hand twitched toward his wand.

Apparently, Harry was not the only one disgruntled with the situation. “Stupefy!” the three shouted simultaneously. A pulse of red light bounded through the Great Hall and connected with Voldemort’s chest. He was lifted from his feet and thrown backward over the teacher’s table behind him.

“Get down!” Harry shouted as the Hall erupted in spell light from every direction. He pushed Hermione behind the end of the grandstand to his right whilst Ron dove toward the left. Spells ricocheted against the tall windows sending a deluge of broken glass onto the spectators. As they covered their heads, Harry, Ron, and Hermione retaliated with several of their own hexes. The stone walls rattled, the floor shook, and two sections of the grandstands were toppled by a well-aimed Reducto charm to their supports.

Harry looked to his left and saw Seamus, Neville, and Ginny huddled under an empty table. Seamus’ eyes were wide with fear while Ginny’s head was buried in her hands. Neville sat just in front of them both. They were as safe as they could be.

A jet of pink light shot past Harry’s head and exploded into the wall behind him. He threw another curse in the general direction from whence it came before hearing a voice over the crashing sounds of wanton destruction.

“Enough!” a high-pitched voice shrieked. The flurry of curses stopped almost immediately. Harry could hear Voldemort’s footsteps descending the stairs. Harry looked between Hermione, at his side, and across the hall to Ron. Hermione’s breathing quickened as Ron readjusted his grip on his wand. Harry thought back to the graveyard. He’d promised himself then that he wouldn’t die cowering behind a headstone. This would be no different. Win or lose, he would meet Voldemort on his own terms. With Hermione grasping at the sleeve of his robes, Harry felt himself rise from their position. He stepped out from the stands and walked toward the center of the room, never taking his eyes from the seething glare of his rival.

“This is between you and me,” Harry declared.

“So it is,” Voldemort replied. “Crucio!” Harry’s body exploded in pain. His knees buckled and he dropped to the floor. His bones were on fire, his head felt as though it split in two from the scar, he was barely aware of his own screaming before the echo of it was all that remained in the Great Hall. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he felt as though he should be building some sort of tolerance to the Cruciatus. After all, he could throw off the Imperius Curse, it seemed only logical he should be able to fight this. Yet he wasn’t. His muscles quaked in the aftermath and he struggled to get to his feet. Out of his peripheral vision, he saw both Ron and Hermione trying to gather themselves as well.

Maybe Dumbledore was right about the enchantment.

“And this is the boy who’s prophesied to defeat the greatest wizard of all time?” Voldemort scoffed. He turned to the onlookers and raised his arms before him. “Through the most convenient of luck, this whelp has managed to evade me…but no more! I summoned you here to witness the dawning of a new age — the age in which Lord Voldemort and his faithful supporters will lead the wizarding world to its greatest achievements!” The crowd exploded in applause. “This world begins tonight!”

He turned back to Harry and leveled his wand at his chest. “I have enacted such enchantments on this castle that not even your precious Dumbledore has been able to suspend. There will be no escape this time,” he added in a hushed voice. He spun back to his supporters and raised his voice through the rafters. “You will be rewarded for your faithful service to me! We will purge the wizarding world of its denigrations and restore honor to only those who deserve it!”

“Kill the mudbloods!” a woman shrieked from the stands. Her declaration was met with raucous approval. The walls shook with their enthusiasm. Harry chanced a fleeting glance toward Hermione. She was crouched, immobile, behind the grandstand. Her eyes were wide as she scanned the angry mob. Harry closed his eyes and willed her to hear him.

It will be all right.

Whether she got the message or not, he did not know. But when he opened his eyes, hers were fixed upon him. That was good enough. He gave her a supportive grin and addressed the crowd himself.

“What about the half-bloods?” he yelled. Voldemort’s head whipped around as if he’d been scalded. He opened his mouth to either reply or hex Harry, whichever it was Harry didn’t afford him the chance. “Or did you fail to tell your supporters that your father was a muggle?” Harry rebuked. It was the equivalent of blasphemy. The crowd erupted in angry jeers and pointed their wands in Harry’s direction. Voldemort threw up a hand to stop them and smiled.

“You see! The boy associates with mudbloods and traitorous purebloods who tolerate them. He’s as weak as the muggles that raised him!” Inexplicably, for as much as Harry despised the Dursleys, he felt it was his right alone to deride them. Hearing the words issue from Voldemort’s mouth only incensed him further. It also gave him an idea.

“Prove it!” he barked. He saw Ron and Hermione’s heads snap in his direction. Voldemort threw his head back and laughed.

“Crucio!” he yelled. His wand erupted with a bolt of magic that headed directly for Harry. Using every seeker reflex he possessed, he dove out of the way and rolled as the stream of light blasted a crater in the wall behind him. Voldemort, visibly agitated, threw another hex, and another, as Harry evaded three more. The hall fell silent as Harry got to his feet. He straightened himself to his full height and looked directly into Voldemort’s eyes. Having done that, he could see Voldemort’s gaze turn to a spot over Harry’s shoulder. Before Harry knew it, he’d been hit from behind with a body bind hex and felt the fire of the Cruciatus before he’d ever hit the ground.

Voldemort punished him for his disrespect, holding the Cruciatus on him for an interminably long time. When he finally lifted the curse, the whole of Harry’s vision was white. He couldn’t see, he couldn’t breathe, but he could hear. He could hear laughter resounding through the hall. Before he could clear his vision, he felt two pairs of hands hoisting him to his feet. His legs shook such that he could barely maintain his posture when he experienced the strangest sense of déjà vu.

“If you want to kill Harry, you’ll have to kill us, too,” Ron announced as the grip on Harry’s left arm shifted. Blinking the spots from his eyes he looked to his sides and realized Ron and Hermione had pulled him to his feet.

“No,” he gasped.

“We said we’d face this with you, mate,” Ron said. “That’s exactly what we’re going to do.” Harry wanted to argue with them but he was in no shape to do so. He needed time to gather himself. Luckily Voldemort’s burgeoning ego afforded him just that.

“Mudbloods,” Voldemort sneered. He spun around and paced the stands maliciously. “Mudbloods! This is the filth with which the great Harry Potter associates!” The audience hissed and spat toward the three. “To think such a wizard could defeat Lord Voldemort!” An approving cacophony circled the grandstand. Harry managed to gather his senses and clear his vision by the end of the Dark Lord’s prancing. As he finished playing to his supporters, Harry turned to Ron and Hermione with his original idea.

“If we’re to defeat him, we have to turn everyone against him,” Harry whispered.

“Not likely, mate,” Ron answered while keeping an eye toward the spectators.

“How can we possibly do that?” Hermione asked.

“Trust me,” Harry answered. “Just be ready.”

He straightened up and shrugged their hands from his shoulders as he stepped forward. “The way I see it I’ve defeated you six times already,” Harry shouted over the din. “I don’t even think Ludo Bagman would bet on you,” he continued as the Great Hall fell to a deafening silence. Voldemort turned and squared his shoulders to him. The blood was rising to his pallid face.

“You’ve defeated no one,” he hissed.

“Yeah? Well, for being such a powerful wizard, how is it I’m only seventeen and I’m still standing here.” Harry threw in a sly grin for extra measure and Voldemort reacted exactly as he’d hoped. His wand leapt to his hand and fired another Cruciatus toward Harry. He reached to his sides, in an effort to hedge his bet, and grabbed Ron and Hermione’s arms as he shouted the Deliquesco charm. The seconds it took for the curse to cross the room seemed more like hours. If this didn’t work, he’d just dug his own grave…and likely Ron and Hermione’s with it.

He heard the audience cheer as the stream of light connected with his chest. He staggered backward, as did Ron and Hermione, as his body burst forth with an infestation of prickling tingles. He gasped for a breath and the sensation passed. Before he could dare to imagine what happened, a Death Eater began screaming in agony behind him. He spun around to discover the bystander directly behind him had fallen victim to the curse intended for Harry.

It worked.

He scanned the faces of those assembled as he turned back toward Voldemort. Their expressions were unreadable. Some were looking at Harry, others were looking at their master; some looked nonplussed while others had furrowed brows. It wasn’t enough. He faced his attacker, whose eyes betrayed his concern. Harry gathered his resolve to turn the tide.

“I’m sorry, was that intended for me?” He glanced at the discombobulated Death Eater behind him and turned back around with a smile.

“Crucio!” Voldemort barked again. This time the spell was careening toward Hermione. His voice caught in his throat and all he could do was squeeze her arm in the split second between the casting and impact. He trusted she’d know what to do.

“Deliquesco!” she shouted as the curse slammed into her. In the second the spell passed through her body, she seemed to glow with its magic. Although it lasted only a second, Harry felt the physical drain. It felt like the air had evaporated from his lungs and the energy had been sucked from his muscles. He wobbled back on his heels and felt Ron’s hand grasp tighter on his arm. Intending to tell Ron he was fine, he looked at Ron’s face. His eyes were closed and his face was screwed up in concentration. It was evident he was holding onto Harry, not to steady him, but to maintain his own stance.

Another spectator leapt out of the way as the spell impacted on the stone wall behind them. The shower of dust and rubble rained down where Neville, Ginny, and Seamus were located. Harry saw the shocked expressions each of them bore. It encouraged him that his plan might work. Again, he scanned the stands. There was a significant change of expression among those assembled. Spectators were looking between Voldemort and Harry. A few were whispering and pointing to Hermione. More than one had their jaw planted on the floor.

Harry opened his mouth to go for the kill, but Hermione beat him to the punch. “Not bad for a mudblood, eh?” she chided.

Harry had never been more proud of her in his life.

He couldn’t help but notice the hissing from the stands was far less pronounced than it had been. Voldemort noticed it as well. He cast a fleeting glance to the shocked faces he’d summoned to the Hall and turned as red as Ron’s hair.

“Hold on,” Harry whispered to Ron and Hermione. He’d seen that look before. His plan had worked and Voldemort obviously felt compelled to prove his supremacy. He unleashed a litany of curses, one right after the other, all streaming toward the three of them. Each cast a Deliquesco charm and held onto the other for support. Curse after curse passed through their bodies, sucking the air from their lungs and draining them of the energy required to remain upright. Harry stood through sheer force of will as his legs turned to jelly underneath him. When the curses ended, it was all he could do to straighten his back.

The Great Hall fell silent. Harry looked across the room and saw the panic behind Voldemort’s eyes as he glanced around the room. Everyone in the crowd was staring at the Dark Lord in complete disbelief. Scrambling for a response, he lowered his wand and addressed his supporters. “You have seen the brilliance of my plan!” He pointed at Harry, Ron, and Hermione. “They’ve been gracious enough to show it to you,” he announced. “He’d have you believe he can dodge curses and evade the wrath of Lord Voldemort.” The spectators began looking at him in speculation. “Yet, he falters! He must rely on the strength of a mudblood to hold him upright. He must lean on the tainted magic of a traitorous pureblood to delay the inevitable.” Some of the assemblage began to nod appreciatively. Harry looked around and saw the tide he thought he’d turned begin to ebb away.

As his eyes darted around the hall, they found the figures of Lucius Malfoy and Bellatrix Lestrange. They were still seated on either side of Voldemort’s perch at the front of the hall. That was when he realized the foolishness of his plan.

He could never change everyone’s mind.

Even if he had succeeded in turning the masses against Voldemort, or at least calling his prowess into question, there would remain an inner circle of wizards who would not be persuaded. They were powerful. They were charismatic, and they could rally or intimidate a following for the Dark Lord as quickly as Harry could turn it away. It was an infinite struggle of good versus evil. That’s when the grim reality crashed into him as a wave along the shore.

Neither can live while the other survives.

He’d always worked to forget about that part of the prophecy. He wanted to believe that he could accomplish his defeat without becoming the murderer Trelawney prophesied. Even as he stood in this room, his chance at hand, he didn’t believe he had the willpower to take anyone’s life…not even Voldemort’s. He’d seen death. He’d seen murder. He’d endured nightmares about holding his own wand toward Cedric as he fell. If he’d chosen to take Voldemort’s life, how would that make him any different? He wouldn’t become the next Voldemort to dispense with the one standing in front of him. His confidence evaporated as he felt the inevitability of his own death.

“Harry,” Hermione whispered as Voldemort continued to prattle on. “Are you all right?” Harry lied with a simple nod of his head. How could he leave her? How could he give up? He felt her eyes burning through him; he couldn’t look at her. How could he live another second knowing she will have watched him fail? It was all he could do to shield himself from her until the last moment. She couldn’t know. He drew a shaky breath and looked back to Voldemort.

“Regardless of the tricks this boy has pulled from his sleeve, he cannot withstand the most powerful wizard of all time forever.” He turned to face Harry with a look of complete satisfaction etched on his face. “And now, honored guests!” he announced. “Bear witness to the death of Harry Potter and the dawning of a new day!”

Harry’s world slowed to a geologic pace. The faces of everyone present turned toward him in slow motion. Voldemort’s mouth opened with excruciating leisure. He was vaguely aware of the vice grips that had replaced Ron and Hermione’s hands on his arms. Saving only the memories that were flashing across his conscience, his mind was blank. He saw the end of Voldemort’s wand erupt with a familiar green light. He heard Ron and Hermione’s voice cast the Deliquesco charm once more. When the curse hit him, he felt the wind in his hair and his robes flap around him as he flew backward from where he stood. His head collided with the flag stoned floor and he squeezed his eyes shut in pain. It was that sensation more than any that brought him back to reality.

He shouldn’t have felt anything. He opened his eyes to see Ron and Hermione sprawled on the floor with him, but each still alive. He turned his head to Voldemort just in time to see him unleash a second, third, and fourth wave of the killing curse. As each impacted him, he felt the curse move through his body as if it were a razor blade. He looked at Hermione and saw her gasping and writhing on the ground. Her eyes were rolling back in her head. She couldn’t hold on much longer. Voldemort was content to kill them all whilst Harry survived, and that was something he would not accept. The prophecy said he must die…it didn’t say anything about Hermione. If it was the last thing he did, he would ensure she left the hall alive, even if that meant sacrificing himself.

As that last thought passed through his mind, Voldemort took one last opportunity to show off before his assembly. As he began talking about his “brilliant strategy,” Harry grabbed hold of Hermione’s hand. Her eyes fluttered open and she turned her head to his. His vision blurred with tears as he struggled to find the right words. He looked at the hand in his and toyed with the Hungarian Horntail wrapped around her finger.

Things were so much easier then.

“Hermione,” he croaked. “I love you more than anything in the world.” Her eyes widened in shock and she worked to prop herself on her elbow. “I will always love you,” he added.

“No!” she croaked. “You are not leaving me!” Harry squeezed her hand and turned to Ron.

“I’m trusting you to take care of her,” he directed.

“Harry?” Ron asked. Harry broke contact with them both and got to his feet. Neither could muster the strength to scramble from the floor and stop him. He drew a breath, thought of his parents and Sirius, and waited for a pause to get a final word in edgewise.

“His strength flows in me,” Voldemort continued with his tale. “I could’ve chosen any wizard in the world to aid me in my rebirth.” He pointed at Harry. “I chose him. I chose my rival. I chose my nemesis. I took his blood and used it as my own. I nicked the protection of his mother and grew stronger everyday. I am the sorcerer you see before you because of my own brilliant plan. After I’ve killed him…I will carry both his strength and my own!” The crowd erupted in applause. Harry wanted to roll his eyes at the Dark Lord’s incredible lack of intelligence.

Honestly, if you used my blood then won’t you die when I do?

The fleeting thought was enough to send his heart pounding. Why hadn’t he considered that? Suddenly, he felt like he needed to call a time out. His mind was racing but he didn’t have time to process a coherent thought. Any moment Voldemort would bluster on about being the world’s greatest wizard and blow Harry from the face of the Earth. He only hoped that despite the Foederis enchantment, he wouldn’t kill Ron and Hermione in the process.

That’s it!

Harry’s head snapped up as he felt Hermione and Ron struggling to get up beside him. His eyes fell upon the prideful looks plastered across Malfoy and Lestrange’s face. He glanced around at the gathering of dark wizards who had but one thing in common…their hatred of muggles. An echo of Ron’s voice erupted in his head…

Voldemort might not survive even if Tom Riddle does.

Harry gave a pained glance to Hermione as she pulled herself to her knees. “I’m sorry, Hermione.” She turned a tear-stained face toward him. “It’s the only way.” He focused his attention on Voldemort as his mouth opened to recite the fatal incantation. He snapped his wand skyward and shouted an incantation that was arguably more powerful than what Voldemort was preparing.

“Infractium foederis et dissolvi a tres!”

Hermione and Ron’s screaming protestations were barely audible over another sound. He collapsed to the floor and a moment passed before Harry realized it was his own voice, harmonizing with that of Voldemort’s, as they filled the Great Hall with an excruciating cry. It felt as though every cell in his body was being ripped in half. He felt his muscles slice open, one by one, as the magic was wrenched from his body. His back arched from the floor as he convulsed under the power of the incantation. He felt the tattered shards of his wand slash through his forearm as it exploded in his hand. He was marginally aware of Ron pulling Hermione away from him as he thrashed on the floor under the very definition of agony…

And then it was gone.

He lay on the floor with every inch of his body throbbing in pain. The breath he gasped burned in his lungs. He forced his eyes open to find Hermione scrambling toward him. “Why?” she repeated in succession. The tears streamed down her cheeks. He tried to respond, but could barely form a whisper.

“I’m so sorry,” he mouthed. He couldn’t meet her eyes. He couldn’t fathom what he’d done, and now he was left to wonder if it even worked. A stab of pain shot through his neck as he turned his head to where Voldemort lie. He was aided by Malfoy and Lestrange who were helping him to his feet. His eyes flashed to those standing silently in the grandstand he’d conjured.

Harry rolled to his side and pushed himself up on his arm. “Some brilliant plan…to use my blood,” he struggled to annunciate the words.

Blissfully unaware of his condition, Voldemort shrugged off both Malfoy and Lestrange. He mopped the blood from his wand arm and replied with a wavering voice. “I’m not dead, Potter.”

“Are you sure?” Harry asked. Voldemort looked around the room as if Harry had gone mental.

“You have failed.”

“Perhaps I have,” Harry croaked as he fought to stand up. Hermione and Ron helped him to his feet and lent a supportive arm to keep him upright. “But, I can live like this…can you?”

“Lord Voldemort has triumphed again!” he announced suddenly. “Harry Potter has taken leave of his senses. He speaks nonsense!” Harry couldn’t help but notice it appeared to take every ounce of strength he possessed to make such a proclamation.

“Then kill me now,” Harry challenged, praying that his logic would be proven correct. To make the point, Harry shrugged off his robes and pushed Ron and Hermione away. Voldemort didn’t move. “What’s the matter?” Voldemort’s eyes flashed with indignation. “Surely, the most powerful wizard of the age can kill an unarmed boy.”

Voldemort threw his arm in Lucius Malfoy’s direction. “Accio wand!”

Nothing happened.

“Accio wand!” It was Harry’s turn to burst forth with a maniacal laugh. Voldemort stepped to Malfoy and snatched the wand from his outstretched hand. He snapped it toward Harry and yelled, “Avada Kedavra!”

Nothing.

Harry couldn’t contain the laughter that shrouded his relief. Harry turned to the audience assembled before him.

“Yes, a brilliant plan! He chose to use my blood and therefore formed a connection between us that he could never break. In his arrogance, he only thought of the things he could draw from me. He never considered what I could do to him. He never heard the entire prophecy.”

Several pairs of eyes began to follow Harry as he paced the floor. “It said I had the ‘power the Dark Lord knows not.’” Harry turned to Ron and Hermione. “That power is love.” His breath caught in his throat. It was taking everything he had to remain standing and he didn’t know how much longer his legs would hold him. “Voldemort cannot understand love.” He winced at Hermione’s stricken expression. “He does not comprehend a love so profound that nothing else matters.” He looked back to the crowd, now hanging from his every word. “I do understand love. And I’d gladly give my life for it,” his voice called through the Hall. He leveled his eyes at Voldemort and finished. “The Boy Who Lived is dead….and so is Lord Voldemort.”

Voldemort furrowed his brows in question and looked at Malfoy’s wand in his hand. Harry was inspired to reiterate the point. “You’re a muggle, Tom.”

“Impossible!” he hissed. Harry gazed at the Death Eaters assembled in the hall and saw the looks on their faces. Some were mumbling while others pointed. Every eye was glued to Voldemort. The collective disdain of their expression was palpable. Harry used it to his advantage.

“You couldn’t levitate a tea cosy in a tailwind.” Voldemort stumbled backward as he attempted to cast a succession of curses toward Harry. With each incantation, the din in the hall grew louder. Bellatrix looked at her master as if she’d never seen him, and Lucius Malfoy grew as pale as his hair. Harry’s legs grew unsteady beneath him. He realized the quaking was not entirely due to his condition and gathered the last of his strength to drive the final nail into Voldemort’s coffin. He looked to the crowd and spoke one last time.

“If he was still a wizard, the enchantments he’d conjured around this castle, including those protecting all of you from the Ministry’s Aurors, would still be intact.” In a stroke of impeccable timing, the Great Hall doors exploded behind them and a flurry of wizards began spilling into the room. The cavalry had arrived.

Harry was knackered. Every muscle in his body felt as though it were made of gelatin. He let out a long breath as his vision began to darken. The room tipped sideways as he felt himself topple to the floor. He saw errant streams of light pass over the room like fireworks. He heard the distant echoes of desperate screams. He saw the gentle face of Albus Dumbledore above him as he slipped into the blissful unconscious of someone who’s fate, finally, lay in his own hands.

***

Harry heard the whispered voices. He couldn’t open his eyes but he could hear every word. “Is there nothing to be done, Poppy?” Dumbledore’s voice pled.

“Nothing, Albus. I’ve done all I can think to do. There’s not an ounce of magic left in his body,” she answered. Harry’s heart sank. It hadn’t been a dream. Somewhere inside of him he’d hoped everything would be different when he woke up. He hoped he’d have imagined the fight in the Great Hall. But he didn’t. He remembered it all with perfect clarity.

He remembered the words exchanged. He remembered the spells cast. He remembered the excruciating pain of his decision and the fact that it was painless compared to the look on Hermione’s face. Her stricken expression burned into his vision like the negative image of a photograph. He couldn’t erase it. He couldn’t ignore it. He forced his eyes open with the futile hope that she’d be at his bedside, telling him everything would be all right.

He wasn’t surprised to find himself alone, behind the privacy screens in the hospital wing. The tears welled in his eyes as he tried to dismiss the possibility that when he’d destroyed his own magic, he’d erased their future. He squeezed his eyes closed at the thought of it and curled up under the blankets. He’d accepted death. He’d prepared for it. He hadn’t prepared for this. He hadn’t prepared to lose her.

He buried his face in the pillows and tried to muffle the sounds of his own sobbing. As the wall he’d constructed around his emotions crumbled, the full measure of all he’d seen crashed into him. His mind replayed the incessant visions of Dean Thomas, MacNair, Cho Chang, Hagrid, Cedric, Sirius, the graveyard…and Hermione’s expression. His body throbbed with the dull ache of a battle won, but a war lost.

He hadn’t lost Hermione…he’d sacrificed her.

He couldn’t help but notice the whispered voices had fallen to silence. He didn’t care. He’d experienced pain beyond any he’d ever imagined, and none of it compared to the agony of his broken heart. The tears were still meandering down his cheeks when he drifted back to sleep.

“I can’t believe she’s not going through with it,” a hushed voice broke through Harry’s dreams.

“Neither can I,” Ron replied.

“It’s so unlike her! She’s planned every detail, right down to the exact mix of flowers for the bouquet. How can she refuse to go through with it?” As the grogginess cleared from Harry’s mind, he realized the voice belonged to Merc. He already knew what they were talking about.

“After all that’s happened, this is the worst time to make this decision. She should at least wait a few months…give him some time,” Ron added.

“How do you think he’ll react?” Merc’s voice dropped to a whisper.

“I dunno,” he replied. They fell into silence. Harry felt their pitying eyes upon him as he continued to feign sleep. “So, er…” Ron stammered. “Since all of the exams have been cancelled, there’s not much time left before we leave.”

“I know,” Merc replied. “I’m so excited that the professors awarded us N.E.W.T.’s for what’s happened over the last few weeks. I guess it was as practical an exam as we’ve ever had.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” Ron added. “What are your plans for next year?”

“I was thinking of attending Stonehenge. They have an outstanding program for historical studies,” she answered. “What about you?” she added uncertainly.

“I don’t know,” Ron replied. Harry knew where this conversation was leading. Eventually, it would focus on when they would see each other again and how they would keep in touch. Given the state of his relationship with Hermione, he couldn’t stand to listen to it. He had a feeling they would pass the time, waiting for him to wake up, with sentimental conversation and he felt it best to end his misery sooner rather than later. He drew a breath and opened his eyes.

Ron and Merc were sitting next to each other at his bedside. Ron had his arm around her shoulders and she was curled into his chest, her fingers playing with an errant thread of his jumper. His cheek was propped against the top of her head as his hand rubbed lazy circles along her upper arm. Harry saw in them what he’d seen for himself, the first time he’d realized his love for Hermione. They were meant for each other. He only wished they achieve the happy ending that eluded him. In a measure of deference, Ron sat up and inconspicuously slid his arm from Merc when his eyes met Harry’s.

“Harry,” he exclaimed.

“How are you feeling?” Merc asked, sitting forward in her chair.

“I’m all right,” he replied, clearing his throat. The three of them looked at each other, avoiding the obvious question, and Merc shuffled around for something to say.

“You look much better today,” she added with false enthusiasm. The statement struck Harry as odd.

“How long have I been here?” he asked.

“Tonight will make three days,” Ron answered. “Madam Pomfrey says you’re fine. She just thinks you were pretty well knackered.”

“She said she’ll probably release you tomorrow,” Merc added brightly. Harry was less than enthused. What would he be released to? Where would he go?

“Great,” he responded as he pushed himself up on the pillows. They’d not been at it long, but he’d had enough small talk. He had loads of questions and no answers. “What happened?” he asked, adjusting his blankets.

“Well, you…,” Merc began to answer. Harry shot her a look that only Ron seemed to understand. He squeezed her hand and told the story himself.

“He’s gone,” Ron answered.

“How?” Harry prompted.

“Well, anyone who didn’t believe you were telling the truth was fully convinced by the time the dust settled in the Great Hall. Riddle couldn’t throw a single curse. He couldn’t defend anyone else or himself. He was overtaken in a matter of seconds,” Ron continued. The significance of the name Ron used to describe Voldemort was not lost on Harry. “He passed out as well and the Magical Law Enforcement Corps left him in a muggle hospital with only the name ‘Tom Riddle’ to identify him.”

Harry dropped his head backward along the pillows and let his stare graze the ceiling. Although Ron answered the most important question, there was another that begged to be addressed.

“How many?”

Ron fell silent and Merc looked between them in confusion. The longer Ron waited to answer the question, the more Harry dreaded the response.

“Twelve.” Harry squeezed his eyes shut and tried to steel himself for the elaboration.

“Who?” Harry asked. He opened his eyes and turned his head toward Ron, whose hand was firmly grasped in Merc’s. Ron cleared his throat and gathered a breath.

“Well, you know about Dean and Cho,” his voice croaked. “There was also Lavender and that Evans bloke from first year. Hannah Abbot, Mandy Brockelhurst, and Blaise Zabini were the others from seventh year.”

“Zabini?” Harry asked.

“He was the only Slytherin,” Ron answered. “There were three younger students from Hufflepuff, but I don’t know their names.”

“Rose Zeller was one,” Merc whispered. Ron fell silent. Harry counted the names in his head and looked at Ron in question. Before he could make eye contact, Ron blinked back a tear and looked away.

“Who were the other two?” Harry prompted. Ron didn’t take his eyes from the pattern of the privacy screen. Harry looked to Merc and saw the expression on her face. She was absently rubbing her hand along his arm and looked fit to burst into sobbing. Ron’s mouth bobbed open a few times but no sound issued forth. With a painful expression, Merc turned to Harry and answered the question.

“The other two weren’t students,” she explained. Her voice dropped to such a low decibel that Harry couldn’t hear what she said, but he could read her lips.

Bill and Charlie.

“Oh my God,” Harry whispered. His mind flashed to a dusty memory of Mrs. Weasley’s boggart at Grimmauld Place. He wanted to say something, anything…to Ron, but he couldn’t conjure the words. He watched Ron’s jaw work silently to hold back the emotion that was clearly welling within him. Merc started to run a hand along his back and a tear escaped his eye. Before it could reach his cheek, he’d brushed it away and turned back to Harry.

Ron continued as if nothing was awry. “The Aurors suffered a few losses. The Order won’t tell us how many Death Eaters were killed. With what we’ve heard, we think it’s between ten and twelve though.”

“What about Lupin?” Harry asked, not giving one jot about the fallen Death Eaters. He was greeted with more unnerving silence.

“We don’t know,” Ron answered. “No one has heard from him. They’ve been searching the forest, but without Hagrid,” he paused. “Well, it’s pretty difficult to get around.” Ron shuffled in his seat. “I’m sure he’s fine,” he added uncertainly.

Harry didn’t respond. He couldn’t. He didn’t know what to say or how he’d think to say it. He ran through the faces he’d come to know so well, grateful for the names Ron hadn’t mentioned. He was desperately trying to avoid the one person he wanted to talk about. He settled, instead, for discussing Ginny.

“How’s Ginny?” he asked. The first signs of emotion broke through Ron’s exterior. His eyes caught a quiet fire and his face darkened.

“Not good,” he replied. “Mum took her to the Burrow. Aside from Malfoy,” Ron sneered, “she’s having a really hard time coping with…,” he trailed off. “Well, just with everything.” Ron picked at an invisible bit of lint on his jeans as he fell silent. Harry wondered how much of his brothers’ deaths Ron blamed on him. Regardless of the answer, he didn’t think he had done the wrong thing.

“Harry,” Merc said gently. “Is there anything else you want to know about?” she asked. Harry knew exactly where she was going and that was a road he couldn’t travel. The fact Hermione had not been at his side when he awoke, the look on her face when he broke the enchantment, and the conversation they didn’t think he heard…he had those answers already, and he couldn’t stand the thought of them.

“No,” he answered flatly. Merc seemed to argue with herself over whether or not she should reply. In the end, silence reigned supreme. Appearing unnerved by the quiet, Merc tried to pick up where she’d derailed the conversation.

“Well, Ginny is no different than many of the students. Hordes of parents flooded the school even before the Aurors secured the castle. They gathered up what they could carry and took the students home in droves,” she said while Ron nodded. “Those who stayed behind have been working to rebuild the castle. Either way, they’re closing the school for the summer holiday in a few days.”

“You could come to the Burrow,” Ron offered.

“Thanks, Ron,” Harry replied. “But I’ll figure something out. I’ll be fine.”

He wished that were true. He had no idea where to start. He had no energy to think about it. He laid his head back and closed his eyes. He thought about the students that didn’t make it home. He thought about Molly making nosh for two sons that weren’t coming home. He couldn’t think about Hermione.

“We should probably let you sleep,” Merc’s voice interrupted. “I’m sure you’ll have other visitors that want to see you,” she added. “You’ll need your strength.” She rose, with Ron by her side, and squeezed Harry’s hand supportively before disappearing around the privacy screen. Ron rocked back and forth on his heels and finally raised his eyes to Harry’s.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said quietly. “It wasn’t your fault.” Harry looked at him in shock. “They were doing what they chose to do…they were trying to save us all.” Ron’s voice broke. He cleared his throat and looked up sharply. “You’ve given up enough,” he declared. “Don’t think for a minute you sacrificed any less than they did.”

Harry couldn’t formulate a reply before Ron trailed out of sight behind the screen. He slumped back against the pillows and tried to process the story they’d told him. But his thoughts kept returning to one face…one smile…one laugh he hadn’t heard in far too long.

That’s what made his decision.

He already knew what Hermione’s intentions were. Merc all but informed him she would be coming to see him soon enough to break the news to him. He thought about how she’d do it…how she’d phrase it. He couldn’t think of anything she could say that wouldn’t tear her to pieces, and that wasn’t her fault. None of this was her fault.

She fell in love with Harry Potter. But Harry Potter didn’t exist anymore. He wasn’t the Boy-Who-Lived. He wasn’t a wizard. He was no better than a Dursley and that wasn’t who Hermione had fallen in love with. He couldn’t provide for her in the manner she undoubtedly expected. She hadn’t signed up for marriage to a muggle. Harry couldn’t blame her for wanting to get on with her life. In the end, he wanted only one thing — to hear her laugh, to see her smile. He wanted her to be happy and he knew how to help her achieve that.

As he sat on the bed, waiting, he ran through a thousand versions of the same speech. He tried changing the words. He tried changing the inflection. He mulled it over so often, the words dulled in his heart. He was grateful it took her so long to appear. His heart needed to be numb to follow through with his plan.

“Harry?” her voice jolted his heart into great pounding thumps against his ribs. He opened his eyes and found her settling into the chair Ron had occupied. “How are you feeling?” she asked.

He cleared his throat and tried to sound calm. “I’m fine,” he answered.

“Good,” she replied. She sat on the edge of the chair, her hands pinned between her knees as she rocked up and down on her heels. She was obviously nervous about this meeting and her discomfort was affecting Harry.

“Er,” he stammered for a topic of conversation. “How are you?”

“Fine,” she replied. Harry was at a loss. This was entirely unfamiliar territory. For as long as he could remember, he’d not been uncomfortable in her presence. But the tension was palpable. The silence stretched into hours. He couldn’t look at her for long. If he looked at her, he was bound to pull her from her perch and wrap her in his arms. He’d never let her go and that was not part of his plan. He had to let her go, for her sake.

“We need to talk,” they chimed together. Both stuttered, inviting the other to proceed, before Harry decided to get it over with. This was killing him and he couldn’t stand being in her presence if he couldn’t hold onto her forever.

“Hermione,” he began, although he could barely remember what he wanted to say. “This didn’t turn out like we planned, did it?” She shook her head and took interest in her shoelaces. “I hope you understand that what I did, I had to do. It was the only way,” he continued. She nodded her head in silence but did not meet his eyes.

Feeling his throat constrict, he tried to clear it so the words could escape. “I also hope you understand what I’m doing now,” he continued. At these words her head snapped up and she caught his gaze. “I never thought I was good enough for you.” He huffed a breath of air and smiled painfully. “I guess I was better at Divination than I thought.” He looked away as her brows furrowed in question. He couldn’t drag this out any longer. “Hermione, I can’t marry you.” Her jaw dropped open. “You didn’t ask to be with a muggle and I didn’t give you the choice,” he declared.

“Harry,” she interrupted.

“I want you to find someone who can give you everything you want. I want you to be happy,” his voice started to waver. “I can’t give that to you and I won’t let you sacrifice your happiness for me.” He gathered the courage to take a final gaze into her eyes…while they were still his. “I’m sorry,” he said. The golden flecks of her eyes began to sparkle as they glassed over. He was grateful to see that they were tears of sadness rather than relief. But he couldn’t hold his resolve for long. He needed her to leave. He couldn’t let her see what this was doing to him and he couldn’t bear to hear her reply. So he ended the conversation with the only words he could manage. “Goodbye, Hermione.”

Saying it aloud gave the concept a crushing finality. It was all he could do to sit as she rose from her chair in silence. She seemed to float past the bed in a daze, before returning to her senses.

“Good bye, Hermione?” she barked. Harry’s head snapped up to where she stood. Her hands were on her hips and angry tears began streaming down her cheeks. “Who do you think you are?!” she yelled.

“Hermione,” he interrupted.

She blasted on without stopping to listen to him. “Well, this is just bloody perfect!” she announced. Harry winced at her choice of language. It was never a good sign to hear Hermione curse. “Did you ever think to ASK me what would make me happy? Does my opinion matter in the least?!” she screamed. Madam Pomfrey appeared around the screen admonishing Hermione to lower her voice. Hermione didn’t appear to notice her presence at all. “And for the record, I’m OFFENDED that you can find it in my character to toss you aside simply because you can’t cast a spell! Do you think that matters one jot to me?” Having given up on verbal admonitions, Pomfrey began to pull Hermione around the privacy screen.

“Miss Granger!” she barked. “I will not having you disrupting the peacefulness of my infirmary!”

“I don’t care!” she yelled as Madam Pomfrey pushed her out of sight. “How can you do this to me?!” Hermione demanded as her voice echoed against the stone walls. The heavy crash of the oak doors signaled Pomfrey’s victory over Hermione’s outburst. The room fell into awkward silence. Although he couldn’t see the students recuperating in the beds around him, he could feel their eyes burning through the screen. He dropped his head back against the pillows and drew a breath. Perhaps she didn’t understand it now, but she would. She had to. He couldn’t be a burden to her for the rest of her life. He couldn’t stand to have her compare him to the person she’d once known. This was how it had to be. At least the worst was over.

***

“I think you should take the bed with you, Harry. I think your name is engraved here somewhere,” Madam Pomfrey said as she folded a blanket at the end of it. It had been several hours since Hermione left and upon his request, Madam Pomfrey released him early. He had every intention of getting out of the castle before anyone knew he was gone. He still had Hedwig, so he’d send Ron an owl as soon as he got…well, wherever he was going. As he pulled his trainers on, the room erupted in a crashing din that sent his heart into his throat. Reaching for a wand that no longer resided in his pocket, he jumped from the bed.

“Harry Potter! What in bloody hell do you think you’re doing?!” Merc shouted as she swept across the hospital wing. She completely ignored Madam Pomfrey’s protestations to quiet down for the other recovering students.

“I’m leaving,” he answered.

“Like hell you are,” she barked. “While you’ve been sitting here, planning your grand escape, I’ve been trying to put Hermione back together! I had to restrain Ron from coming down here and beating you to within an inch of your life!”

“What are you talking about?” Harry blustered. “I heard you talking! I know she wanted to get out of the relationship. I just made it easier for her!”

“You broke her heart, is what you did!” Merc bellowed. Harry was thoroughly confused now.

“You said yourself she wasn’t going through with it…even after all her planning!”

“Exactly. Merlin!” Merc threw her arms in the air and growled. “She’s not going through with the wedding you were planning!”

“That’s what I’m talking…”

“Because she wanted to marry you tonight!” she yelled while driving her finger into his chest to make the point. She spun around in frustration and paced the floor between the stunned students recuperating in their beds.

“She said she was stunned at the sacrifice you made for everyone. For the entire wizarding world…and for her. She said it made her love you more than she ever thought possible.”

Harry could feel his jaw hit the floor. “She was going to come stay with you while you were recovering, but I convinced her to get cleaned up and have a bite to eat first.” Merc flopped onto an empty bed as Harry lowered himself onto a vacant chair. Merc huffed a breath of air. “She spent half an hour looking for that old green jumper of yours that she has. She wanted to wear it. She said it warmed her almost as well as you did.” Harry couldn’t help but smile. He’d been looking for that jumper for months.

“I helped her rummage through her things. While I was looking, I ran across a brown wrapped parcel.” Harry looked up in question. Something about this sounded familiar. “She couldn’t remember what it was, so we opened it together. It’s the most beautiful set of embroidered ivory robes I’ve ever seen. Apparently, Mrs. Weasley bought them for her over the summer.”

“I remember seeing the package,” Harry mused.

“Well, as soon as she saw it everything changed,” Merc declared. “She got this look in her eyes and muttered something about the Great Hall. I followed her downstairs and watched her chuck that wedding planner she’d been carrying around into the Common Room fire!” Merc scoffed. “She took off for the Great Hall and hasn’t left it until this afternoon.” Merc’s eyes flashed as she rose from the bed. “When you decide to drop her!”

“But, I didn’t…,” Harry stammered. His heart was racing. She didn’t want to leave him. She wanted to marry him! Tonight!

“I asked you if you had any other questions! I can’t believe you didn’t ask about Hermione!” she argued.

“I don’t….I didn’t…” Harry blustered.

“The words are ‘I do,’ Harry,” Merc interrupted. “And you better practice up! I told Hermione not to worry about a thing. You’re getting married in two hours and if I have to chain you to the dais, that’s exactly what I’ll do!”

She turned and headed for the doorway. Just before leaving, she snapped her head back to Harry and announced, “I’m going to disarm Ron and send him to help you get ready. You need to be in the Great Hall in ninety minutes!” Harry was stunned silent.

“Wow,” a young Ravenclaw boy said from the bed under the window. “I think she’s scarier than Voldemort.” Harry couldn’t help but join in the laughter that comment elicited. He couldn’t have stopped smiling if he tried.

***

Harry turned from the window as the door opened behind him. “What did she say?” he asked as Ron entered the room in the dress robes Fred and George had gotten him.

“I should ask you what it said,” he answered. Harry rocked back and forth on his feet. He knew Ron was livid over Harry’s decision in the hospital wing. “I’ve rarely seen a girl cry that much.”

Harry cleared his throat. “It took me an hour to write it. I would’ve rather seen her in person, but there’s this muggle superstition about seeing the bride on their wedding day.” Ron raised an eyebrow in speculation. “I hoped that was the reason she refused to see me.”

“Well, I’m sure she wrinkled my robes from the hug she gave me. She told me I was supposed to give it to you, but, er…” Ron brushed his robes absentmindedly. “Well, you know…” Ron gave him a masculine bob of the head and cleared his throat. Harry smiled and redirected the conversation.

“Do I look all right?” Harry asked. Ron adjusted Harry’s robes for the third time and picked a ball of lint from his shoulder. He and Ron were standing in the room where he’d had the wand weighing ceremony during his fourth year. The Great Hall was filled with people, mostly students and their families, and a string quartet was playing soft prelude music.

“If you could ever get that ruddy hair to lie flat,” Ron answered.

“I gave up on that years ago,” Harry replied, ruffling his hand through it. Harry gave a nervous laugh and shuffled back and forth on his feet.

“I need to ask you something,” Ron said as he leaned against a table. “I know I’ve asked it before.”

“What?” Harry asked.

“Do you love her?”

Harry looked at him. It appeared he wouldn’t evade telling him what he’d written in that letter. “More than you can possibly imagine,” he replied. “For a matter of hours, I thought I’d lost her forever and I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t exist. I just laid there and cried. I felt like my heartache would swallow me whole.” He looked at Ron. “She’s the air I breathe, Ron. She’s the blood in my veins. I can’t live without her.” Ron nodded and looked toward the floor.

“Then don’t ever hurt her like that again,” he responded, catching Harry’s eye. It was the most serious face Harry had ever seen him make, and in an instant it was gone.

“You clean up well, Potter,” he chuckled. Harry breathed a sigh of relief and fidgeted in front of the mirror. “If all that waffle was true, why are you so nervous?”

“Just wait until you’re the one standing on the dais!” Harry chuckled. Ron didn’t reply. He merely gazed off to some unseen point across the room. “Oi! If you’re done dreaming of Merc, please tell me you have our rings,” Harry said, patting his pockets for the box.

Ron pulled it out and flipped open the top. “Right here, mate,” he answered. The music grew louder and the crowd fell to a hush. “I believe that’s our cue.”

Harry’s heart was pounding against his ribs. He couldn’t breathe. He suddenly realized the purpose of the best man was to hold the groom upright when the groom’s legs refused to hold him. Ron stepped past him and opened the door to the Great Hall.

The room looked entirely different than it had when he’d been here last. The damage was repaired and the enchanted ceiling opened to reveal a chandelier of twinkling stars over their heads. The torches along the walls leapt with warm flames and the sconces were draped with greenery and Scottish heather. The house tables were gone and large potted trees, with luminous red fairies, lined the walls. Hundreds of eyes smiled up at him from the chairs that lined either side of an elegant aisle draped with a velvet runner in Gryffindor Red. Red and white candles danced in the air as Ron walked Harry toward a raised dais at the end of the aisle that sat beneath a canopy of flowers and candlelight.

Harry looked over the crowd and saw the warmth of familiar faces staring back. He was especially comforted to see Seamus sitting with Parvati Patil and cocked an eyebrow at the look Neville Longbottom was giving Ginny Weasley as he handed her a handkerchief. Looking over the remaining crowd his eyes found their way to the front of the room. He sucked in a breath of surprise, turned to Ron, and inclined his head to where Percy Weasley was seated next to Molly.

“What’s this?” he asked Ron. Ron followed Harry’s eyes and smiled when Molly waved like a child on a Catherine wheel.

“Oh, that,” Ron responded. “I’ll tell you about it later.” Harry continued to look at him in disbelief. Ron rolled his eyes and continued, “Let’s just say my brother was leading a somewhat double life only he and Dumbledore knew about. Feel free to call him Riley anytime you like.” Harry thought to be shocked by the news, but as soon as he made to reply, the doors at the back of the Great Hall swung open.

Ron’s face broke into a wide smile as Merc began to float down the aisle. She carried a small bouquet of red and white flowers that were also adorning the elegant twist atop her head. Harry thought to feel a bit left out as Merc’s eyes never left those of his best man. Litanies of words were exchanged between them without ever speaking a syllable. Before she stepped to the side, she caught Harry’s eye and winked at him. He chuckled to himself and mouthed the words “thank you” as she took her place to his right. And then it was time…

Everyone in the Great Hall stood up as the music grew to a triumphant fanfare. Hermione appeared to be surrounded by a halo of light in her embroidered robes. She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He wished he could’ve described what she wore, how she looked, the flowers she carried…but he couldn’t. He couldn’t take his eyes off of hers. She was his guardian angel. She was his savior. He felt Ron’s arm on his shoulder and realized he was wobbling dangerously. He gave him a brief glance to express his gratitude and grew concerned over the look on his face. Something was wrong.

“Ron?” he asked. Ron shook himself from his thoughts and looked to Harry.

“This isn’t right,” he whispered. “I’ll be right back.” Harry could’ve killed him. This was the most important moment of his life and Ron was leaving? Ron stepped off the dais as several people turned their heads to watch the commotion. Rather than leaving the room, Ron walked deliberately up the carpeted aisle to a stunned Hermione. He leaned forward, whispering something in her ear. Harry saw her wipe a tear from her eye and nod appreciatively. With that, Ron offered his left arm to her. She snaked her arm through his and beamed as they walked the remaining steps to the dais.

Harry had given Hermione all of his attention, so much so that he never realized Albus Dumbledore, in stunning silver threaded robes, had appeared behind him. He felt the headmaster’s hand upon his shoulder as Ron escorted her to his side. Harry felt as though he was drifting on a cloud of pure exhilaration. He wasn’t sure if it was within the boundaries of proper etiquette, but he couldn’t stand in her presence another moment without saying what he’d been forced to do through the written word.

“I’m so sorry, Hermione,” he whispered. Still grasping Ron’s arm, hers eyes found his and she nodded imperceptibly. “I love you so much,” he added. Her lip trembled visibly as she tried to focus her attention on Dumbledore.

“Welcome friends and honored guests to this most delightful of occasions. Amid the destruction and sadness of what has transpired here in this hall, we are truly fortunate to celebrate such a glorious event,” Dumbledore said. He continued to talk about marriage, partnership, sacrifice and love for an indeterminate amount of time. Harry didn’t hear a word of it. His eyes were locked on Hermione’s and all he knew was her.

Her hair was swept up and pinned with small white roses. Errant tendrils of curly locks softened her jaw and neckline. Her embroidered robes shimmered with the glow of the dancing candlelight and warmed the highlights in her hair. For as much as Harry felt like he’d pass out, she was steady as a rock. Ever considerate of others, Harry realized her bouquet was made of red and white roses and even he recognized the scent of the purple garnish…it was English lavender. He brushed at a nuisance pushing on his shoulder until he realized it was the Headmaster, and Hermione was giggling at Harry’s obliviousness.

“I asked what your intentions are this evening,” Dumbledore reiterated with a smile. For a moment, Harry thought it was a trick question. He had to bite back his first response, which was apparent to the guests as they all knew what his intentions were for later this evening. Feeling they didn’t need such detailed information, he gave them the more reasonable answer.

“My intention is to make Hermione Granger my wife.”

“Excellent response,” Dumbledore whispered. Hermione wiped another tear from her eye as Ron cast a fleeting glance toward Merc. “In the code of wizard law, Miss Granger’s hand must be granted by another who deems the groom worthy of her affections.” Ron shuffled his feet and drew his wand. “Is permission so granted?”

Ron raised her hand toward Harry as Hermione offered her bouquet to Merc for safekeeping. Harry took her hand in his as Ron closed his other hand around them both. Harry felt his lip tremble as he recognized the importance of the moment. Ron smiled at them both and answered Dumbledore’s question. “I offer her hand to Harry and declare him a worthy husband,” Ron replied. Ron and Hermione turned to each other and he pulled her toward him.

“I love you, Hermione,” he whispered as he kissed her on the cheek. At a loss for words, she nodded her head and wiped another tear from her eye before it could run down her cheek. He flicked his wand and muttered an incantation Harry didn’t recognize before taking her hand and walking her up to where Harry stood. As Harry took her hand, Ron stepped back to his side as best man.

“You’re breathtaking,” Harry muttered.

“You’re forgiven,” she replied.

Suddenly, as beautiful as the ceremony had been, he wanted it to be over. He wanted to say ‘I do’ already and sweep her off to another room, a broom closet, he honestly didn’t care. He simply wanted to show her that she’d made him the happiest man in the world. Something about her Cheshire grin told him her empathic skills extended to muggles.

“And so I must ask if there is anyone present that objects to the casting of the marriage bond,” Dumbledore stated without looking to the guests for an answer. As he opened his mouth to continue, another voice called out in the hall.

“I object!” A collective gasp was heard throughout the hall. Ron spun around, his wand extended, and Harry snapped his neck toward the back door. Before he could draw the breath that evaporated from his lungs, another shriek echoed from the walls.

“Remus!”

A flash of hot pink hair leapt from the front row and charged down the aisle. Remus was supporting himself on a makeshift cane and had his right arm in a sling. Tonks nearly bowled him over when she threw her arms around him and Harry saw him wince before he closed his eyes and buried his face in her neck. It lasted only a moment before he pulled out of her embrace and began limping down the aisle with Tonks at his side. He stopped briefly at the aisle she’d been sitting in and dropped a kiss on her cheek. He whispered something in her ear and, beaming, she sat down. He approached the dais and extended his hand to Harry.

He and Hermione descended the dais and embraced him together. Remus pulled back, the tears welling in his eyes, and he looked up to Dumbledore. “Now, Albus…you may continue,” he said as he stepped to Ron’s side.

“Very well,” he remarked with the signature twinkle in his eye. “Before we cast the bond, would you, Harry, like to say anything to Hermione?” Harry gulped and looked at Dumbledore. He hadn’t prepared a speech. Roughly two hours ago he thought he’d never see her again, and here he was – getting married.

“I, er…” he began. She squeezed his hands supportively and the nervousness evaporated from his body. “I never thought I could love someone as much as I love you. You are the most beautiful, caring woman I’ve ever had the good fortune to meet.” She smiled and looked at their hands. “And everyday I’m amazed that you chose me.” She looked back to him with shining eyes. “I promise, whatever may happen, whatever has happened…I will love you my whole life. I will cherish every second we have together as the gift that it is. I cannot promise you long life, or wealth, or material possessions. But I can promise you my unending devotion and unconditional love for as long as we both live.” She dropped one of his hands to wipe the tears that were streaming down her cheeks. She gave a fleeting glance toward Dumbledore and made her own declaration.

“My whole life changed the moment you screamed that you loved me in front of thirty stunned Gryffindors.” The Great Hall cackled with laughter. “I never dreamed someone could love me as much as you do, and I never thought it possible to love that person more. I love you so much it hurts.” Harry’s eyes blurred as her voice cracked under its own emotion. “I realized for all the planning we’d done – all the conversations about our age and our decision to do this – none of it mattered. The only thing that matters to me is you. You are my soulmate. I cannot be me without you. I can promise you only this…that I will give you everything I have, everyday of my life, for as long as we draw breath.”

She fell silent and Harry desperately wanted to kiss her. He looked to Dumbledore in the hopes he’d make some offer in that regard, but it didn’t happen. His gleaming eyes followed the path of Dumbledore’s wand as a warm amber glow showered from the tip and enveloped them both. Under the shimmering cloak of light, Harry couldn’t stop himself. He leaned in and captured her lips with a gentle kiss as the spell faded away.

Dumbledore cleared his throat and Harry stepped back in embarrassment. The audience cackled again and Hermione giggled at Dumbledore’s words. “We’re not to that part yet.”

“Sorry,” Harry lied.

“I’ve had the pleasure of enchanting these rings once before,” Dumbledore announced. “They are just as beautiful now as when I placed them on your parents’ hands, Harry. I trust you will wear them as a symbol of the same love and devotion that they shared every day.” Harry heard a quiet sniffle from the person beside Ron as Dumbledore waved his wand and the rings slid onto both of their hands. Following Hermione’s lead, he laced the fingers of his left hand and hers together as Dumbledore cast a final spell.

“And now, Harry, it is time to kiss your wife.” Harry gave a fleeting glance to Dumbledore and looked back to Hermione. He wrapped one hand around the small of her back and pulled her toward him. Under the dancing warmth of the candlelit canopy he lowered his head and pressed his lips to hers. His eyes fluttered closed as the warmth of her body radiated through his. He opened his mouth against hers and their tongues met in lazy exploration of each other. He ignored the giggles of the assembled guests as he realized the kiss had lasted longer than the normal limits of propriety. He didn’t care. He pulled her tight to him and deepened the kiss as well as he dipped her backwards. She began to giggle as the crowd whooped and laughed. He stood her back on her feet and wiped his thumb across her lips as he kissed away the last of her tears.

“And now, I’m pleased to introduce Mr. and Mrs. Harry James Potter!”

25. Epilogue

Author Notes at the end…

Enjoy.

V.Leigh

Epilogue

I like to come here. It’s oddly quiet, especially on this day. It’s always struck me as peculiar that the events everyone celebrates so heartily took place in this room, yet I seem to be the only one who comes here to remember it. It’s funny I should think of it that way; I’m not “remembering” anything. I wasn’t there. I had no hand in anything that transpired between these four walls, but I’ve heard the stories. I’ve grown up with them.

Most of the stories I hear relate to the events of the seven years prior to the events marked by this anniversary, and the many years that have followed. I’ve heard about trolls, hippogriffs, ferrets, and Quidditch. I must say I’ve always been a bit keen on the Quidditch stories. I hear them most often; I ask for them as well. But occasionally, I’ll hear the “other” stories. For years, I never did. I only heard the tales that would send you gasping for breath amid raucous laughter at the dinner table. In my naiveté, I never grasped the concept that other stories existed. I’ll never forget the night I realized there were so many more tales to be told – dark tales. Tales with few happy endings.

I was walking down the stairs in the dead of night, hoping to nick some trifle from the kitchen when I heard mum and dad in the study. Well, to be specific, I heard dad. Mum was merely listening as he spoke. It was the first time I’d really heard him talk about his godfather. I knew of him, of course, which is to say I’d heard his name in jovial conversation, and I watched him and my dad laughing in an old photograph that sat atop the fireplace mantle. But I’d never heard his story. I remember thinking it was the first time I’d seen my dad cry.

That’s something I’ve never told him, nor will I ever. It’s also the first time I realized he was more than just my dad – he was a man. He was Harry Potter.

Ever since that day, as I grew older, I became a bit restless with the same re-hashed tales. Although it remains a classic story within the halls of Hogwarts, how many times can you hear the firsthand account of the “Great Weasley Escape” before it becomes tiresome? Although, I’ll admit the version told by Uncles Fred and George will never fail to cheer me from a bad mood. No one tells a story like they do. Nevertheless, I wanted to hear the other tales. I asked my parents. I asked my godparents. I asked the entire Weasley family. I asked everyone with any attachment to my parents during their time at Hogwarts if they could tell me the real story…the true story. The story no one wanted to divulge.

Then my letter came. That changed everything.

We’d had a wonderful celebration dinner. Everyone attended. My godparents (Uncle Ron and Aunt Beatrice), the entire lot of Weasleys, Uncle Remus, Aunt Tonks and the rest of the “old school,” as I liked to call them, met in hushed conversation after they thought I was asleep. I wondered, at the time, why they were all so excited over a Hogwart’s acceptance letter. In hindsight, I reckon it was their collective ability to release the breath they’d been holding since I was born. After all, my mum was a muggleborn witch, and my dad…well, he was a muggle when I was conceived. If ever there was a final nail to be driven into Voldemort’s coffin, the owl that brought my letter swung the hammer.

After that night, they began telling me the stories. They started small, just the three of them. They said I needed to hear the truth, the real version of events as they unfolded, not the elaborative embellishments riding the waves of passing time. Over the course of the summer I heard about the Sorcerer’s Stone. I heard about the Chamber of Secrets. I understood that my ability to talk to a snake did not secure my destiny in Slytherin (something I had been programmed for eleven years to disdain). That’s also when I started hearing about my eyes – really hearing about them.

I’d heard the comments for as long as I could remember. I rarely met anyone that didn’t like to point out how much they reminded them of my father. After eleven years, I’d started to loathe every synonym I knew for the color green. I’d convinced myself my favorite color was blue. I tried to convince them (and anyone who would listen) to call me by my middle name. I thought the incessant comparisons to my father, or his mother, made me less unique.

How ridiculous.

I looked around the Great Hall, a mixture of emotions flooding me, as they had every one of the six years previous to this day. Without realizing it, I found myself sitting in the same place – paying silent homage to the strength of my parents’ character and the loyalty they still hold supreme. Their devotion to each other is what gives me such time to think. Since I entered Hogwarts seven years ago, they’ve chosen to spend this anniversary together…and alone.

I hold no ill will toward my parents. They need the time. It’s not coincidental that this holiday falls so closely to their wedding day. This year they chose to spend the twenty-fifth anniversary of their marriage on a secluded Tahitian beach. Knowing what I do now, I understand their ardent desire to leave the whole of Great Britain as “Victory Day” approaches. As a child, I never understood why they weren’t flattered by the parades held in their honor — why they refused the interviews and the photo calls. I loved the limelight and the adoring faces that smiled at me when they saw my bushy brown hair and radiant green eyes. That was before I knew who I really was. Before I had a clear understanding of what it means to be the firstborn child of Harry Potter. I’m still not sure how clear that understanding is, but I know this…

My name is Jade Elizabeth Potter, and I am the Heir of Godric Gryffindor.

***

HONK!

Harry snapped his head up from the London Times he’d been reading. He’d been staring at the words, trying to make sense of the reality he’d imagined for eight years. Without realizing it, he’d walked directly into traffic and nearly met his match in a doubledecker bus. Startled, he scampered back to the curb and returned his attention to a barely noticeable entry on the last page.

A homeless man, recently identified as Tom Marvolo Riddle, was found along the banks of the Thames late last evening. According to authorities, Riddle, a mentally unstable man believing himself to have supernatural powers, lived in a makeshift abode under London Bridge. Yesterday’s torrential rains and subsequent flooding appeared to have swept the man downstream where he was later discovered to have drowned.

Harry read and re-read the newswire until he’d memorized nearly every word. He still couldn’t wrap his mind around the reality printed in black and white.

Voldemort was dead.

“Sir?” Someone was tugging on his sleeve. “Sir, are you all right?” Harry looked up from the paper suddenly. It was the face of the newsagent sales clerk he’d come to know so well. He bought a paper from her everyday. Today he’d bought a bit more. “You forgot these,” she said tentatively, looking between Harry and the bus as it drove away.

Harry looked to her hand and saw the bouquet of bluebells and foxglove he’d bought for Hermione. His face broached the faintest of smiles as he took the bouquet from the woman. “Thank you,” he said, failing to remove his eyes from their delicate pink and blue blossoms.

“Go home, luv,” she said, slapping him on the shoulder. “You look like you’ve had a bit of a shock today,” she chuckled.

She was more right than she knew. Harry smiled at her and made his way across the street to the tube station. As he swayed to the rhythmic rocking of the tube, he couldn’t help but look at the passengers riding with him. When he’d defeated Voldemort eight years ago, the celebrations were so widespread, the Ministry issued a record number of wizarding secrecy warnings. By dawn of the next day, the authorities abandoned the attempt to make witches and wizards adhere to the laws maintaining their confidentiality. As he understood it, that was much the same atmosphere the day he lost his parents.

As he looked around now, he saw nothing peculiar. One man was half-asleep, briefcase clutched in his hand. A mother was fretfully redirecting her young child as he emptied her handbag on the floor. One couple spoke in quiet tones, hands intertwined, while another appeared to be in the throws of a heated disagreement. In short, no one seemed to notice, or care, that the most powerful dark wizard of the age was dead.

Moreover, in the last eight years, no one paid the slightest attention to the scar emblazoned on his forehead. No one gasped or smiled or reacted in the least when he introduced himself as Harry Potter. Not that he’d expect differently; he was a muggle. Surely it would be different when he arrived at the Leaky Cauldron.

Harry pushed the door open, fully expecting to be bowled over by the celebration erupting within. He couldn’t have expected what he did see.

“Harry!” Tom beamed. “How was your day?” Harry was dumbfounded. The pub was practically deserted and the people who were there were as nonplussed as the muggles outside.

“Er – it was fine,” he whispered.

“You ready?” Tom asked, throwing his bar towel on an empty stool and walking toward the backdoor. Harry silently followed. Tom tapped the bricks to reveal the entrance to Diagon Alley.

“Thanks,” Harry said as he walked onto the cobblestone street.

“See you tomorrow,” Tom announced as the clinking bricks reassembled themselves into a solid edifice. This was one of the days Harry missed being a wizard, the walk home was not far from here, but apparition would’ve been far more convenient. As it was, he did the next best thing…he ran.

“Hermione?” he called as he threw the door open to their flat.

“Harry!” she responded from the kitchen. Before he had time to take another step she arrived in the front room. Harry was completely relieved. Of all people, she would understand the strangeness of this day. He crossed the room quickly, holding the newspaper at arm’s length.

“Read this,” they said together. Hermione was holding a small parchment letter, encrusted with the Hogwart’s seal.

“What’s that?” they chimed, looking at what the other had to offer. Although Harry was interested in the post, he noticed Hermione’s eyes drift toward the flowers clutched in his other hand.

“Oh,” Harry said suddenly. “These are for you.” He grinned. Remembering the moment he’d planned before reading the paper, he pulled her into a loving embrace. “They’re for both of you,” he whispered, kissing her softly on the neck. She giggled and slapped him lightly on the back.

“Don’t be silly, Harry. Even if I charm these flowers, they’ll be gone long before this one arrives,” she said running a hand over an unnoticeable bulge in her belly. Looking back to her husband she added, “Thank you. They’re beautiful.” With a simple peck on the cheek, Hermione took the flowers from him and handed him the post. “It’s from McGonagall,” she sobered. “She said it’s important. They’re sending a portkey for you. It should be here…”

Knock, knock, knock.

“…anytime,” she finished flatly. As Harry turned to answer the door, Hermione looked to his other hand. “What’s that?”

“Er – here,” he said, shoving the paper into her hand as he turned to answer the door. “Page twelve, bottom left-hand corner,” he instructed. He opened the door and took a parcel from the delivery wizard standing outside. As Hermione scanned, the paper, Harry opened the box to reveal a tattered girl’s hat with a pink pom pom on the top.

“Harry?” Hermione whispered. He looked away from the portkey and toward his wife. She was frozen in the middle of the room, her eyes furiously sweeping the same few sentences over and over. She looked at him, tears beginning to glaze her eyes. “He’s dead?”

“He’s dead,” Harry affirmed. Without warning, Hermione threw herself at him, wrapping her arms securely around his neck as she burst into tears. He held her tightly, whispering in her ear (perhaps more for his benefit than hers) that it was finally “over.” It only served to intensify her tears. After a long embrace, she finally pulled back.

“I’m sorry,” she said sheepishly. “My emotions are a bit out of whack.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Harry replied and bent down to give her stomach a quick kiss. Hermione continued to stare at the newspaper as Harry unrolled the parchment from McGonagall.

Dear Harry,

I need you to come to Hogwarts immediately. I’m sending a portkey which should arrive shortly after this post. Please come alone; Hermione is in no condition to travel in such a manner. You won’t be terribly long.

Sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

Headmistress,

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

“Go ahead,” Hermione encouraged. “I’ll keep your tea warm.”

Harry looked into her eyes and replied as only a husband and expectant father could. “I love you.”

“You’d better.” She kissed him briefly, and turned toward the kitchen with her flowers in one hand and the muggle newspaper in the other. Harry couldn’t help but laugh at her playfulness. With a smile, he reached in the box and grabbed the hat. Their flat spun out of sight as he felt the familiar tug at his navel and was transported to Hogwarts.

“Thank goodness!” McGonagall said in relief. “I was afraid you’d be too late.”

“Too late for what?” Harry asked as he pulled at the twisted neck of his jumper. McGonagall’s face darkened and she motioned for Harry to sit down. A familiar feeling of dread seized him. How many times had he been in this office and been instructed to sit down? In this office he’d relived the horrors of the graveyard during his fourth year. In this office he’d watched a wide-eyed Trelawney from Dumbledore’s pensieve prophesizing his fate. In this office he’d seen Hermione collapse over the loss of her parents. He’d grown to hate this office.

“Albus needs to see you,” she replied. Harry’s heart sank lower. He knew that his former headmaster and mentor’s health had been deteriorating for several months. In his mind he knew the day would come that he’d be summoned to say goodbye. Judging from the look on McGonagall’s face, that day had arrived. Harry stood up from the chair and nodded his understanding. McGonagall, her eyes glassy from the tears her undying professionalism fought to restrain, pointed at the doorway that led to the bed chamber.

Harry walked to the door, impressed at the giving nature of Hogwarts newest Headmistress. While this suite of rooms is designated for the head of the school, McGonagall maintained her own private quarters where the rest of the teachers lived. She’d chosen to allow the greatest Headmaster Hogwarts had ever seen to live out his remaining years in the quarters he adored. Harry pushed open the doorway and found himself awash in the moonlight streaming from the open air above him. Sparing only a moment to look up, he redirected his attention to what remained of Albus Dumbledore’s physical body.

When Harry first laid eyes upon the former Headmaster, many years ago, he was impressed with the command that Dumbledore achieved merely by standing in a room. He was tall, he was broad-shouldered, and he was always adorned in stunning yet understated robes. His voice filled the Great Hall as if enhanced by a sonorous charm and his eyes seemed to meet and respond to each individual student. He set the expectations for the students yet never failed to produce a smile or a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. In the past several months, all of that had ebbed away.

Harry looked upon him, lying amid his bed coverings, and saw an entirely different man. His body was a shadow of its former self. His skin had lost its luster and his eyes were dark. His glistening white hair no longer reflected the starlight above. He was old. He was tired. And it was obvious he was ready to move on.

Harry pulled up a chair next to the bed and picked up Dumbledore’s frail hand in his own. Dumbledore turned a head toward him and managed a smile. “Harry,” his voice cracked. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

“McGonagall sent a portkey,” Harry explained. Dumbledore nodded his head imperceptibly as Harry realized it was likely his request, rather than McGonagall’s, that the portkey be arranged. Harry grasped his hand firmly, hoping his mentor would find the energy to return the gesture. Whether he wouldn’t or couldn’t muster the strength to do so, Harry would never know. He was overcome with the grim realization of why he was brought here.

Although he knew instinctively that he would bid goodbye to Albus Dumbledore at some appointed time, he was not ready for that time to be now. Yet as soon as he realized the pain of what lie before him, he also understood his good fortune. Harry did not have the opportunity to say farewell to his mother or his father or his godfather as they passed from one world to the next. With a grateful heart, he raised his eyes from Dumbledore’s hand and tried to steel himself against the tears. He was greeted with a cockeyed smile from the former Headmaster. “There’s no reason to cry, Harry. I’ve lived a long, full life. I have no complaints.” The finality of his words crashed into Harry and the tears streamed down his cheeks onto the soft blanket below. Dumbledore grasped his hand firmly, rousing Harry from his sorrow. “There is much I need to tell you before I go.” Harry nodded and wiped the tears from his cheek with the back of his hand.

“Voldemort’s dead,” Harry said. In retrospect, he had no idea why he’d said it. Perhaps the finality of Dumbledore’s condition reminded him of the article in the paper. Perhaps Harry wanted to be the one with the answers. It didn’t seem to matter. Dumbledore was nodding his head in assent.

“I know,” he assured. “I couldn’t leave you without knowing your connection was severed permanently.”

Harry looked up in confusion. “But we’re both muggles now. There shouldn’t have been any magical connection at all after that night in the Great Hall.”

Dumbledore nodded again. “You are correct, Harry. But, Riddle was a powerful wizard and I didn’t want to take any chances. As long as Tom Riddle drew breath, I could not, in good conscience, leave you alone. I also could not tell you the rest of the story.”

“The rest of the story?” Harry prompted.

“It’s time for you to know the truth.” Harry was floored. What more could Dumbledore possibly have to tell him? He felt a guilty anger well in the pit of his stomach. He thought Dumbledore told him the truth years ago. Dumbledore struggled to sit upright. Harry released his hand and puffed the pillows behind his back until the former headmaster seemed most comfortable. After he settled, an uneasy silence fell over the room. Harry sat back in the chair and waited for what he imagined could only be bad news. The first words Dumbledore spoke managed to ignite his anger and extinguish it at the same time. “I’ve lied to you, Harry. For that, I am truly sorry.” Dumbledore looked to Harry’s perplexed face. “For whatever it’s worth, I had my reasons.”

“The same reasons you had for keeping the prophecy from me for so long?” Harry was shocked at his lacking obeisance. He liked to believe that he’d put Sirius’ death behind him, but this scene struck a familiarity with him that made that fifth year conversation come back to life in his mind.

“The very same reasons,” Dumbledore affirmed. “As I explained to you then, and I repeat to you now, my judgment has been clouded by my love for you. However, this was a necessary deception and I apologize.”

Harry tried not to glare at the old wizard. Dumbledore gave a weak cough and attempted to clear his throat. Harry handed him a goblet of water that was sitting on the bedside table. “Thank you,” he responded after taking a sip. He handed the glass to Harry and drew a breath. “I know you’re angry with me and I understand why, but I trust my rationale will be obvious after I’ve explained.” Harry sat forward and rested his elbows on his knees. He absent-mindedly spun the wedding band on his left hand and waited for Dumbledore to begin.

“I’ve told you many times how proud I am of you. You have accomplished things in this life that many wizards could never dream of. You possessed an innate power and command of magic that surprised even me on many occasions.” Harry couldn’t help but scoff. He wasn’t a wizard anymore. “Your bravery is unsurpassed. You have sacrificed your existence for the protection of others. I’d like to think that’s a trait you inherited from me.”

Harry’s eyes snapped to Dumbledore’s. “Inherited?” he asked.

Dumbledore sank farther into his pillows. “Yes.” He replied. “Of all the things I’ve done in this life, the most difficult and painful, was placing you on the doorstep of a family I knew could not, and would not, love you as I did. But I had no choice. The knowledge that you were of my own flesh and blood was more endangering than the power Voldemort already possessed.”

Harry’s heart was pounding in his chest. Dumbledore looked to him with the most serious expression he’d produced yet. “You were in danger for so many reasons. Voldemort was not only following the path of his own hatred, but he was destined to walk that path, just as his many ancestors did. It’s part of the reason I felt compassion for him. His fate was determined through generations of feuding, as was yours.”

“I don’t understand,” Harry squeaked. “Are you my grandfather?” Dumbledore laughed aloud, causing himself to cascade into a fit of coughing again. When he finally composed himself, he returned his attention to Harry.

“I appreciate that you find me so young,” Dumbledore replied. “There’s not an easy way to say this.” He hesitated. “Harry, I’m over 1,000 years old.”

“What?!” Harry exclaimed. “That’s not possible!” This entire conversation had gone from bad to worse. First, Dumbledore admitted to deceiving Harry, and now he’s got the audacity to expect him to believe he was 1,000 years old. What was next?

“Next you’re going to tell me you’re Godric Gryffindor himself.”

Dumbledore said nothing.

Harry couldn’t take it. He leapt from the chair and began pacing Dumbledore’s bed chamber. This was ridiculous. After all he’d been through, how could he expect to believe a word that issued from Dumbledore’s mouth?

“Harry,” his soft voice broke through the tirade in Harry’s head. “Do you remember the conversation we had in my office after you defeated the Basilisk?” Harry nodded. “I wasn’t exaggerating when I said it would take a true Gryffindor to pull the sword from the Sorting Hat. Only a blood relative could accomplish such a task.” Dumbledore hesitated.

“I am Godric Gryffindor, and you are my heir.”

The room fell into awkward silence before Harry’s temper got the best of him.

“How? How is that even possible?” he blasted.

“The Sorcerer’s Stone,” Dumbledore replied. Harry took a step backward and looked at him with disbelieving eyes.

“You destroyed the Sorcerer’s Stone! Flamel was the only one who could make one and he’s dead!” Harry rebuffed. His anger did not assuage when Dumbledore’s face broke the faintest of smiles.

“I’m often impressed at the nuances of language,” Dumbledore scoffed. “Even the chocolate frog cards were correct when they said Flamel was the only ‘known’ maker of the Stone.”

“No,” Harry rebuked. “Flamel was over six hundred years old when he died. That would mean you were four hundred when the Stone was developed. Even by wizarding standards, that’s not possible.” Again, Dumbledore had the audacity to smile.

“Nicolas, while a good friend for many years, was entirely too proud. The books would have you believe that he’d developed the Stone himself. He never argued that point of fact. He also never mentioned that the Stone he developed was an alchemic reproduction of one already in existence. I never betrayed his secret.”

“So if you had your own Stone, why all the secrecy over the one from my first year?” Harry argued, certain he would catch Dumbledore in his own story sooner or later.

“Because Nicholas was so public with his ‘ability’ to produce a Stone, it was the only one known to exist. If I didn’t treat his Stone with the security one would expect, it would raise suspicion about its inimitable existence,” Dumbledore explained.

“So you just let him die?!” Harry blasted. Dumbledore’s face darkened.

“No,” he replied. “Harry, in your twenty-five years of life, you have seen much pain, suffering…even death. You’ve lost those closest to you and carry their memories in a heart laden with the burdens of someone who’s suffered too much. Imagine six hundred years of such experience. Imagine the heartache of watching every person you’ve ever connected with move on without you…everyone in your family, every one of your friends. Immortality is a lonely prison,” Dumbledore whispered.

Harry was struck with the gravity of his words. He paused a moment and tried to fathom the events of his life replayed twenty-four times.

“He chose to die,” Harry replied. Dumbledore nodded as Harry sat back down. Harry thought back to Dumbledore’s declaration and another question erupted in his mind. “You can’t be Godric Gryffindor.”

“Why is that?”

“You would’ve known the location of the Chamber. You never would’ve allowed Moaning Myrtle to be killed or other students to be harmed. You certainly wouldn’t have allowed Voldemort to take Ginny,” Harry remarked in triumph.

Dumbledore took a sip of water and replied, “I wish that were true. Unfortunately, my arrogance did not allow me to recognize the fact that I did not know Salazar Slytherin as well as I thought I did. I didn’t know the Chamber existed until after he’d died.”

Harry locked eyes with Dumbledore. “So if you were Godric Gryffindor, hypothetically of course, why would you choose to live a life like Flamel’s? Why would you want to watch your family and friends die whilst you lived on?” he asked skeptically. Dumbledore appeared heartened by the possibility Harry might be persuaded to believe him.

“The answer to that question is the same as the rationale for why I was dead set against the use of the Foederis enchantment,” he replied.

“Because you’d seen it go wrong?” Harry scoffed.

“Because I lived it. What’s more, I’ve continued to live it everyday of the last millennia.” Dumbledore reached for his goblet again. As Harry handed it to him, he obliged the conversation Dumbledore seemed so desperate to tell.

“What happened?” Harry prompted.

Dumbledore took a sip and sat the goblet by his side, staring at the water dripping down the edges. “I’ve lived a lonely life, Harry. It wasn’t always so. I had a friend as dear to me as Ron is to you. I’ve loved as deeply as you love Hermione. I lost them both.” Harry sat back in his chair and listened. “Salazar and Athena were my best friends. We were inseparable. We were young, powerful, and arrogant. Salazar and I were in the process of building this place with two other friends…”

“Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw?” Harry interrupted.

“The very same,” he affirmed. “We met Athena while developing the spell work for this castle.” He looked at Harry. “The similarities between the three of us and the three of you were striking.” He looked away not having to specify that he was referring to Ron, Harry, and Hermione. “We thought we were invincible.”

“You cast the enchantment.” Harry phrased it more as a statement than a question.

“We had such a powerful bond we never thought it would change. But I didn’t know Salazar as well as I thought. I was naïve in the matters of love. I didn’t see the way he looked at Athena. I never understood the desire he secretly harbored for her. More importantly, I never saw those same emotions reflected from her toward me.

“One spring day, Salazar told me of his interest for Athena. I have to admit I was taken aback. I’d never looked at her as anything other than a friend. However, the thought of her becoming more than a friend to him was unsettling. Nevertheless, I encouraged him to court her. I’ll never forget the day he did.” Dumbledore looked toward the sky, seeming to count the stars twinkling above his head. “She refused him. I tried to console his heartache, but the seed had taken root. Suddenly, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. The relationship became awkward between the three of us. He couldn’t stand to be in her presence and I couldn’t stand to be away from it. Then it happened.”

Harry shuffled in his seat, unconsciously leaning forward with wide eyes.

“Salazar was attending to the construction of the castle, as I was supposed to be. Athena found me in the grove. To this day I don’t know what came over me. With little regard for anyone other than myself, I acted on impulse and kissed her. Much to my surprise, she returned the favor in kind. My heart felt like it would explode. I’ve never been so happy, and so scared, in my life.”

Harry couldn’t stop the smile that erupted across his face. He knew exactly what Dumbledore was talking about. He’d felt the same way the first time his lips touched Hermione’s. With some effort, Dumbledore cleared his throat and continued. “Needless to say, Salazar was less than pleased. A broken heart robbed him of his common sense and grip on reality. He thought I encouraged him to court Athena for the sole purpose of embarrassing him. He became enraged and left. For as much as we tried to make amends, his anger grew. Days passed into weeks and he refused so much as the simplest invitation. It was clear that our friendship was over. Over the next several months, Athena and I grew to accept that Salazar was lost to us. During those same months, my love for her deepened. I couldn’t stand the thought of another day without her.”

“So what did you do?”

“The worst thing I could have…I proposed marriage.”

“How is that bad?” Harry asked in confusion.

“The day she accepted my proposal was both the best and worst day of my life.” He sipped the last of the water from his goblet. Lost in the tale, Harry refilled the glass while Dumbledore continued. “That was the same day I realized the depth of Salazar’s mistrust.” He gave a fleeting glance toward Harry and continued. “Apparently, he thought Athena and I had always harbored feelings for each other. He was so convinced we would eventually betray him that he changed the incantation in the initial casting of the enchantment. It wasn’t until Athena broke the enchantment that we realized what he had done. By then, it was too late.”

“She was a muggle,” Harry replied, hesitating before setting the pitcher back on the table. Dumbledore nodded and took the refreshed goblet from Harry’s outstretched hand. “What happened?”

“I’ve never been so enraged in my life. Not only had Athena lost her magical powers, but she was suffering physical and emotional pain. I couldn’t take it. I lashed out at Salazar,” Dumbledore said.

“You dueled?”

“For hours. Our families got involved and the battle grew desperate. We were equally matched, however, and there would be no resolution to the conflict. We were at an impasse. Both families left the field, broken and battered, and resolved to continue this feud to the bitter end.”

“What happened with Athena?” Harry asked.

“I married her anyway. Something the Slytherin family took as a personal affront. They’d always thought themselves better than muggles, but the idea that ’the great Godric Gryffindor’ would share his life, and his magic, with a mere muggle was beyond their comprehension, as was my family’s acceptance of Athena to our home. The notion that such powerful magic could be passed to muggles made both my family, and Athena’s, a delicious target.”

“That’s why Slytherin hates muggles,” Harry whispered while Dumbledore nodded.

“And we used that knowledge to our advantage,” Dumbledore explained. “We’d declared a blood feud between the two families and both sides sustained heavy casualties. My brother, my sister…my mother – they were the first to be killed at the hands of the Slytherins. There was no stopping the feud after that.” Harry was stunned silent. “As the head of the family, I was the marquee target – as were my descendants. Athena went into hiding and I was set to join her,” Dumbledore laid his head back on the pillow and stared through the open ceiling. “Before I could meet her, I encountered my one-time best friend. He looked so different. He was full of such hate. But he still had his wits about him. I was arrogant enough to believe that my plan was foolproof. I’d forgotten that Salazar and I used to finish each other’s sentences.

“We engaged in a duel. It was relatively harmless, or so I thought. I managed to hit him with a few hexes and he landed one rather powerful curse on me before we disengaged and took refuge elsewhere.”

“What plan?” Harry asked.

“No one wins a blood feud until the one who declared it, and all his line, are dead. I knew this, as Salazar did, and thought to hide my line in the one place Slytherin would never think to look,” Dumbledore lamented.

“Muggleborns,” Harry declared.

“Yes,” Dumbledore affirmed. “However, just as you realized my plan, so did Salazar.” He drew a long breath. “Athena and I lived in relative seclusion. The feud became less pronounced, but in the shadows it raged on nonetheless. Both Salazar and I could not avoid each other as the founders and teachers at Hogwarts. Rowena and Helga tried to stay clear of the awkwardness but it became too much to bear. They sided with me –something else that Salazar took as a betrayal of our former friendship.”

Harry was struck with a sudden realization. “The book you gave me! Back in seventh year, after we had discovered the Foederis enchantment. It was all about the history of the founders. Fascinating, really, for a history book. I remember wondering why it was so important to you that I read that. I thought you were just trying to discourage us from using Foederis,” Harry said.

Dumbledore smiled inwardly. “I’ve been trying to tell you this story for so long, I reckon I hoped you’d figure it out from that book and save me the trouble.”

“So what happened to Salazar?” Harry asked. Dumbledore’s face grew dark. The light escaped his eyes and when he spoke, his voice was as deep as Harry had ever heard it.

“Athena was picking berries in a field near our cottage one day after we’d married. Given the state of affairs, I insisted her pregnancy be kept secret. She was well into her eighth month and we were anxiously awaiting his arrival.” He closed his eyes and Harry was shocked to see tears flow down his mentor’s cheeks for only the third time in his life.

“I’ll never know why Salazar sought her out. I’ve tried to convince myself it was to make amends,” Dumbledore’s voice drifted into silence. He sat, propped up in his bed, searching for the words. When he finally drew the courage to speak, his voice shuddered. “When I found her, she was clinging to life by a shread.” He wiped his face with the palm of his hand just as Harry realized he was doing the same thing. “She told me of their argument. She apologized,” Dumbledore gave a strained laugh. “As if she had anything to apologize for.” His voice quaked. “She knew I could save our child. She begged me to do it before it was too late.”

“How?” Harry’s voice broke.

“It’s an ancient spell that transfers the life force of a mother to her child. It’s not terribly different than the protective charm I cast after Lily gave her life for you,” he explained.

“But that meant…,” Harry’s voice drifted into silence.

“She knew she was dying. She begged me to save our child, lest they be lost together. She bid me farewell and pressed my wand into my hand.” Dumbledore pulled his wand from the bed coverings and turned it over in his hand.

Harry couldn’t stop the stream of tears. Of all the tragedy he’d seen in his life, nothing would’ve made him strong enough to do what Athena had asked of Dumbledore. He thought of the child Hermione carried and the tears continued. He couldn’t bear the thought of being in a similar position. It was this thought – of Dumbledore’s strength, of his bravery, of his strength of character – that persuaded Harry his story was true. It was his unwavering belief in the power of love that convinced Harry he was, in fact, looking on the face of Godric Gryffindor.

“What happened to Slytherin?” Harry asked.

“I killed him with the same sword you used to slay the Basilisk,” Dumbledore replied. Harry’s head snapped up and he caught the darkened eyes of the former headmaster before he looked away. “However, by that time, we’d both produced heirs so the feud between our families continued, as it would for generations.” Suddenly, the timing of Dumbledore’s summons made sense.

“Voldemort was the heir of Slytherin,” he whispered. Dumbledore nodded. “You won.” Dumbledore cut his eyes toward Harry with a look that nearly took his breath away.

“I dare say this is nothing to claim victory over.”

An awkward silence fell over the room. After a few uncomfortable moments, Harry wanted an answer to the question that had erupted in his mind upon hearing the beginning of the story.

“So,” he began. “How do you know that I am your heir?”

Dumbledore smiled and looked at Harry properly. “It took generations before I finally understood what Salazar had done. I can only assume he hexed me with the moniker charm in the duel prior to Athena’s pregnancy.”

“What’s the moniker charm?”

“Salazar must’ve known I would disguise my lineage in muggleborn wizards. He used a blood hex to make the Slytherin search easier.” Dumbledore smiled at Harry, a distant twinkle evident behind his half-moon glasses. “I knew you were my heir from the moment you were born. Just as I knew Lily was my heir, and those before her.”

“Because I was her firstborn?” Harry asked.

“No. Magical ancestry doesn’t operate as muggle ancestry does. You’re not necessarily the true heir by virtue of being the first to arrive. Magical powers, while being passed onto all children in some manner, will manifest the sum of themselves in one child only.” Dumbledore’s voice broke and he began to cough in earnest. When he composed himself, he took a sip of water. “Salazar knew this. He also knew he need not waste his time on all of the descendants. He only needed to find the true heir to end the feud.”

“That’s why he cursed you?” Harry asked.

“You, like the others before you, have the most vibrant green eyes I’ve ever seen.” Dumbledore huffed to himself. “I shouldn’t have been surprised that Salazar used his favorite color to make my heirs easier to find.”

***

I often wonder if the story was enough to convince my father that Albus Dumbledore was actually Godric Gryffindor. If I had been in his situation, I don’t know that the limits of my common sense would’ve allowed it. Here he was, after eight years as a muggle, being told that the man he’d admired since his first year at Hogwarts was, arguably, the most powerful wizard of all time. That aside, to believe his story was to accept the notion that the frail wizard lying before him was over one thousand years old. Even the most eternal of optimists would’ve had difficulty accepting his story as truth. I did.

My mum and dad told me this story two months ago. I still have trouble wrapping my brain around it. I look in the mirror to see my father’s eyes staring back and cannot fathom the notion that I am the next of the Gryffindor line. My only consolation is the understanding nature of my father. To say he understands my situation is an understatement. He said he felt the same way. But Dumbledore offered him irrefutable proof – the same proof that convinced me.

My father is a wizard.

***

Harry sat in a motionless daze. He didn’t know what to say; he didn’t know what to think. The existence of Albus Dumbledore, as a powerful but otherwise ordinary Headmaster, was the cornerstone of Harry’s wizarding world. He was the first and last mentor Harry knew. His gaze drifted upward and caught the eyes of the man he thought he knew so well.

“I’m sorry,” Dumbledore’s voice cracked. “I only hope you understand why I couldn’t tell you this sooner. I also hope you understand that while we are blood relatives, I had to place you with the Dursleys.”

Harry wasn’t sure he did understand but in the distant recesses of his mind it made sense. He was older, and hopefully wiser, now. He wasn’t sure how he would’ve reacted to such information as a teenager. He was less sure of what his reaction would have been during the years following the final battle. In all honesty, he wasn’t sure how to react now. In the span of a few hours, the face of the wizarding world he knew had been irrevocably changed. Voldemort was dead. Dumbledore was Gryffindor, and Harry was his heir.

“You don’t believe me,” Dumbledore’s weakened voice pressed. Harry looked up in shock.

“No, that’s not it,” Harry clarified, although he felt like he was being deceptive. “I just…I….” His voice trailed off.

“I imagine this is quite a lot to take in. I’d like to be able to impart the wisdom of your predecessors, but you are the first of my heirs that I’ve told. Those before you, your mother included, did not know.”

“Why me?” Harry asked. Dumbledore chuckled aloud, causing a fit of coughing that seemed to usurp his remaining energy. When he caught a clear breath, his eyes were as dim as Harry had ever seen them.

“That, I dare say, is a question you’ve asked many times before,” he replied. “I’m tired, Harry. I refused to leave what was left of my family while the curse of the feud remained. Upon hearing the prophecy, so long ago, I knew that my journey, for better or worse, was drawing to a close. After a millennia, the curse is no more.” Dumbledore hesitated before continuing. “My responsibilities are fulfilled.” Harry nodded. He didn’t need additional explanation. His thoughts drifted to his parents, Sirius, Hagrid, and the faces of the students lost in the siege.

“I’ve lost so much,” Harry croaked. With great effort he drew the courage to voice the opinion of his heart. “I don’t want to lose you, too.”

“You aren’t losing me, Harry. We will meet again.” The finality of the sentiment brought the tears back to Harry’s eyes. He’d often thought of Dumbledore as family, now he knew it to be true. He thought back on his life and wondered when he’d find his happy ending. As his thoughts came to rest on Hermione, he realized Dumbledore’s quiet voice was beckoning him back to reality.

“You have been asked to do so much more than any before you. What you’ve accomplished has been extraordinary. I have been forced to sit by and watch you fulfill the prophecy alone, and I’ve been forced to wait – and watch – while you suffered the consequences.” Dumbledore picked up his hand, still clutching his wand, and reached across to where Harry sat. “I don’t have to watch any longer.”

Dumbledore pressed the wand into Harry’s palm. In confusion, Harry looked between their hands and Dumbledore’s hopeful face. “What’s this then?”

“You are my heir. Although a thousand years separate us, we share a unique bond – one that I can finally use to repay the services you’ve rendered to our family,” Dumbledore replied. Harry furrowed his brow in confusion.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Harry, I’ve told you before that you’ve shown bravery I can scarcely imagine. You’ve given everything for our family. You’ve only asked for love in return,” Dumbledore’s voice quaked. “I only ask that you allow me to give it.” Dumbledore grasped the wand held in Harry’s hand. Opening his hand to release it, Harry quickly found Dumbledore’s other hand grasped around his. His heart began to pound in his chest.

“What are you doing?” he asked, dreading the answer.

“Harry, I haven’t much time,” Dumbledore whispered. “Before I move on, I ask that you allow me one indulgence,” he said as Harry began shaking his head.

“No,” Harry said, unsure of what his request would be, but certain he didn’t want to find out.

“I’ve destroyed my stone, and I’ve made all the necessary preparations. I have but one wrong left to right. You are more than a wizard, you are a Gryffindor – and you are my blood. He paused and held Harry’s gaze. “Let me restore your powers.”

Harry’s brow furrowed. “How?”

“Through the life force that joins us both. The same force that allowed your mother’s love to save you, and my love to save Athena and my child.” Realizing the mortal connection between his examples, Harry tried to pull his hand away but Dumbledore showed strength uncommon for a dying man. “Please, Harry.” The tears started to pour from Harry’s eyes. He couldn’t bear to be the cause of another death, or reap the benefits from Dumbledore’s passing. He’d rather live his life as a muggle than face another personal sacrifice at his expense.

“No!” Harry cried, trying to pull his hand from Dumbledore’s grip. “No…no,” he muttered as his throat constricted. It was the calm serenity of his mentor’s voice that registered despite his distress.

“Harry,” he said. “I’m making this choice. I can do it with or without your help. I know you don’t believe that you deserve this, but I will not leave until it’s done.” He struggled to sit up, and grasped both hands around Harry’s, which was still clutching Dumbledore’s wand. Their eyes met as Harry’s chest hitched. “Please let me go.”

Harry didn’t reply. He couldn’t. He knew there was nothing he could do to change his mind. He also knew there was nothing he could do to save him. If he truly was who he claimed, he was long since ready to rest. How could Harry be selfish enough to demand he stay? He mustered the courage to say the one thing he’d only ever been brave enough to say to Hermione.

“I love you,” he whispered.

Dumbledore’s ever-present twinkle seemed to brighten for a moment. A single teardrop fell down his cheek.

“And I love you,” he replied.

He then closed his eyes and tightened his grip around Harry’s hand. His mouth moved inaudibly as he muttered an incantation Harry did not recognize. Harry felt the wand begin to shudder as a surging pulse began throbbing in his hand. Harry closed his other hand around both of Dumbledore’s hoping to seize hold of the family he never knew. As he grasped the frail hands, a tingling sensation began to creep through his body. He squeezed his eyes closed as his muscles began to burn. He struggled to focus on Dumbledore, who seemed to weaken as Harry’s discomfort grew. Before he could respond, a searing pain erupted in Harry’s chest as Dumbledore fell back against the pillows. Harry strengthened his grip and gasped for breath as he realized Dumbledore’s breathing had become shallow. A familiar warm sensation flooded his hand and red and gold sparks began to shower the room from the wand clutched in Harry’s hand. As the light danced across the stone walls, Dumbledore’s hand fell to rest on the bed.

“Albus?” Harry choked, leaning over the bed. Dumbledore fought to open his eyes. “I…I don’t know what to say,” he mumbled.

Dumbledore opened his mouth to speak but his voice was so weak Harry could barely understand him. He leaned over and strained his ear to listen.

“Say what you couldn’t say before…what you couldn’t say to your parents, Sirius, or Hagrid.”

There were hundreds of things he wanted to say to them and had never been afforded the opportunity. He wanted to thank them for loving him enough to sacrifice their own lives for him. He wanted to tell them how much he loved them in return. He wanted to tell them he’d be all right on his own – that he’d found the love of his life and that together they could make it through anything. As he ran through the litany of things he’d wished he’d had the chance to say, he realized he didn’t have time. Dumbledore’s eyes were drawing closed and his breathing had all but stopped. That was the moment he understood. Before he could lose another second, he threw himself across Dumbledore’s chest and seized his opportunity.

“Goodbye,” he croaked.

Harry’s vision cleared just enough to see a faint smile cross Dumbledore’s face before his chest fell for the last time and the room collapsed into silence.

Harry was hard pressed to remember the following hour of his life. He stayed at his mentor’s side for a while before covering him in a fluffy blanket and joining McGonagall in the office outside. Harry felt selfish for not allowing her the same privilege, until he realized she’d likely taken it before he’d arrived. She was in tears as he emerged from the room and several wizards were standing by to carry out Dumbledore’s final wishes. She encouraged him to go home to Hermione and asked if he would contact the Order as she had business to attend to on Dumbledore’s behalf. Out of habit, she began to arrange a portkey when Harry realized he was still holding the wand in his hand. He thanked her for her kindness and left her in shock as he flicked the wand and summoned the portkey to his hand. She’d barely registered a response when Harry felt the tug behind his navel.

“Hermione!” he shouted as he spun into their keeping room. “Hermione!”

“Is everything okay?” she replied as she ran into the room with a small, half-knitted pink jumper in her hand. Harry didn’t bother to reply; he didn’t bother to explain. He crossed the room in three steps and slid his hand around the back of her neck. In one swift motion, he pulled her toward him and crushed his lips to hers. Knitting forgotten, the project fell to the floor as Hermione threaded her fingers through his hair and pressed the length of her body against his. He wrapped his free hand around her waist and held her body against him as his tongue danced across her lips. She opened her mouth to his and slid her tongue over his. He fell to his knees, dragging her down with him, and framed her face with his hands.

“I’m sorry,” he laughed, wondering how her kisses still managed to weaken his knees. He felt her mouth smile against his lips.

“I hope Hogwarts sends for you more often if this is the welcome I receive when you get home,” she giggled. He peppered her mouth with a few short kisses and slid his arms under her back and legs. “Harry!” she exclaimed as he gathered her from the floor and stood up. “Put me down!” she laughed.

“You’re not heavy,” he answered.

“Bollocks, I’m not!” she replied with a hand over the bulge in her abdomen which she’d become increasingly self-conscious about. He set her on her feet and reached for the wand in his back pocket.

“You dropped something,” he said with a grin. Before Hermione could retrieve the knitting he brandished the wand and said, “wingardium leviosa!” The fluffy pink yarn flew up from the floor and hovered before Hermione’s stunned expression.

“Harry?” she whispered in shock. “What…? How…?” she blustered. Enjoying every moment of her revelation, he pulled her to him again and pressed his lips to hers. Her warm lips remained motionless as she appeared to search for a logical explanation. Harry decided to end her confusion when he tasted the salty tears that had slipped down her cheeks.

“Let’s sit down. I’ve got so much to tell you.”

***

I heard the door creak open. It was a familiar sound that happened every year. “You’re a bit early, Professor Weasley,” I announce as I hear her footsteps crossing the stone floor.

“Oh!” she scoffed. “How many times must I tell you not to call me that in private?” an annoyed voice declared as she strode closer. I turned to face her as she settled herself on the opposite side of the house table from me.

“Sorry, Aunt Beatrice,” I giggle as she rolls her eyes. I love to annoy her. She’s such a sporting participant. I think she’s a perfect fit for the Weasley family. You have to keep on your toes around that lot. “So, what brings you to the Great Hall?” I ask, assured the answer will be the same as it has been for the last six years.

“I’m your godmother. It’s my job to ensure you are well cared for in the absence of your parents,” she replied as I expected.

“Where’s Uncle Ron? You usually tag-team me on Victory Day.”

“He’s been called away on team business. The Canons had a bit of a meltdown after their loss last week. He was summoned to help repair the public relations crisis the two beaters caused,” she replied. I’ve never been able to tell if Uncle Ron is working his dream job or not. I think he’d rather play for the Canons, but I’ve played against him and his skills do not extend to the realm of professional play. If they did, I could have signed a contract by now. However, he seems quite content to work as the team’s business manager. It’s never bothered our family either. We’ve had box seats to every Canons match since before I was born and a complete wardrobe of orange attire to accompany our attendance.

“Well, I’m sorry to say the first-years did not heed my advice,” I add, trying to keep the conversation from the topic it invariably finds.

“How do you mean?” she asked.

“I’ve told them not to neglect the History of Magic final but, Head Girl or not, they won’t listen to me,” I lament.

“I’m their professor and they don’t listen to me,” she scoffed. “I think that’s implicit in the job description, though. I’d like to think I’m at least a tad more interesting than Professor Binns.” I can’t help but laugh aloud at her statement.

Not to burst her bubble, but a living, breathing, person was said to be a vast improvement over Professor Binns, regardless of their ability to teach. Still, I’m privy to some conversations, at least before the younger students realize who I am, and Aunt Beatrice is a popular professor. I don’t think it sits well with my godfather that the boys, in particular, hold her in rather high esteem. I’ve overheard more than one discussing how she fine she looks in Quidditch robes. For her sake, I’ve never mentioned that to Uncle Ron, although it is amusing to watch his face turn the same color as his hair.

“How are the rest of the Weasley lot?” I ask.

“Wonderful! I have some cheerful news to impart. After Ron’s trek to Baileywick, he’s returning to London for the sole purpose of annoying your Aunt Ginny.”

“Oh! Miranda had the baby!” I exclaim. Miranda Longbottom Andrews, while not technically related to me at all, is one of my many cousins. The Weasleys and the Potters might as well be family so all the children have been raised as such. Miranda was the first to be born after the war and is a few years older than I am. She’s the daughter of Ginny and Neville Longbottom. They were married two years after the final battle and had Miranda about a year later. As she was the first to be born, she was also the first to marry. She and Jonathan Andrews, a muggleborn wizard she met at Hogwarts, married thirteen months ago.

Miranda was the first born of my age group. She was the first to attend Hogwarts. She’s got Aunt Ginny’s stunning good looks and the boys flock to her somewhat uncertain nature. She comes by it honestly; her father has always been a bit shy. The first Christmas Jonathan spent with us, I wallowed in self-pity. He adores Miranda. They make the perfect couple, and I was sure I’d never be able to match what they have. I stood up with them at their wedding and cried for a relationship I’d never have. Not only did I inherit my mother’s intimidating nature, but I’m the daughter of Harry Potter. With the exception of a few glory-seeking blokes, I didn’t attract a lot of men. I’ve never been happier to be wrong.

“Um hmm,” Aunt Beatrice says thoughtfully.

“What?” I know where she’s going. My defensive stance is nothing more than a façade. We’ve been doing this for months.

“Nothing,” she answers. “But I’ve come to refer to that look,” she’s making a circular waving motion toward my face, “as your ‘drifty’ expression.”

“What does that mean?” I rebuke, trying to contain my laughter.

“You get all dreamy-eyed and drift right out of the conversation,” she answers. “I’ve had a talk with your dear Daniel. All this day-dreaming is affecting your preparation for N.E.W.T.s.” She gives me a sly wink. “You’re lucky I don’t tell your mother.” I can’t help but laugh. She’s spot on.

“Anyway, Ron has been counting the days until he could address his dear sister as ’grandmother,’” she laughs heartily. I know she thinks the same thing I do. It’s really rather silly for Uncle Ron to make that comment as he’ll only have a few more months before she will return the favor in kind. The eldest of Ron and Beatrice’s three children, William Weasley, and his wife Celeste are expecting a child at the end of the summer.

“Wow,” I smile. “All these weddings and babies…I feel a bit left out.”

She breaks into a smile I believe to be a bit too wide and replies, “I have the sneaking suspicion it won’t take long. I told you it would happen when you least expected it.”

I huff a breath of air and play with an old scar on the table. I’ve avoided having this conversation with anyone since mum and dad sat me down to tell the story. It’s about time I talk to someone. “Six months ago my lacking love life was my greatest concern,” I lament. “Now, I don’t know what to think.”

She reaches across the table and takes my hands in hers. She gives me a supportive squeeze and flashes one of her signature smiles. “I know it’s a lot to take in. I watched your parents go through the same thing about seventeen years ago.” She winks at me and I can’t help but smile. “I wish I knew how I could help,” she adds.

“Perhaps we can help,” a familiar voice interrupts. I nearly strain my neck at the sound of my father’s voice. I haven’t seen them since the last Hogsmeade weekend when they broke the news.

“Daddy!” I yell. I leap from the bench and dart across the room into his waiting arms. It may sound weird, but I think I understand the reason why mum married him. There’s no safer place in the world than wrapped up in his arms. He squeezes the air out of my lungs and kisses me on the cheek before dropping my feet back to the floor.

“How are you?” he asks with sincerity.

“Fine,” I lie. Mum brushes him out of the way to embrace me and I happily return the favor. They look stunning. They’re as trim as ever, no doubt a side-effect of their profession, and tanned. “You look magnificent,” I exclaim. “I thought you were spending this year in Tahiti?”

“We were, darling,” mum replies. “But,” she gives my father a loving smile, “we decided it would be better spent with you.”

“What about the twins?” I ask with some hesitation.

“They don’t even know we’re here,” dad replies conspiratorially.

“And they’d best be studying for their O.W.L.s,” mum adds with a sneer. I can’t help but laugh. Mum has always been meticulous about our studies. It always seems to amuse my father when she sends us those infernal homework planners. For that reason, I should be happy about leaving Hogwarts, and homework, behind, but I have three more years of studies to complete Auror training. I’m sure mum has stocked up on the assignment organizers already.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” I respond as I throw my arms around both of their necks. Dad is the first to step back.

“So let me ask again,” he reiterates. “How are you doing?”

I drop my eyes to my feet and inspect my favorite trainers. “I don’t know.” I look up to dad’s matching green eyes. “Why is this bothering me so much?” Dad throws his arm around my shoulders and walks me toward the House table while Aunt Beatrice and mum exchange a quick embrace and begin to catch up.

“It’s not everyday you’re told that you’re the heir of Godric Gryffindor,” he answers with a smile. “Trust me, I understand.” I can’t help but laugh as he bumps shoulders with me and we settle down to the table.

“I suddenly feel so much responsibility. I just don’t know what I feel responsible for,” I add. I don’t know why I haven’t spoken with him about this earlier. He’d sent back my last owl with an invitation to come home for a few days. I sent Hedina back to him with the response that I was perfectly fine. As I look at him now, I realize how thick I’ve been. He’s the only one that can understand how I feel.

“Jade,” he begins. He throws a quick glance toward mum and digs in the front pocket of his robes. I reach under the table for the chocolate frog I know he’s smuggled past the guard. He smiles as I take the box from his hand. “It may sound like a slight against our family, but you’re taking this too seriously.”

I pop open the box and bite off the frog’s head as I listen. In trying to avoid his eyes I find them anyway. “Is it?” I ask as I toss yet another frog card across the table with my father’s image emblazoned on it. He glances at it and pushes it aside.

“You are the same person you were before we told you,” he replies. Mum settles onto the bench beside me and wraps an arm around my shoulders. I look up to see a familiar look on my father’s face. He is looking between me and mum and smiling with obvious contentment. It dawns on me then, that his sacrifices were all for us. He didn’t give up the things he did, he didn’t make those sacrifices, for others. He made them for his family. He made them for mum. He made them in the hopes myself and my brothers would one day carry my mother’s features and his unruly hairstyle. Everything he did, he did in the name of love. Love is what drove him and love is what saved him.

And that’s all I need.

Fin.

Author’s Note:

First I’d like to say that I hope you enjoyed the story. I couldn’t help but throw in a reference for all my “drifty” ladies from LJ in this epilogue. Also, I stole a reference from Pretty Woman in the wedding scene you probably caught. I thought it worked well.

As far as the story goes…I can hear your flamethrowers already. I might’ve mentioned that 4 ships would sail in this story…I never said I wouldn’t sink one. I am of the firm opinion that Malfoy is a static character. He will never have some cathartic moment in Canon and I couldn’t bring myself to write him that way here. The only thing that should’ve been your warning was the fact I made their relationship so obvious. Of all the twists in this story, that was the one plot line EVERYBODY got as soon as I hinted at it. That should’ve been its own red flag. I can only hope JK is going the same way with H/H.

I tried to reference anyone I got an idea from as I went along. But most of the plot lines here are what I have in my own mind as theories for what I think (or hope) JK will do with Book 6/7. I was glad to see that my theory on Mark Evans was spot on. I was using him as a red herring, and apparently so was she – if only because she didn’t realize what name she’d given him. We’ll have to see how the rest pans out. In any case, it will be fun to read if I managed to hit on a few.

As far as OC’s go. I’ve never written one and I continue to be humbled by your reviews of Merc and Damien. I loved both of those characters and I’m glad they hit home runs for you as well J

I’ve thanked my betas again and again. In total, only three people ever looked at this story while it was being written. Melissa had every chapter and was the best plot and story beta in the box. I appreciate everything you did and the countless hours you’ve spent on this be it in a file or online. I never figured it would get as long-winded as it did. Bethy took glances at parts I was really stuck on as it went along. She was a lot of help when writing the death of Hermione’s parents. That was among the toughest things I’d ever written and I appreciate all of the input there. Jane came on board late in the game and I wished I’d done it sooner. You’ll notice the grammar and mechanics got a lot better in the end – I did not have a transplant…Jane got a hold of my chapters. I appreciate your thoroughness in every one. You worked harder than I did in writing them!

If you stuck with Triumvirate from start to finish, you’ve managed to read 531 pages at one inch margins and single spaced. That translates into 230,932 words. You are tigers! All of you! I can say without hesitation…(as I’ve already been asked)…THERE IS NO SEQUEL! The folks on the snitch (prior to the hack) are the one’s that guilted me into a sequel to Power when I finished writing over there. They are responsible for the existence of ToR. I hope that I’ve told the story in enough detail that sequels aren’t necessary. That being said…I’m sure I’ll write some cookies from the TOR world in the future. I have a mind to fill in the wedding night at some point.

So, I shall close the “Power Series” (for good) with my deepest gratitude for all those who helped me write this story and for the many of you that were thoughtful enough to leave reviews (be they good or bad). I read every review and tried to respond to as many as I could. Thank you for your interest in the story. I don’t have any new HPFF on the back burner. After all I’ve managed to put together here, I’d like to try my hand at something original. As I do that it will be friend locked on my LJ to maintain original publishing rights and all that should I be lucky enough to have someone pick it up in the future. Until then, thanks for all your support, and good night.

Vicarious Leigh

The Triumvirate of Resolve

1. The Many Travels of Hedwig

2. Evil Personified

3. Coming of Age

4. Unexpected

5. Vici Letum

6. Reunions

7. A Stroll Down Memory Lane

8. Inevitable

9. Detente

10. New Powers and Old Friends

11. Couch Time

12. Humiliation and Revelation

13. Halloween

14. Mourning

15. What Lies Beneath

16. Et Tu Brute

17. Christmas at Hogwarts

18. The Winds of Change

19. Cherubs and Arrows

20. Triangles

21. The Ferret and the Foederis

22. Turning Point

23. Five Days

24. The Triumvirate of Resolve

25. Epilogue