The Price

Disclaimer: Characters and trappings borrowed from the Harry Potter books are the property of J.K. Rowling, and no copyright inftringement is intended.

A solitary figure sat in hushed darkness. The stone walls of his windowless cell were dank and chill. The blackness was complete save for a feeble rectangle of flickering amber which was the torch burning in the corridor just beyond the tiny view slit in the heavy iron door. It was by choice that the cell's lone occupant sat thus. A gnarled candle, Charmed to ignite by wandless command (and enchanted to burn with a harmless cold flame), reposed in a rusty iron bracket above his cot, its wick cold and layered with dust.

Without warning, the slit of light winked out, blocked by the face of the guard who peered blindly into the darkness, his piggy eyes watering. "Visitor," he grunted in an emotionless monotone, quoting from rote. "Stand back from the door, please."

The magical lock on the door clicked. Pale light flooded the small cell, glinting dully on the rivets ringing the door. A dancing shadow fell across the threshold, followed by a tall figure whose features were obscured by the darkness. The newcomer held an oil lamp in an outstretched hand, its chimney raised. The guard extended his wand (the other's wand having been confiscated), and the lamp sprang to life. The flame brightened as the chimney was slid home, illuminating a long, freckled face and a shock of red hair nearly as bright as the lamp in its owner's hand.

"Leave us," the visitor said. Without a word, the guard closed the door. The lock clicked.

Setting the lamp on a shelf next to the lifeless candle, Ron Weasley sat on the edge of the cot, the ancient springs of which groaned in protest. The prisoner had not moved in all this time, nor betrayed even the smallest sign of acknowledgment that he was no longer alone. Ron felt the skin between his shoulders crawl. It was as if he were sitting next to an upright corpse.

"Tell me you didn't do it, Harry," Ron said without preamble. "I told them they're all mental. You couldn't possibly have done what they say you did. Tell me, Harry."

Harry did not move, did not so much as turn his head a millimeter in Ron's direction. But his glassy, far-seeing eyes came to life as at the flicking of a switch. Those eyes, pale green in the lamplight, jerked suddenly as if tugged by invisible wires as they pierced Ron's like emerald icicles.

"Merlin," Ron swore softly, his throat tightening. "It's true. You did it. You really did it! You killed Malfoy!"

At last Harry moved. Snatching his eyes from Ron's, he stood slowly and turned away, staring into the dark corner of the cell where the lamplight could not reach. Ron saw the slight hunch in Harry's shoulders, their eloquence wordless testimony to some great weight pressing upon his friend's soul. He dreaded the question he knew he must ask.

"What happened, Harry?" Ron croaked. "No one will tell me anything. You had to have a reason -- "

Suddenly Ron went white beneath the embers of his abundant freckles.

"Wh-where's -- where's Hermione? Why isn't she here? Why --

"No...oh, please, no..."

"She's alive," Harry said at last, his voice dry as dust from a tomb. Ron waited for Harry to continue, his heart filling with dread, but Harry said nothing more.

"Malfoy -- " Ron framed the syllables as if they were an obscenity. "What -- what did he do to her?"

Only silence answered him.

"What did he do?" Ron demanded, bolting up with knotted fists churning the air. "What did that son of a bitch do to Hermione?"

Ron saw Harry's shoulders drop almost imperceptibly, saw his friend shudder as if in silent agony.

"He raped her," Harry rasped, his hand rising to cover his face, as if to block images dancing in the darkness which only he could see.

As Ron gaped in horror, Harry rounded explosively, his eyes ablaze with green flames. Ron recoiled as if he had been struck a physical blow, the flesh between his shoulders crawling with a sensation as of ice water trickling down his spine.

"He tortured her!" Harry half screamed, half sobbed, his rage spilling out like lava from a poisoned volcano. "He chained her to a dungeon wall -- beat her savagely, whipped her until she cried for mercy! And then he ravaged her -- like a MAD DOG!"

As Ron began to tremble with unspeakable anguish, Harry's voice fell to an icy whisper.

"And I killed him like one. I put him down like the animal he was -- like a rabid wolf.

"But first, I made him suffer."

"You -- " Ron stammered fearfully, " -- you didn't use an -- an Unforgivable Curse -- ?"

Ron knew, as did most every person in the magical world, that use of any of the three Unforgivable Curses on a human being -- even a slime like Malfoy -- resulted in a life term in Azkaban. If Harry had tortured Malfoy thus, his fate was sealed. But Harry shook his head slowly.

"I put a Body-Bind on him," Harry said thickly. "I took him to...the Shrieking Shack. It was perfect. I knew no one would investigate if they heard anything. In fact, the more screaming they heard, the faster and farther they'd run away.

"And he did scream. Oh, yes..."

Harry's eyes took on a feral light before which Ron retreated another step.

"I intended to make him pay. Not just for that night, but for fifteen years of sneers and torments, of a thousand "Mudblood" taunts and racist, pureblood garbage.

"I conjured manacles and chained him to the basement wall," Harry said with a distant look in his eyes and a hint of ghastly savor in his voice. Fastening his eyes on Ron, he tittered, "Do you know what I did then? Do you?"

Ron shook his head, his tongue frozen to his palate.

"I exploded his bones," Harry hissed with malevolent glee.

Ron recoiled, horrified.

"I used a focused Incendio spell," Harry said, speaking not so much to Ron as merely reveling in a cherished memory. "I made his marrow boil until the bone popped like a wizard cracker. He screamed like a baby. It was exquisite.

"I began with his fingers. The fingers that desecrated my wife's flesh, profaned her dignity. The fingers that chained her to that filthy wall, that held the whip that drew her blood -- the dirty 'mudblood' that he so despised. And I made him watch! I Cursed his eyelids off and held him by the hair so he couldn't look away. And he watched as the bones in his fingers splintered, one by one."

Harry laughed insanely, the sound chilling Ron's blood and making his knees weak.

"He lived for three days," Harry whispered. "I fed him a potion that kept him conscious through the pain. Aurors carry it with them, so they can function in battle while wounded. I brewed it myself...learned it in Advanced Potions ages ago...Snape would have been proud of me.

"As the pain increased, he nearly went mad. For the first two days, he pleaded with me to stop, to have mercy. Mercy! I told him I'd show him the same mercy he showed Hermione." Harry barked a short, bitter laugh before his eyes hardened again. "On the third day, he begged me to kill him. At least once every five minutes, he sobbed, 'Kill me, Potter! For the love of God, kill me!' It was rather funny, actually -- Voldemort's lapdog invoking God after all those years of worshipping the devil himself. Truth to tell, the mantra became rather tiresome after a while. So, as much to shut him up as anything, I suppose...I gave him what he wanted."

Ron was sobbing mournfully, his face buried in his hands. Harry's voice grew strangely calm even as it assumed an edge as of tempered steel.

"He wasn't human. He was a monster -- a vampire. He sucked the lifeblood from everything he touched. And, well, there's only one proper way to sort out a vampire, isn't there? A stake through the heart. So I took his own wand and drove it through his ribs with a narrow-beam Banishing Charm. I nailed him to the wall like a cockroach.

"And the look on his face! Even at the last, he couldn't believe that goody-goody Potter had it in him! He just stared at me in astonishment as the light in his eyes faded and went out. Sort of like blowing out a candle flame, it was.

"It was too easy, you know," Harry said with a touch of disappointment. "After everything he'd done, all the lives he'd ruined, the death and misery he'd sown...I was far too easy on him...far...too easy..."

Ron did not hear Harry's last words. He had sunk to the floor, sobbing like a lost soul; weeping for his friend, for the inhuman thing he feared that cherished friend had become; and for the good, kind man whom he feared might be lost to him forever.

His catharsis exhausted, Harry fell silent once more. He sank heavily onto his cot, staring blanky at the wall, oblivious to the flickering light of the lamp, and to the soft, agonized sobs emanating from the huddled figure quivering on floor to his right.

Author's Note: So ends Chapter one of nine. The shadows deepen next week, with more facts being brought to light. I hope some of you, at least, will return. And to everyone, thanks for reading.

"What's going to happen to Harry?" Ginny said in a ghostly voice. She did not look up as she spoke. She was cradling Hermione's hand in her palm, rubbing it gently. Hermione was still as death. Did not Ginny feel the faint, quietly rhythmic pulse in the hand she held, she would not have known that the woman lying in bed before her was alive at all.

Ron, sitting in a chair on the other side of Hermione's bed, shook his head heavily. "He's not right in the head. They wouldn't...I mean...you don't reckon they'd actually send him to Azkaban?"

"He killed someone, Ron," Ginny said tonelessly, her eyes never leaving Hermione.

"He killed Malfoy," Ron said acidly. "They should give him the ruddy Order of Merlin."

"You don't mean that," Ginny said in a voice more hopeful than certain.

"He was a Death Eater! He had the ruddy Dark Mark on his arm, same as his dad. The world's better off without that -- that -- " Ron couldn't seem to find a blasphemy foul enough to express his disgust, so he settled for a dismissive toss of his head. "If I'd been in Harry's place, I'd have done the same thing."

"Would you?" Ginny said quietly.

Ron was staring intently at Hermione. His feelings toward his best friend's wife were an open secret to those who knew him. He steadfastly kept them under lock and key, out of love for both of them. But they were no less real and powerful for that.

"If it were you lying here," Ron said in an attempt at subterfuge which deceived neither of them, "I'd have torn Malfoy's head off with my bare hands and fed it to Buckbeak."

Ron leaned in, brushing away a strand of chestnut hair which the cross-ventilation had trailed across Hermione's unresponsive face. His throat tightened as he looked down on her. Her once rosy cheeks were the color of marble. Tiny marks were visible on her face and arms, reminders that, even in the wizarding world, potions and healing spells had only so much power at their command. In the final equation, humanity could inflict suffering and death to a far greater degree than even the most skilled Healers could alleviate it.

"You should have owled me," Ron said. It was not a reproach so much as a lament. "I should have been here sooner."

"The tomb that you and Bill were de-cursing isn't on any map," Ginny said. "And the Gringotts goblins wouldn't reveal its location."

"Pig would've found me," Ron persisted. "The feathery little git loves to annoy me. He'd find me in a class six hurricane just for the pleasure of driving me nutters."

"You know as well as I do," Ginny returned gently, "that the first spell a Gringotts curse-breaker learns is the Concealment Charm. Nothing can get through it."

"As soon as I got back," Ron said sickly, "the first thing I saw was a banner headline in the Daily Prophet screaming, 'The Boy Who Killed,' with Harry's face underneath. I Apparated straight to the Ministry. Dumbledore got me in to see Harry straightaway. Signed the visitation order himself. But he wouldn't tell me a bleedin' thing. Didn't he know how important -- "

As Ron's words choked off, Ginny said, "That's why he didn't tell you. You'd find out soon enough. And I don't think he could bear to see the pain in your eyes when you learned the truth."

Hot tears streamed down Ron's face as he took Hermione's other hand and caressed it. "If Harry goes to Azkaban, someone will have to take care of Hermione."

"Her parents can do that," Ginny said, reading her brother's thoughts as if they were branded on his forehead in the pattern of his freckles.

"They're Muggles," Ron said weakly.

"Hermione isn't suffering from a magical malady," Ginny said patiently.

Ron's tears burned his face. Since leaving Harry, he'd pieced the entire story together from various sources. The details were seared upon his soul as if by an Incendio spell.

In the years following the final destruction of Voldemort, the Dark Lord's innermost circle of Death Eaters determined to keep the flame of their fallen master's dream of purification and conquest alive. In a recondite struggle for power, one finally emerged as his master's acknowledged successor. If certain lesser rivals remained unconvinced of his qualifications, he himself harbored no doubts in the matter. With his dark knowledge and fanatical devotion to the cause, and fueled by an ambition second to none, Lucius Malfoy saw himself as the one and only true heir to Lord Voldemort.

The Ministry of Magic likewise recognized Lucius as Voldemort's ultimate successor, largely on the strength of information gleaned by the Order of the Phoenix (which was now a clandestine arm of the Aurors, the result of a secret directive from the office of newly-appointed Minister Albus Dumbledore). It was the latter organization, in a raid led by Dumbledore himself, which ultimately cornered Lucius in a dark castle in Eastern Europe and extinguished his dreams of power and conquest forever. Choosing to stand rather than flee, Lucius was cut down, by all accounts, by Dumbledore, whose advancing years had in no wise diminished the power of his magic. But when Lucius' body was returned to Malfoy Manor for burial, Draco blamed one person alone for his father's "murder"; one who, though indisputably a member of the attacking squad, was in the rear guard and had not cast so much as a single spell ere the last Death Eater fell: Harry Potter.

Draco determined that the only equitable punishment for Harry was the destruction of the person he loved most, even as Draco had loved his father above all others. As Harry clearly loved no one in the world more than his wife, Draco's path of vengeance was equally clear. Spiriting her away from Hogsmeade via a cleverly disguised portkey, Draco, emulating both his father and the master whom they had both served with unquestioning fealty, savagely exacted his revenge in the manner described to Ron by Harry in the Ministry dungeons.

Hermione was found the following day, the portkey having returned her to the very spot from which she'd been taken. She was unconscious, naked, bruised and bleeding from scores of cruel wounds. Discovered by a wizard shopkeeper who was just opening his store, Hermione was hurriedly wrapped in a cloak and taken inside while Hogsmeade's resident Healer was summoned. But upon being revived by the medi-witch, Hermione immediately exploded into hysterical screams so intense that nothing short of a Stunning Spell could arrest her frenzy. She was quickly transferred to St. Mungo's, whose director summoned Harry without delay.

All this Ron learned from sources including The Daily Prophet, certain junior Aurors whose professional baggage did not yet include the sagacity of discretion, and patrons of the Three Broomsticks and the Hogs' Head, to whom discretion was as extraneous as a Muggle-born in Slytherin House.

The final, grimmest piece of the puzzle came directly from the resident Healers at the hospital:

"Your wife is suffering from a deep emotional trauma," the hospital director told Harry, who was himself nearly hysterical. "The moment she is Ennervated, she reverts to a wild hysteria which nothing short of total unconsciousness can suspend. Obviously, we cannot treat her properly under such conditions. Twice we have had to awaken her to give her small doses of healing potions. But to Ennervate her even for the briefest of periods plunges her deeper into the pit of her terrors. I fear that a prolongation of such efforts will result in irreversible insanity. What she experienced was evidently so horrific that her mind's only defense is utter denial. A war is raging inside her, more terrible than any fought with wands and Dark Curses. It is a conflict which must ultimately destroy her. I regret to say, Mr. Potter, that your wife may be faced with the prospect of spending the remainder of her life in such condition as you see her now."

"Can't you perform a Memory Charm?" Harry asked desperately. Looking down on his wife, Harry experienced a piercing of his heart he'd not felt since they day he'd seen her lying in the hospital wing at Hogwarts, petrified by the basilisk from the Chamber of Secrets in their second year. Then, at least, there had been hope to cling to. The Mandrake draught would ultimately retore her to full healthfulness, with no lasting harm done. But now, Harry found himself reaching out desperately, only to find his hands grasping hopelessly at empty air.

"Our Probing Spells reveal that such a Charm has been performed, to erase the identity of her attacker," the director said. "We may never know who did this unspeakable thing to her."

Harry knew. Deep in his gut, he knew only one person could do so heinous a thing. But that was not the issue of the moment. "So perform another Memory Charm," he demanded.

"We cannot," the director said. "Her mind is tilting too close to the edge. Even the slightest nudge could send her into a realm from which there is no returning. Total insanity. In that eventuality, our options would be reduced to one alone: the Complete Obliviate."

"But that," Harry said with a shudder, "would completely erase her mind."

"Yes," the administrator said gravely. "But there is still room for hope. St. Mungo's is not the only wizarding facility of its kind in the world. I have sent owls to every expert in the field. If there is an alternative I have overlooked..."

His face streaked with tears of helpless frustration, Harry bolted from the hospital.

He was discovered three days later, in the Shrieking Shack. He was sitting against the basement wall, his robes peppered with blood, beside the mutilated body of Draco Malfoy. The villagers had scrupulously avoided the terrible screams emanating from the old house on the edge of town throughout the preceding 72 hours. But a new and, in its way, even more terrible sound had drawn them at the last: The sound of wild, insane laughter.

Ginny had left her chair and now stood beside Ron, her hands on his shoulders, as if seeking comfort from his touch.

"What's going to happen to them?" she sobbed piteously, her hands trembling as their grip tightened claw-like on her brother's robes. "Th-they're both in a prison. C-can't someone help them?"

Ron released Hermione's hand, took his sister's wrists and drew her onto his lap. As he enveloped her in a fierce hug, her head cradled on his shoulder, he said hollowly, "I dunno. But if you've ever prayed in your life, do it now. It may be the only chance they've got."

Author's Note: Wow! If I'd known I'd get this kind of response, I'd have moved this story up even sooner. Darkfics, huh? Who knew?

As you have now seen (and befitting the category), the skies just keep getting darker over Harry. Will the sun ever come out (shut up, Annie, go shave Daddy Warbucks' head, why don'cha)? I can't give anything away, of course. But there may be a few readers who, like reviewer Enter Name, sense that events are moving in a straight (and predictable) line. To them and everyone else, I say: Don't look now, but there is a curve or two waiting on the road ahead. I hope I can surprise a few people before the tale is told.

Again, thanks to everyone who jumped on board last time. I hope you'll stay all the way to the end of the line. It's a short trip...and it's free. Look for Chapter 3 next week. I hope to see you then.

Albus Dumbledore straightened his black velvet robes mechanically as he stood before the full-length mirror in his private chamber.

"Not a happy day, Minister," the mirror said solemnly.

"No," Dumbledore said in a voice that seemed to bear all the weight of his advanced years. "It is not."

Turning his back on the mirror, Dumbledore opened the polished oak door of his chamber an inch or so and surveyed the Hall of Judgment. The gallery was filling with witches and wizards, their faces burning with excitement and morbid curiosity. They were come to learn the fate of the greatest hero in the wizarding world -- now a fallen hero. In his triumphant confrontation with Voldemort less than a decade past, Harry Potter had shown a strength and courage about which books would be written for a thousand years. But none of that would help him this day. The Tribunal, headed by Minister of Magic Albus Dumbledore in his dual capacity as head of the Wizengamot, would be assembling in a few short minutes. In their hands, and theirs alone, lay the fate of "The Boy Who Killed."

Dumbledore inched his wand forward and sent a narrow beam of energy into the hall. It nudged the back of Arthur Weasley like the gentle prod of a finger, and the tall, flame-haired wizard turned about searchingly. Peering into a shadowed arch which the capering torchlight seemed to obfuscate rather than define, he spied the narrow strip of light at the edge of the door upon which the words MINISTER OF MAGIC shone in letters of buffed gold. A long, bony finger beckoned, and Arthur rose from his chair and entered the chamber, closing the door behind him.

"The Tribunal will be convening in ten minutes, Arthur," Dumbledore said, his eyes flickering toward the face of the antique grandfather clock standing by the doorway. "Will you kindly pop over to St. Mungo's and fetch Harry?"

Before Arthur could reply, a door slammed on the opposite side of Dumbledore's chamber, its handle still gripped by the white-knuckled hand of a thoroughly astonished Cornelius Fudge. He was dressed in the somber black robes of a member of the Tribunal. The lime-green bowler in his hand seemed quite absurd by contrast.

"Did I hear correctly, Albus? Harry Potter is not in his cell? What in Merlin's name are you thinking?"

"He is at his wife's bedside," Dumbledore said quietly. He nodded at Arthur, who edged past the former Minister of Magic and departed through the back door without a word.

His fingers caressing the rim of his bowler as a military man might fondle a riding crop, Fudge said stiffly, "I trust he is under guard, at least?"

"No," Dumbledore replied evenly. "He is not."

"Are you mad?" Fudge spat. "What's to stop him from escaping?"

With a deep sadness in his eyes, Dumbledore said, "Where can he go?"

Sitting in his chair by his beloved Hermione's bedside, Harry lay with his head on his wife's bosom, listening to her faint, almost non-existent breathing. Without that reassurance, he could not have told that she was still alive at all. The all but imperceptible rise and fall of her chest gave only the meagerest of comfort to a soul long since emptied of all such feeling. But it was the only thing he had to cling to. He had not left her side for three days, not eaten, not truly slept. Some believed he was endeavoring to pour his own strength into her body, or perhaps to magically siphon out the demons infesting her soul and absorb them into himself, thus freeing her from the unendurable horrors from which her mind must lock itself away or be destroyed forever.

As his head lay upon her breast, Harry's right hand gently stroked her bushy brown hair, which was spread out on her pillow like a chocolate waterfall. His left hand was making slow, almost reverent circles upon her abdomen. A footfall sounded behind him, and Harry quickly withdrew his hand from his wife's midsection and sought out her own hand, catching it up and caressing it with apparent adoration.

"I know, Harry," came a soft, sad voice from behind him.

Ginny Weasley pulled up a chair and sat beside Harry. She placed a hand on his shoulder, leaning in to press her cheek against his arm.

"She told me," Ginny went on, her hand rubbing Harry's shoulder and neck comfortingly. "The last time I saw her."

Fresh tears flowed over the dry tracks on Harry's cheeks. His hand released Hermione's and lay once more upon her abdomen. Ginny's arm tightened around Harry's neck.

It was common knowledge among their friends that the Potters had elected to postpone starting a family upon their marriage five years ago. Each had a career to nurture, and it was agreed that a few years of added maturity, not to say a few extra Galleons in their vault, should precede any plans to add to their household. With the practiced skill by which she had earned her reputation as the smartest witch at Hogwarts, Hermione had performed a Contraceptive Charm on herself the day before their wedding. This was no secret, and had, in fact, become the subject of much discussion and speculation as to when the Potters would finally "come with child."

However, the ensuing years found their situation much improved from the day of their marriage. With a larger flat and a fuller vault, they had finally decided that the time was right. In a jest of cosmic proportions, Hermione had negated the Contraceptive Charm and substituted a Fertility Charm only a week ago. The couple were to dine that evening at the best restaurant in Muggle London, dance the night away, and return to their flat for, in Harry's words, "a night to set the heavens ablaze." But on that very morning, Hermione was walking along an avenue in Hogsmeade when an elderly witch stumbled and fell, dropping her sack of groceries. A melon rolled into an alley, and Hermione, having first seen that the old witch was unhurt, went to fetch it. According to witnesses, she vanished the moment she touched the melon. The elderly witch disappeared a moment later, emitting, by one account, a drawling, malignant laugh that turned the listener's blood to ice.

Harry lifted his head and looked into Ginny's eyes, which were filling with tears forming a sad harmony with his own. She leaned in and hugged him, and he clung to her with what little strength was left to him.

"My wife...is carrying...Malfoy's...baby..." Harry choked. For there was no doubt in his mind that the Fertiity Charm, like every spell Hermione cast, had been successful. "Sh-she's -- "

Harry cried onto Ginny's shoulder until her robes were sodden. It took all of Ginny's resolve not to fall to pieces. She needed to be strong, for Harry.

"It doesn't have to be," Ginny said reassuringly. "There are -- potions -- Hermione doesn't -- "

"No," Harry said immediately, disengaging himself from Ginny's arms and jerking a sleeve across his eyes. "No. That's not an option. I'll not kill an innocent baby. The sins of the father will not be visited upon the child.

"But no one else can know," he said desperately. "It would get back to Narcissa."

Harry's throat tightened painfully, choking off further speech. But Ginny needed no elaboration. Deprived of both her husband and her son (and blaming Harry for the loss of both), Narcissa would defy Hell itself to claim Hermione's child -- her grandchild and only heir -- as her own. And her claim would be all too valid when Harry was sentenced and Hermione, for all intents and purposes, became a ward of the magical community. No longer the naive child, Ginny knew how the world worked, whether wizard or Muggle. Gold was the key that ultimately opened any door, the battering ram before which the most steadfast wall crumbled. Regardless of Harry's thoroughness in providing some sort of legal guardianship for Hermione in his absence, Ginny was certain that Narcissa would circumvent every barrier standing between her and her goal and win through in the end. She must not learn the truth! None save Ginny knew that the Contraceptive Charm had been supplanted. And she made a silent vow, on price of her life, that the secret would never pass her lips.

"Not even the Healers will suspect anything," Harry said numbly. "In this state, Hermione's body is virtually inert. The Stunner allows the body to generate just enough energy to keep it hovering on the razor's edge between life and death. The baby won't start developing until -- until she's -- "

Ginny felt Harry tremble violently under her touch. Only her determination to remain strong for his sake prevented her own body from shivering in like fashion. In her mind's eye, she could see Narcissa striding into the hospital with a signed order compelling the Healers to awaken Hermione, wipe her mind, and keep her body alive just long enough to bring the baby to full term. Once the child had been turned over to its grandmother, the shell of flesh that had once been the most brilliant witch of her generation would then be assigned a bed in the same ward as the Longbottoms, there to live out her existence in a state hardly above that of a Mimbulus Mimbletonia. That was assuming Narcissa did not find some way to elminiate her altogether, completing her triumph over Harry with horripilous finality. Fresh tears began to stream from her eyes, burning her freckled cheeks like acid.

"Is there no hope?" Ginny asked desperately. "With all the dozens of Memory Charms, isn't there one that will help Hermione?"

"Do you remember what they told us at Hogwarts about Memory Charms?" Harry said as he rubbed the corners of his eyes. His eyes burned from lack of sleep. It was hard to focus without his glasses. But it was easier for him to look on his wife without the clarity they brought. He could feel their weight in a pocket of his robes, where they had reposed for four days now.

Knitting the jumbled pieces of her mind as best she could, Ginny said, "I remember they told us that no Memory Charm is foolproof, if that's what you mean. Any Charm that one person can cast, another can negate. But who would want -- ?"

"There's more to it than that," Harry said. "A Memory Charm doesn't erase memory -- except for the Complete Obliviate, of course," he added with a brief shudder. "The Charm erects a wall between the conscious and the unconscious. And as you said, what one wizard can erect, another can tear down. When Professor Lockhart lost his memory in the Chamber of Secrets, it wasn't really gone, just blocked. Dumbledore said he had to 'go and get his memory back.' It took a long time, but he did. And Ministry members have selective Memory Charms placed on themselves so they won't give away important information, even unknowingly. But that didn't prevent Voldemort from breaking through Bertha Jorkins' Memory Charm and learning all about the Triwizard Tournament, and about Barty Crouch, Jr."

Harry rose on stiff legs, and punched his back a couple of times to relieve some of the stiffness he had accumulated over the past 72 hours. He faced Ginny, and the worry on her face was evident, even without his glasses to sharpen it.

"As I said, a Memory Charm is like a wall, and like any wall, it can be knocked down if sufficient force is brought to bear against it. But everyone assumes that that force must necessarily come from without. Very few consider that it can also be knocked down from within."

Ginny's eyes widened with realization.

"The human mind is a dynamo of determination, of free will," Harry said, speaking as though his wife's brain were directing his tongue from behind her motionless eyelids. "It doesn't like being circumscribed. Shackled, it responds by rebelling against its oppressor. Almost from the moment a Memory Charm is put in place, the unconscious mind starts trying to burst through that confining wall to rejoin the conscious. Usually, the spell is stronger than the mind, and the knowledge remains subdued. Usually. But sometimes, a memory is so powerful, it's like a monster beating its fists against a prison wall. Given enough time, that constant assault will knock that wall down. The memory will escape."

Ginny looked completely deflated. "I thought magic could do anything. It can petrify someone, put them into a coma -- " she spared a brief, tortured glance at the Stunned, near-lifeless form of Hermione, " -- even kill. (She pointedly avoided looking at Harry as she mouthed these last words.) Why can't it just put a wall around a horrible memory and lock it up forever?"

"It can," Harry said.

Ginny's head jerked up. "B-but," she stammered, "y-you just said -- "

"Magic," Harry said enigmatically, his eyes hard as the gems whose color they bore. "Magic. It's what separates wizards from Muggles. It's in our blood. At the risk of sounding like Malfoy," Harry laughed a short, bitter laugh, "magical blood does make a difference. Though not in the sense of that pureblood rubbish. Hermione has Muggle parents. But she's a witch. She has magical blood. It courses through her body. Through her brain."

Harry paused, and Ginny sat perfectly still, not knowing if she wanted him to continue or not.

"The Healers told me," Harry resumed, "that there are Memory Charms powerful enough to suppress any memory. Even one as terrible as Hermione's. There are only a few sorcerers with the skill to perform them. One lives just an owl-flight away, in Estonia. The hospital director told me all about him. Old mate of Dumbledore's, I think. He's been performing such Charms for a century. He's never known them to fail. He uses them on Muggles who've seen terrible things, like Death Eater attacks and troll rampages. Not one Muggle has ever broken through the spell. Not in a hundred years."

Ginny saw where Harry was going. "But Hermione isn't a Muggle. She's a witch."

"Magical blood," Harry said, "is like an antibody. It slows aging, allows us to fight off diseases. When the person of a wizard is attacked, either in body or in mind, it reacts like -- like white blood cells."

"Leukocytes," Ginny said automatically. Then, almost apologetically: "Hermione told me."

Harry smiled a genuine smile for a heartbeat. It faded quickly. "They told me that, if even such a Memory Charm as I've described were placed on Hermione, the magic in her blood would attack the barrier holding her memory back. It would be like an invisible war, magic against magic. Hermione's magic would attack the magic of the Charm like acid. Sooner or later, the barrier would dissolve. How soon, none can say. She'd be a walking time bomb. By the Healers' reckoning, when the explosion came, Hermione's mind would consume itself like dry parchment touched by a candle flame. There would be nothing left. Nothing."

Harry's voice choked off, but Ginny needed no further clarification. There was no Memory Charm so potent but that Hermione's powerful magical blood could shatter it to dust, releasing the memory of that terrible night -- which memory, the personnel of St. Mungo's agreed as one, would render Hermione irrevokably insane. Ginny's thoughts drifted back to the time when they had visited St. Mungo's after her father was attacked at the Ministry and left for dead. Following that visit, they had encountered first Gilderoy Lockhart, still addled from the Memory Charm that had backfired on him years earlier -- and Neville's parents, Frank and Alice Longbottom, their minds shattered from the ordeal they had endured at the hand of Bellatrix Lestrange.

Ginny felt a sudden chill. She had visited the Longbottoms any number of times since then, always in the company of Neville, with whom she had been dancing a sort of tentative "courtship tango" since her graduation from Hogwarts. Her innate compassion had always made it easy for her to sympathize with Neville over his parents' tragic state -- but until this moment, she had never quite experienced the same level of horror and despair that had been Neville's burden for more than two decades now. With the suddenness of an arrow piercing her heart, she understood at last the full measure of the haunted look that was always just below the surface of his bright, laughing eyes. She choked back a bitter laugh. How many times had she endeavored to comfort Neville with the reminder that it could be worse, that at least his parents were still alive? Her hand clutching tremblingly at the neck of her robes, Ginny knew now with a chill, dogmatic certitude that there were, in truth, fates far worse than mere death.

Ginny jumped at the unexpected sound of a light rapping on the door. She turned to see her father enter the hospital room, his face controlled beneath his high, balding forehead.

"It's time, Harry," Arthur said.

Harry nodded once. "Have the papers been filed, Arthur?"

"Yes," Arthur said. "Everything is in order. Just as you specified."

At Ginny's questioning look, Harry walked over and took her hand. "When I go to Azkaban," he said with icy calm, "your parents will become Hermione's guardians."

"But," Ginny said weakly, "the Grangers -- "

"No," Harry said. "They'd never understand. They'd call in Muggle doctors, waste thousands of pounds -- and more, waste countless years hoping -- hoping for something that -- " Harry broke off, releasing Ginny's hand to cover his face for a moment. "Besides," he said with a forced smile as his hand dropped heavily to his side, "maybe a miracle will happen. Who knows? If anyone can do it, it's -- Hermione -- she can do -- " Harry stifled a sob with a long, deep breath. His eyes embraced Ginny's pleadingly. "Take care of her," he said, and Ginny read in his eyes the addendum: "Both of them." Remembering Arthur's presence, Harry turned and said, "You -- all of you -- you're -- like the family I never had. There's no one else I'd trust to -- "

Ginny leaped up and fell upon Harry. As they clung to each other, Ginny sobbed, "Oh, Harry! I'm so afraid for you, going to that -- that horrible place!"

But when Harry pulled back, Ginny saw a strange calm pervading the emerald eyes that regarded her from a face at once youthful and tragically aged.

"I'm not afraid," he said as he saw Arthur beckoning with the open door upon which his hand rested with a sort of melancholy denouement. "What can they do to me? Dementors steal hope and happiness from people. The joke's on them, isn't it?" Harry's voice became a dry, hollow rasp. "I have none to give."

Author's Note: This story is now being posted exclusively at Portkey. FanFiction.Net saw fit to remove the story and place me on suspension. If that's the way they feel, I'm not going back. For all I care, they can take a niffler and stick where the sun don't shine. I guess we know now where Slytherin Squibs find work in the Muggle world, don't we?

Not that I don't acknowledge that this IS a powerful story, as witness the exodus of a few first-chapter reviewers. Still, I knew what I was letting myself in for. And this chapter doesn't seem to help matters, does it? What more can I possibly do to Harry? Anyone would think I'm a R/Hr shipper the way I'm torturing The Boy Who Killed -- er, Lived. But there IS a method to my madness, and I won't keep the readership waiting until the last chapter before the road takes a sharp turn toward sunnier skies. There's more than one surprise in store, allowing me to dole them out early and still leave the capper for the end.

Thanks to all who are enduring the misery. I promise not to twist the knife much longer. See you next week.

The dozens of torches lining the walls of the Hall of Justice could not entirely dispel the shadows lurking in the recesses of the high, arched ceiling. Glimpsed occasionally in the darkness overhead were dim, silvery outlines of ghosts -- shades of witches and wizards whose final destinies had been wrought by the pronouncements issued from this solemn chamber. It was their custom to gather at such times as this, eager to see if their number were to be increased by the judgment rendered below.

The Minister of Magic sat in an ancient, high-backed chair that was chased with gold and carved with symbols and images representing an age lost to history books, surviving only in tales and legends told in furtive whispers behind locked doors. The Minister's black velvet robes were now surmounted by a cape of deep purple. The long, tapering fingers of his right hand were folded around the shaft of a silver scepter, its head set with rubies that gleamed in the torchlight like droplets of frozen blood. The flickering light likewise reflected from the Minister's noble features, which were somber, almost funereal. His long, silver beard and hair were tinged with amber, and the dancing flames were reflected in the lenses of his half-moon spectacles like tiny, flickering stars.

In all the great hall, none save the Minister was seated. Hundreds of faces looked to him expectantly. Only at the Minister's direction was any permitted to sit. The Minister was reading a scroll of parchment spread upon his bench, held at the top by his left hand and anchored at the bottom by the crown of his scepter. The Minister read every word on the parchment carefully before his head bobbed once, as if in acknowledgment of the pronouncement written thereon. He released the parchment, which snapped back into a roll. He placed it to his left before rising to his full height atop the raised dais. With a quick, practiced eye, he surveyed the assembly of witches and wizards who filled the hall to the farthest corner.

To the left of his bench stood the Council of Peers -- an amalgam of a Muggle jury and the British Parliament's House of Commons. It was comprised of ordinary wizarding folk who had been summoned at random to serve as an impartial body to render judgment from a perspective roughly equal to that of the accused.

Their counterpart stood on the Minister's right: The Council of Ministers. This was made up of officials from the Ministry of Magic, serving in a capacity as to represent the higher aspects of the wizarding world.

The walls of the hall proper were lined with polished wooden benches, each filled to bursting with spectators. The first two rows on either side were designated for those who bore some personal stake in the proceedings. From her place in the first row on the left, a severe-looking woman with silver-blond hair tugged a black silk cape around her predatory shoulders, looking poisoned daggers alternately at the Minister's bench and at a long table standing just before the high dais upon which the former sat. On the other side of the chamber, the first row was a sea of blazing red hair from near end to far. Their eyes were likewise upon either the long table or the Minister's bench; but whereas Narcissa Malfoy's eyes were chips of soul-chilling ice, the eyes of every member of the Weasley family were soft and compassionate, though tinged with the unmistakable glaze of fear and dread.

Two rows of short tables, divided by a central aisle, sat behind the longer one. Here were gathered representatives from wizarding publications across the world, foreign counterparts of the Daily Prophet, each eager to bring its readers first-hand news of the biggest story since the final defeat of the Dark Lord. The reporter for the Daily Prophet stood at the first table on the right, a Quick-Quotes Quill poised quiveringly atop a sheet of parchment that was held in place by two-inch fingernails painted a lurid crimson.

Minister Dumbledore extended his arms, the silver scepter still held in his right hand, and bowed ceremonially. The spectators all sat. Only the figures at the long table remained standing. The Minister, himself still erect, turned his eyes upon the pair unwinkingly.

"Are you ready to hear the judgment of the Tribunal?" Dumbledore said auspiciously. "Mr. Potter? Mr. Weasley?"

Arthur nodded and said, "Yes, Minister." Harry's eyes remained fixed on the surface of the table. Another Minister might have taken this as an affront to his dignity and authority -- certainly Cornelius Fudge would have, to judge from the sour look of disapproval he flashed from his place in the front row of the Council of Ministers. But Dumbledore merely nodded, accepting Arthur Weasley's words as representing the accused as well as himself.

Ordinarily, Arthur would have been seated alongside Fudge and the other Ministers. But he had excused himself on grounds of partiality, freeing him to assume his present role as Harry's counsel. As Arthur looked on, Dumbledore retrieved the scroll of parchment from his bench, setting aside his ritual scepter. He unrolled the parchment and read in a voice that carried to the farthest corner of the hall.

"In the case of the peoples of the magical community of Great Britain versus Harry Potter," Dumbledore said slowly, "the Tribunal has rendered judgment on the two charges levelled against the accused.

"The first charge: Murder."

A low rumble of murmurs swept the gallery, punctuated by occasional gasps and sobs from those assembled in support of Harry, and offset by hisses and other derisive noises from those surrounding Narcissa Malfoy.

"Wizarding law," Dumbledore stated, "is steeped in ancient tradition. One of the oldest of these, upheld in countless thousands of cases, is the Right of Vengeance. Any witch or wizard who has been wronged by another is recognized to have the right to exact toll in direct proportion to the degree of the original offense. A governing body may not infringe upon this right. The Ministry of Magic, and this Tribunal which is its appointed agent, shall render verdict only insofar as the act of vengeance may exceed the scope of the offense.

"Given the heinous nature of the crime perpetrated upon the wife of the accused, this body has ruled that the degree of vengeance imposed by the accused was, and is, within the parameters of equanimity. Therefore, in response to the charge of murder, we the Tribunal find the accused, Mr. Harry Potter -- not guilty."

Screams of outrage reverberated from the left side of the chamber, smothering the sobs and prayerful thanks coming from the other side, primarily from the Weasleys.

Throwing her silk cloak down savagely, her face a mask of volcanic fury, Narcissa shrieked, "That piece of filth murdered my son! Is this what you call JUSTICE, you damned Mudblood-loving -- "

But Narcissa Malfoy's words were cut off as three security wizards immediately pointed their wands at her. Though her own wand was presently locked in a storage area adjoining the main chamber, confiscated along with everyone else's for reasons of security, she made an instinctive move to draw it that was nearly her undoing. The ranking security wizard, acting on reflex, shot red sparks across her right shoulder. Her hand froze, her pale eyes simmering like white-hot ash. Had her hand gone so far as to disappear inside her robes, she would no doubt be Stupefied at this very moment. She opened her mouth, no doubt to hurl some rebuke, but the wizards all pointed their wands at her head. Did she but utter one sound, she harbored no doubt that one or more of the guards would use a Silencing Charm on her without hesitation. She closed her mouth with as much dignity as she could salvage and lifted her eyes in a gesture of regal dismissal. The security wizards pocketed their wands and returned to their stations without a word.

Dumbledore, having waited patiently for the restoration of calm, returned his attention to the scroll in his hands.

"The second charge," he resumed in a noticably heavier voice than before, "may, in fact, be viewed as the greater of the two: Willful use of Dark Magic and/or inhuman employment of magic upon the person of a human being."

The elation Arthur Weasley had evidenced at the reading of the first verdict melted away, to be replaced with a cold, nameless dread. Swallowing dryly, he stood resolutely beside Harry, whose face was set in stone.

"Vengeance," Dumbledore said meaningfully, " Must not and shall not become a license for good witches and wizards to descend into the Abyss. For how can we in all good conscience oppose the forces of Darkness if we can abase ourselves by employing those same vile forces when it suits our purpose?

"It is true that the Ministry has, in times past, granted Special Dispensation to the Aurors to employ Dark Magic against our enemies, most recently in the war against Lord Voldemort." More than a few gasps of horror followed Dumbledore's voicing of the name. "This must not, however, be seen as a wedge to be used to prop open the door to Hell. For as long as I may be priveleged to sit upon this bench, the employment of magic for inhuman purposes will not be sanctioned upon British soil.

"Therefore, as regards the second charge, this Tribunal has no recourse but to find Mr. Potter -- guilty as charged."

The renewed sobbing from the right side was now become wails of torment. Ginny and Molly wept openly, as did many of Harry's schoolmates (of either gender) who sat in the row above the Weasleys. On the other side of the chamber, Narcissa Malfoy made no sound. But her cold, grey eyes were triumphant as they regarded her son's killer with a savage satisfaction.

The scroll of parchment returned once more to the surface of his bench, Dumbledore asked, "Has the defendant anything to say for the record before this Tribunal is adjourned?"

At last Harry raised his head, lifting his eyes until they met those of his teacher, mentor and friend. They spoke clearly, without benefit of words. Dumbledore nodded, smiling wanly from beneath his silver moustaches.

"Court will reconvene one week from today, at which time sentence will be pronounced. This Tribunal is adjourned."

Black-robed wizards appeared on either side of Harry, pointing their wands. Manacles materialized out of thin air, binding his wrists and ankles.

"Is that necessary, Minister?" Arthur asked respectfully.

"Now that judgment has been passed," Dumbledore said, "procedure must be followed. Not even the Minister of Magic can supercede the law. I am truly sorry, Harry."

To everyone's surprise, Harry's face shone with a smile reflecting a tranquility of spirit that was inconceivable to any save the old wizard before whom he stood.

"You've been a good friend, Albus," Harry said. "The dementors permitting, I'll never forget you.

"Nor you, Arthur," he added with a glance over his shoulder as the guards escorted him from the chamber. "If I don't see you again, thank you -- for everything."

Doing his best to block out Ginny Weasley's heart-wrenching sobs, Harry exited the Hall of Judgment, flanked by his guards. Looking straight ahead, he did not see the silent tears streaking the faces of Albus Dumbledore and Arthur Weasley. And it was, perhaps, better that way.

Author's Note: I'm accelerating the posting schedule a bit to accomodate some prearranged madness next month. Following a brief pause, more stories will be forthcoming after this one is completed. I'd prefer more time to proof each chapter, but I hope I can limp along without too many overlooked potholes going unfilled.

I continue to be amazed at the response this story is generating. Even the negative feedback is flattering in its way; I suppose it's better than being ignored altogether.

The next chapter, five of nine, is the keystone, both in number and in plot. I hope those of you who are still suffering from the previous chapters' slings and arrows will bind up your wounds and have another go. Until then, thanks for reading.

Dumbledore sat in an upholstered chair in his study, which room was part of his living quarters at the Ministry of Magic. Befitting its designation, it was lined with shelves of books, many of which were of an age to make the room's occupant seem a babe in swaddling clothes by comparison. It was cluttered as a room can only be which is the habitation of an unmarried and eccentric man. Quaint artifacts and curious magical objects littered nearly every square centimeter. The overflowing mantel above the stone fireplace would not have been out of place in Borgin and Burkes' curio shop in Knockturn Alley.

Dumbledore sat with his legs crossed, a large and very old book balanced on his knee. He was reading by the light of a magical window that was enchanted to duplicate the conditions one would normally see if that window were set in a tower high above ground rather than here in the deepest recesses of the Ministry. So immersed was he in the scratchy, faded writing on the yellowed pages that he seemed unaware of the rapping upon his chamber door. It was only when he stopped reading long enough to turn a page that he heard the sound for the first time. With a self-chastising smile on his bearded lips, he waved his hand in the direction of the door. The magical lock clicked, and the door opened to reveal three figures. Two tall, burly wizards in somber black robes flanked a third, smaller figure. The two Ministry guards both had their wands pointed at the smaller man, even though this one was shackled hand and foot and gave no appea rance of resisting in any way.

"Enter," Dumbledore said, marking his place with an ornate linen bookmark before closing the book, which remained on his lap. As the three figures approached, the Minister waved his hand again. Immediately the manacles vanished from the prisoner. The guards fidgeted nervously.

"Is -- is that wise, Minister?" one guard questioned in a manner both challenging and deferential. It was a gift that had served him well in many years of service with the Ministry.

"Mr. Potter will be no trouble, I assure you," Dumbledore smiled at each guard in turn. "You may leave us."

Not daring to question the Minister of Magic a second time in so short an interval, the guard bowed and left the study with his black-robed counterpart. Dumbledore re-locked the door with another wave of his hand.

An empty chair, similar to Dumbledore's, stood near at hand, and Harry expected to be invited to sit. Instead, the old wizard gave him a penetrating look before patting the book on his knee and saying, "Come, Harry. I wish to show you something."

Harry approached so as to be able to look over Dumbledore's shoulder. He watched as the long, tapering fingers opened the book once more and moved the linen bookmark aside.

"Did you know, Harry," Dumbledore said as if in casual conversation, "that the library at Hogwarts is the most complete repository of magical knowledge in all of Britain? It is my understanding that it is among the ten best in the world."

Harry nodded, as was evidently expected of him. He knew he was to be sentenced today -- in less than one hour, to be precise. He supposed that Dumbledore had summoned him here so as to spare him the shock of hearing the pronouncement in the public venue of the Hall of Justice, allowing him to absorb the news in a calmer environment before it was made official. It was a consideration, a dignity, few save Dumbledore would have bestowed, and Harry was grateful.

But if this were so, why did Dumbledore seem so -- detached? Dumbledore's compassion was well-documented, even did Harry not know of it first-hand. It was quite unlike the old wizard, whatever his eccentricities, to string him along in so careless a manner. However, Harry had long since resigned himself to his fate, whatever it might be. The burden on his soul was so great that Harry found he had neither the strength nor the curiosity to pursue the mystery. Thus, when Dumbledore tapped a long, bony finger purposefully upon the surface of the page opened before him, Harry leaned in attentively, adjusting his glasses for effect.

"In the Hall of Judgment," Dumbledore was saying, "I spoke of wizarding law being rooted in tradition. I began to wonder, therefore: How did the wizarding world deal with -- what is the appropriate term? -- ah, yes -- social misfits -- before the construction of Azkaban? Oh, to be sure, most everyone knows that, in the most extreme cases, witches and wizards were executed, most often by hanging. But what sort of punishment was levied in the less extreme cases? The question began to consume me, and I knew I could not rest until I discovered the answer. So I fell back on an axiom of one of my best and most favorite students: When in doubt, consult a book.

Harry's heart pulsed with a stab of white-hot pain. He could not fail to recognize the axiom in question as a favorite of Hermione's, quoted by her more times than he could remember. For a moment, Harry was stung by the old wizard's seemingly cavalier reference to the woman who lay insensate in her bed at St. Mungo's. But the pain in his heart melted as he noted the reverence in Dumbledore's voice, the tenderness in his pale blue eyes, at this fondly undisguised allusion. If none loved Hermione so deeply as did Harry, there was yet no shortage of those whose hearts embraced her as wholly as if she were part and parcel of their own souls; and of those, Harry knew, none felt the pain of her absence more than Dumbledore.

Dumbledore was now tapping his finger emphatically upon the page, calling Harry's attention to a certain paragraph. Harry leaned in, careful not to block the magic sunlight streaming from the enchanted window.

"For three days and three nights I searched, Harry," Dumbledore said with a note of quiet triumph in his soft voice. "And my search was rewarded. With this."

Dumbledore adjusted his half-moon spectacles before tilting the book slightly so that Harry had a clear view of the indicated paragraph. Harry's eyes narrowed. Even in the bright "morning" light, the letters were hard to distinguish. What he'd thought at first was Old English was, he now realized, something alien, a sort of bastardization of English and Gaelic, with something else, something unrecognizable, thrown in. The letters were faded in places, rubbed thin in others, as if by the fingers of academicians who lived and died a thousand years before he was born. For Harry strongly suspected that this book was among the first placed in the Hogwarts library by one or another of its four founders more than a millenium past. Harry tried his best to read the writing, but it was a hopeless exercise. Seeing the confusion in Harry's eyes, Dumbledore chuckled apologetically.

"Forgive me, Harry. I read and speak so many languages that I often forget. If you will permit me."

Dumbledore set the book squarely before him and regarded Harry from the corner of his eye.

"As you may have guessed, Harry, this book is very ancient -- more than one thousand years old. It is written in a language that was once common amongst the magical peoples of the British Isles, but is now all but forgotten. The grammar and syntax are a bit ponderous, so you will forgive me if I paraphrase.

"In the days before the magical world was governed by rules of order, punishments were often extreme and severe. Magical folk believed that the world was meant to be shared by wizards and Muggles, in a harmony of peace and understanding; consequently, any misuse of magic was seen as a threat not only to the magical community, but to civilization as a whole. Any witch or wizard who was judged to be a threat to the general order was deemed unfit to practice magic. But how enforce such a plebiscite? There was as yet no suitable means of isolating an anti-social wizard from the world. Prisons such as Azkaban, and its inevitable foreign counterparts, were not yet conceived. Execution was often the only recourse. Snapping a wizard's wand was a temporary solution at best, as one could always find a way to steal another's wand. A skilled wizard could even fashion his own wand by plucking a unicorn tail hair and encasing it in wood. It would not be the equal of an Ollivander's wand, but in the wrong hands it could still do terrible things. Distasteful though it was to decent magical folk, execution seemed the only viable solution.

"That is, until the Mortalis Potion was devised."

Dumbledore surveyed Harry over the rims of his spectacles. Genuine curiosity was growing in Harry's eyes, struggling through his dispassionate mantle. The old wizard smiled.

"The Mortalis Potion," Dumbledore said, "was one of the most complex -- and dangerous -- potions ever created. It had the power to destroy forever a wizard's magical blood. For all intents and purposes, the drinker became a Muggle. He was then cast out, made an eternal exile from the wizarding world. This sentence was irrevokable, for the effects of the potion were permanent and irreversible. The condemned would live out the remainder of his life as a Muggle. It was seen as the perfect solution -- no pun intended."

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled briefly before they clouded over, becoming dark as shadowed sapphires.

"Unfortunately," he said heavily, "it was an extremely difficult potion to brew. Many weeks of intense preparation were required, involving dozens of steps. If but a single one of these steps went awry, even to the slightest degree -- " Dumbledore paused for emphasis, " -- the potion became a deadly poison, resulting in a most horrible and painful death for whoever partook of it.

"This was, of course, of little moment to those passing judgment. For either outcome would rid the magical world of an unwanted pariah. The magical world as a whole was ignorant of this, else there might have been a public outcry and general chaos. Abberations such as Tom Riddle to the contrary, wizarding society has always viewed any form of violence with disdain, even in situations where it might serve a greater good. But as the coming generations saw the formation of the Ministry of Magic, a renaissance of sorts swept the wizarding world. Azkaban was conceived and built, executions were phased out, and the Mortalis Potion was ultimately abandoned and forgotten, relegated to vague, half-remembered fables -- and, of course, to rare and ancient books such as this."

Dumbledore closed the book on his lap slowly and looked up at Harry. Eyes of crystal blue pierced those of emerald green. It was suddenly as if Harry had been hit with the Jelly-Legs Curse. He caught himself on the arm of Dumbledore's chair, and the old wizard quickly Summoned the empty chair on his right with a wave of his hand so that it bumped against the backs of Harry's legs. Harry fell limply onto the cushions and sat for a full minute, drawing slow, measured breaths. When his breathing seemed normal again, Dumbledore leaned forward and placed a hand upon the arm of Harry's chair.

"The choice is yours, Harry. The privelege of my office allows me this latitude. The prescribed sentence is no doubt as you may have expected: A life term in Azkaban, with no consideration of parole for a minimum of fifty years."

Harry sighed heavily, yet not without resolve, Dumbledore noted.

"If the potion does kill me," Harry said listlessly, "at least it'll all be over. I know Arthur and Molly will take good care of Hermione. They couldn't love her more if she were their own daughter. As far as my own options go, I remember what Sirius told me about his years in Azkaban, how the dementors only steal happy thoughts. The dark thoughts remain and fester in the soul. Given the thoughts I'm likely to experience in Azkaban, I almost hope the bloody stuff does kill me."

Nodding once, Dumbledore said, "I anticipated your decision, Harry. The potion is ready now. You need only sign this release form."

Harry saw that Dumbledore was now holding a piece of parchment and a quill in one hand, a bottle of ink in the other, all no doubt Summoned from his writing desk while Harry's attention was distracted. Harry took parchment and quill, availed himself of the open bottle of ink Dumbledore held out for him, and signed. He did not bother reading the form. He had trusted Dumbledore with his life too often in the past to doubt him at this late hour.

Dumbledore rose from his chair and walked to his desk. He opened a drawer, took out an object which Harry sluggishly recognized as an official Ministry stamp with a long wooden handle. Dumbledore stamped the official Ministry seal on the parchment, affixed it magically with a wave of his wand, then returned parchment, quill, ink and stamp to the drawer and closed it. This done, he waved a hand at a small door on the other side of his study. Harry had taken scant notice of this door, which was shadowed and nearly hidden by the wall of books shouldering it on either side. The door opened on silent hinges.

"Enter, please, Severus," Dumbledore said.

Harry was nearly jerked out of his lethargy. Severus Snape entered the study, looking exactly as Harry remembered him from school, from the malevolent glint in his black eyes to the disdainful sneer curling his lip. Snape glided across the room as Dumbledore left his desk to intercept and greet him. Dumbledore extended his hand, and Snape took it.

"Thank you, Severus," Dumbledore said as Harry, his knees still too weak to permit him to rise, looked up at the two wizards, each as different from the other as if they had been birthed in separate universes.

"Minister," Snape said formally with a brief, respectful nod.

With no further ado, Snape reached into his bat-like robes and produced a brass flask that gleamed dully in the morning light. Nodding solemnly, Dumbledore Summoned a pewter goblet from a cabinet that was mounted above a rack of dusty bottles of wine, each of which was of a vintage to humble the finest cellars in Europe. He handed the goblet to Snape, who pulled the stopper from the flask and poured a measure of potion with a practiced eye.

"Drink it all, Potter," Snape commanded, thrusting the goblet at Harry violently. Harry took the goblet, appraised its smoking contents, then looked up and smiled with stony amusement.

"Going to watch me die, Snape?" Harry said blandly. "Albus tells me that death is both painful and horrible."

"Only if the potion is brewed improperly," Snape returned with a cruel smile spreading beneath his hooked nose. "As to that, we shall see, shan't we?"

Snape made no attempt to disguise a mordant leer as Harry raised the goblet and drained it in two gulps.

Instantly, it was as if liquid fire were coursing through Harry's veins. He pitched out of his chair and fell writhing to the floor. Harry had not felt such agony since the night when Voldemort had placed him under the Cruciatus Curse in the graveyard in Little Hangleton. Lights exploded behind his eyes, which were squeezed tight as knotted fists, blinding his brain. A roaring in his ears drowned out all sound save his own strangled cries, which seemed magnified a thousandfold. His flesh felt as if it had been doused in lamp oil and set alight. Let me die! Harry's mind screamed. No more! Please, let me die! Then, blissfully, everything went black.

Harry opened his eyes suddenly, fully aware. He was on the hearth before the fireplace, curled into a ball. If his mind were unaffected by his ordeal, the same could not be said for his body. He was tingling from the top of his head to the tips of his fingers and toes. He felt burning sensations that spoke of wrenched joints and strained muscles, easily recognized from seven years of no-holds-barred Quidditch matches at Hogwarts. As he essayed to unfold his stiff, knotted limbs, he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Can you stand, Harry?"

Although Dumbledore's question registered instantly on his brain, his body seemed reluctant to comply. Dumbledore reached down and took Harry's arm, and Harry found himself being lifted to his feet by a strength which, coming from Dumbledore's thin, spare body, seemed more magical than anything wrought by the old wizard's wand. Harry straightened slowly until he was standing erect. Dumbledore released him tentatively, and Harry was relieved to discover that he could stand unaided, if shakily.

"Not dead, I see," Dumbledore chuckled, though the jest was lost on Harry. But before Harry could ponder whatever subtext Dumbledore's remark might conceal, the latter reached into his robes and drew forth his wand. Or so Harry thought until it was pressed into his own still-tingling hand. Even with fingers that felt as if they were clad in thick woolen gloves, Harry could still recognize the feel of his familiar holly-and-phoenix-feather wand.

"One final test," Dumbledore said. "In the course of your convulsions, you dropped your goblet over by your chair. Kindly Summon it for me, if you would?"

Obeying without a thought, Harry pointed his wand at the fallen goblet and said, "Accio!"

The goblet did not move.

"Again, Harry," Dumbledore said. "Clear your mind. Concentrate. Focus your will with all your might."

"ACCIO!" Harry barked, his wand thrust fiercely before him. The goblet remained motionless in steadfast defiance of Harry's magical command. With what seemed to Harry a very pleased and triumphant smile on his face, Dumbledore took Harry's wand back and returned it to his robes.

"Well done, Severus," Dumbledore said. Harry turned, having forgotten that Snape was present at all.

"Thank you, Minister," Snape said crisply, clearly enjoying his own portion of victory which was his due.

"When can you administer the remainder of the potion?" Dumbledore asked, ill-suppressing the eagerness in his voice.

"Within the hour, Minister. I took the liberty of making the arrangements in advance."

"Excellent!" Dumbledore fairly exhulted.

"I -- don't understand," Harry said. "What -- remainder?"

"I asked Severus to brew up two portions of the Mortalis Potion, Harry," Dumbledore said. "With all apologies to our esteemed Potions Master, I preferred to witness the effects of the first portion with my own eyes before I would authorize the administering of the second."

"B-but," Harry stammered, "there's no need for a second dose. The potion worked. I'm...I'm a...Muggle."

"So you are," Dumbledore agreed cheerfully. "And now that you have demonstrated that the potion is indeed safe, I will sign the authorization which Severus will take with him to St. Mungo's. With that parchment in hand, he will be empowered to administer the second portion immediately -- to Hermione."

Harry stood for a moment as the full impact of Dumbledore's words struck him with a force greater than the Hungarian Horntail that had nearly knocked him from his broomstick during the first task of the Triwizard Tournament. With a strangled sob, Harry fell to his knees, tears streaming down his face.

"God in Heaven," he croaked before his throat seized into an incoherent gurgle. Completely overcome, Harry buried his face in his hands and cried like a baby.

Author's Note: The posting complications I mentioned last time are accelerating, which may result in a gap of a few weeks between a couple of the later chapters. Fortunately, THIS chapter's knockout punch has been delivered without mishap. Now that the angst has been relieved, the remaining four chapters will focus on the more positive slant which so many reviewers craved. That's not to say that questions do not remain; but if some of the answers are delayed, at least the pressure is officially off.

Thanks to all who hung on this far. The drama (less turbulent, but drama nonetheless) continues next time in a chapter called: The Chains We Forge. See you then.

Note From Fae Princess: Hi, everyone! **waves enthusiastically from the computer chair** I'm Stoneheart's official posting girl -- though that might soon come to a stop (which actually makes me sad ... but what can you do?) As for the posting problems which are, unfortunately, coming sooner than we expected, I'm at fault for that as well. (Sorry!) Anyway, I'm going to B.C (**sigh** sunny, beautiful, British Columbia!) to be there for the birth of my best friend's baby. I leave next weekened! (Whoa, I can't wait). Anyway, sorry everyone. I'm going to go now, since my note is about as long as Stoneheart's. Leave a review for him (he certainly deserves it -- that boy works so hard) and I'll see you when I return.

Harry sat at his wife's bedside, his hand massaging hers. He blinked repeatedly, his eyes stinging from the powdery ash that fell in traces from his hair. (This was true as far as it went, and in Harry's opinion it was as much as the personnel of St. Mungo's needed to know.) No more able to Apparate (and portkeys being strictly regulated by the Ministry), he had used the Floo system to come to St. Mungo's immediately following the adjournment of the court. The sentencing had taken less than five minutes, the pronouncement (along with the Minister's testimony regarding Harry's "demotion" from wizard to Muggle) being recorded for the Ministry files and signed by Dumbledore in front of witnesses. In like manner, the Minister then produced Harry's wand and snapped it in full view. The gunshot-like sound had pierced Harry very nearly as an actual bullet through the chest. The image of the crumpled phoenix feather protruding from the splintered wand ends was burned into the back of his mind. It was a "death" he would mourn in another, more convenient venue. For the present, Harry had other, far more critical concerns.

Harry removed his glasses to wipe them clean of a fine layer of ash. He almost regretted putting them on again. The clear lenses brought out every smallest detail of Hermione's face. The tiny traces of her once severe wounds were clearly visible from so near, like bird tracks on a field of otherwise pristine snow. Harry comforted himself with the knowledge that the Healers at the hospital would be able to remove every trace of them, once the Stunning Spell were lifted. The spells and potions were effective only in concert with the body's normal healing functions, which were dormant in her present comatose state.

Harry saw a shadow fall across Hermione's face, and he recognized its outline without difficulty.

"What will the procedure be?" Harry asked without looking up.

Madam Zorgas reached out a large hand and lay it with feather lightness upon Hermione's forehead, gently brushing aside strands of chestnut hair. Madam Zorgas was the attending Healer, assigned to Hermione from the moment of her arrival. She was easily as large as the most ferocious security guard Harry had encountered in the Ministry prison, but she had the kindest face he had seen this side of Molly Weasley. There was a smell as of potion ingredients clinging to her hand, and her pearl-gray robes were splattered with droplets of varying colors and textures. She was doubtless engaged in preparing the very potions which would be used to restore Hermione to her former state of vigor which she had enjoyed prior to the tragic events of two weeks ago. (Had it really been two weeks? To Harry's spinning mind, it all seemed now like a terrible nightmare from which he had only just awakened.) When next Hermione examined her face in the mirror with her typical critical eye, she would find no trace of the brutal attack on her person that had very nearly written the premature final chapter to her young and promising life. That life was now returned to her as if nothing had happened to interrupt its smooth, immutable flow. But, Harry mused disconsolately, what of its former promise? What of that?

"Simple enough," Madam Zorgas answered. She withdrew her hand from Hermione's face and produced her wand from a pocket of her robes. "We will first negate the Stunning Spell, whereupon she will be placed under the Imperius Curse."

Harry nodded without looking up. He knew, as did most every informed witch or wizard, that the head of the hospital could authorize use of the Imperius in extreme cases. Hermione's surely qualified if any did.

"She will fight it, of course," Madam Zorgas said resolutely. "A strong mind can always fight the Imperius -- (Again Harry nodded, remembering his own success in fighting off the Curse in a classroom exercise a seeming lifetime ago.) -- and she presently has some very powerful emotions struggling to escape. But we will only need a minute. Once the Mortalis Potion has been administered -- and the effects have -- subsided -- " Harry detected a barely-suppressed shudder of deep regret in Madam Zorgas' voice, " -- Herr Kleinhorst will administer the Memory Charm. Once he received our owl, he was only too eager to come. Fear not, Mr. Potter. His reputation is unsurpassed. His Memory Charms never fail."

Harry was grateful beyond words that Herr Kleinhorst had come all the way from Estonia to treat Hermione. It was his understanding that Professor Flitwick had studied under the old wizard following his graduation from Hogwarts, and Flitwick's mastery in the art of Charms was itself the stuff of legends. But his present concern was the Mortalis Potion.

"Does she...have to go through the pain?" Harry asked mournfully. It had been unspeakable agony for him, but he would gladly have endured it a hundred times over to spare his beloved this one exposure.

"Yes, Potter," came a hissing reply. The door stood open, the back light silhouetting the bat-like outline of Severus Snape. He held a smoking goblet in his hand. "There is no other way. It is no easy process to burn magic from one's blood. And I'm sure the Minister has informed you that any modification results in the potion becoming lethal."

"The pain will pass, Harry," came another voice that spoke in soothing tones. Snape stood aside to allow Dumbledore to enter. "And is it such a high price to pay for Hermione's life and sanity?"

"No," Harry agreed quietly, caressing his wife's motionless hand. "Not such a high price at all."

Harry sat in the waiting room, far enough away that he could not hear Hermione's screams, either from her reawakened memories or from the effects of the Mortalis Potion.

Harry covered his face with his hands and wept in a kind of bitter ecatasy. Only a few hours ago, all had seemed hopeless. Now, it was as if the sun were rising on a new day. Once the Mortalis Potion had taken effect, Herr Kleinhorst would administer the Memory Charm. Every moment of Hermione's terrible ordeal would be locked behind walls of metaphorical steel. And without magical blood to assail those walls, they would endure indefinitely. For Hermione, it would be as though the last two weeks had never happened. Her physical wounds would be healed by ordinary spells and potions. No trace of the nightmare would remain.

Except that -- Harry shuddered -- Hermione would no longer be a witch. His eyes fell upon his wristwatch. Hermione would have been given the Mortalis Potion by now. Harry's head fell into his hands. His beloved wife, the brightest star in the wizarding firmament, was now, like Harry himself, a Muggle. Their life in the wizarding world was ended forever. How would she react to the news? Though born to Muggle parents, Hermione had come into her own at Hogwarts. From the first day they met, on the Hogwarts Express, magic came as naturally to her as breathing. Harry wept silently. He would gladly have spent a century in Azkaban to spare her this day.

A light footfall roused him. Harry raised his eyes to see the kindly face of Albus Dumbledore as he entered the waiting room.

"It is over, Harry," Dumbledore said with a smile pale as moonlight on his aged face. "Hermione is sleeping peacefully now. She was given a Dreamless Sleep Potion by Madam Zorgas, who is now attending to her physical wounds. When she awakes, she will remember nothing."

"How will we explain -- everything," Harry said weakly.

"A story has been prepared," Dumbledore said as he seated himself beside Harry, "to which all involved will attest henceforth." Clearing his throat, Dumbledore recited: "Hermione has fallen victim to a rare malady that has caused her to become allergic to magic. In order to save her life, there was no recourse but to neutralize completely the magic in her blood. Furthermore, prolonged exposure to magic of any sort, even to association with those possessing magical blood, will result in a recurrance of the allergy, and, ultimately, her death. For this reason, she is left with no option but to leave the magical world forever. In order that the two of you might remain together, you volunteered to undergo the same procedure so as to share her exile. Had you not done so, the magic in your blood would have poisoned her as readily as her own would have. That is what she will be told, Harry. And for the sake of her health and san ity, that is what she must believe."

Harry nodded heavily. The truth, of course, was that exposure to any form of magic would slowly erode the magical barrier blocking Hermione's terrible ordeal from her conscious mind. To prevent this, Harry must take Hermione away from the world she so loved, and which had returned that love in kind. Harry's soul wept inwardly at this, which spiritual tears mingled with the substantial tears of joy he could not help but shed at her return from the literal precipice of doom.

"Hermione will know nothing of the trial?" Harry said painfully. "Of -- what I did?"

"She will never know," Dumbledore said. "We have gone so far as to prepare false editions of the Daily Prophet for the past two weeks. Previous experience has told us it will be among the first things she will ask for during her convalescence."

"What about -- after?" Harry said. "If I know Hermione, she'll want a subscription to the Prophet so she can keep up on the magical world. And if we try to dissuade her, it will only make her suspicious."

"So it will," Dumbledore agreed brightly. "And with that in mind, I have already spoken to the publisher of the Daily Prophet. All copies sent to you in your new life will be edited to omit any mention of the Malfoys and -- ahem -- related events. And in the event that she elects to request other wizarding publications, such as Witch Weekly, similar arrangements will me made."

"That will prove a bit of a bother, won't it?" Harry postulated. "I mean, to print up a special edition every day for just one subscriber?"

"The editors' consensus was that it is a very small price for the peace and security the wizarding world has enjoyed since the destruction of Lord Voldemort," Dumbledore said cheerfully.

Harry nodded. Though elated by Hermione's impending recovery, yet Harry felt a great weight on his soul. Dumbledore read in his eyes what his mouth could not put into words.

"In time," Dumbledore said kindly, "you will forgive yourself, Harry. In time."

"I killed a human being, Albus," Harry said, his eyes unable to meet the old wizard's. "Nothing I do, no amount of remorse, can ever erase that."

"No," Dumbledore said. "It is a burden you will carry with you forever. To paraphrase Dickens, we all wear the chains we forge for ourselves. But I pray you not to allow those chains to bind you so tightly that you cannot spread your wings and fly as high as they may carry you. Even a wizard's days are not without number. Use the days left to you to make the world a better place. Be not bound by the past, Harry. Learn from it. We are none of us without flaw. Until that day when we are all judged by a Higher Power, we can only strive to do the best we possibly can not to repeat the mistakes of the past. Look to the future, Harry. Yours and Hermione's."

"Can I see her now?" Harry said hopefully. "I know she won't know I'm there. But I want to be with her when she wakes up. I want to -- tell her myself."

"I believe that would be best," Dumbledore agreed. As Harry moved toward the corridor, Dumbledore said, "When you have told Hermione what you must, take the Floo back to the Ministry. There are preparations we must make. I have left instructions that you are to be escorted to me immediately. And -- one more thing, Harry. When Hermione awakes -- give her my love."

Leaving the waiting room without a word, Harry hurried through the corridors until he came within sight of the door to Hermione's room. Before he could take two steps toward it, the door opened. Snape stood in the doorway, his sallow face frozen in as sour an expression as Harry had ever seen. Refusing even the courtesy of leaving the way open for Harry, Snape closed the door and turned to leave down the opposite corridor.

"Why, Severus?" Harry said abruptly.

Snape froze. Harry wasn't sure whether the Potions Master was more startled by the question, or by the informal address.

"Why what?" Snape hissed, looking back over his shoulder.

"I figured it out," Harry said. "Sitting in the waiting room, I had time to put the pieces together. Albus said that the Mortalis Potion required weeks of meticulous preparation. But there was only one week between the verdict and the date of sentencing. And Albus spent the first three days of that interval searching the library at Hogwarts. There wasn't nearly enough time for even the most skilled Potions Master to brew such a potion. Unless Albus literally gave you -- more time."

Snape had turned to face Harry. If possible, his expression had grown even more sour.

"Albus gave you a Time-Turner," Harry stated with flat certainty. In a silent addendum, Harry thought, And since he was acting outside the parameters of his Office, I'd wager it was the one Minerva keeps locked in her desk at Hogwarts. The same one, he reflected with grim satisfaction, that Hermione and I used to save Sirius from your bloodthirsty vendetta. Then, aloud: "You took a month out of your life -- "

"Five weeks," Snape said acidly, his eyes hard as obsidian.

"But why?" Harry repeated. "As much as you hate me -- "

"Hate you," Snape parroted sharply. "You flatter yourself, Potter. You are less than the dragon dung I scrape from my boots when I depart the apothecary in Hogsmeade." Snape's black eyes narrowed, his voice falling to an icy whisper. "I curse the day you came to Hogwarts. The wizarding world hails you as their savior. The Boy Who Lived, the Promised One, the destroyer of the Dark Lord. But I was never fooled. You are your father's son, Potter. No rule too big or small that you can't break it at will, no line you won't cross if it suits your purpose. They all bent over backwards to treat you like royalty, even the Headmaster. And nothing has changed, has it? Any other wizard in your place would be on his way to Azkaban, in chains. But not 'Saint Potter.'"

Harry's face was imperturbable as a death mask.

"Quite a speech, coming from one with the Dark Mark of a Death Eater branded on his arm," Harry said with emotionless pacific. "Want to talk about breaking rules, crossing lines? Escaping punishment? How many people did you torture and kill when you served Voldemort? Any other Death Eater would be rotting away in his cell in Azkaban, chatting up rats and cockroaches -- yet here you stand, free and clear. Is that justice?

"But that still doesn't answer my question. If anything, it sharpens it more than ever. Why?"

"For her, you idiot!" Snape spat, jerking his greasy head toward Hermione's door so that his lank tresses danced about his griffonesque shoulders like a nest of adders. "What Malfoy did to her -- " and here his teeth grated with every syllable, " -- no one deserves that. Not even a simpering little know-it-all Mudblood."

Harry reacted as if struck a physical blow. It was all so clear now. Had he not been sunk so deeply in grief and self-loathing, he would have seen it from the first. Even as Snape had deplored the so-called "royal treatment" accorded to Harry, had not he himself treated Malfoy with as much deference, and more? Had Snape not lavished such favoritism on Malfoy, virtually encouraging the son of his former Death Eater colleague to follow the path laid out for him by his father, how much evil and misery might have been averted? Had Draco not been so twisted as a sapling, perhaps the tree had not grown into so foul a blight upon the earth. It might have required but a single word of chastisement at the proper time to undo so much pain. Hermione need never have lain in that bed of suffering.

And what of Draco himself? What might he have accomplished for the good of the wizarding world had his eyes been diverted toward nobler horizons by the strength of a firm, guiding hand applied at the proper moment? It was a chilling thought, not to mention a sobering one. In like manner as Harry, Snape would forever wear the chains he had forged, both by deeds rendered...and, even more tragically, those not done.

"You did it for Hermione," Harry said in a voice so soft that the words barely passed his lips.

"You were nothing more than my guinea pig," Snape said in a voice cold as the breath of a zombie. "It was a difficult potion to brew, even for one of my skill. The Minister did not misrepresent the risk. There was always the smallest chance I would not succeed, that the resulting potion would be a deadly poison. And that was the true beauty of the situation." An expression of unabashed depravity contorted Snape's thin, vulture-like face. "If the potion were successful, the Mudblood would be preserved, and I would be hailed a hero. And if it failed -- why, then you would have died horribly, in such agony as your mind could not conceive. Either way -- I would win."

His triumph complete, Snape gathered up his robes and made to turn his back on Harry in a final gesture of dismissal. But Harry halted him in a voice thick with emotion, in which lurked no trace of mockery.

"Thank you, Severus. May God bless you for what you have done here. I'll be grateful to you for the rest of my life."

Snape looked pure hatred at Harry for a moment that embodied a lifetime. No curse, no insult, no foulest obscenity could have burned him so deeply as these calm, sincere words. With a savage snarl, Snape spun about in a swirl of black robes and disappeared down the corridor.

Harry stood alone in the silence, feeling a lightness of spirit he would not have thought possible only an hour ago. He remembered a quote he'd heard long ago, one which he'd pondered now and again, yet which his soul seemed evermore powerless to embrace ere now: "Only as ye forgive, so shall ye be forgiven." A quiet, peaceful smile spread across Harry's face as he opened the door and entered his wife's room.

Author's Note: Congratulations to those who put Chapters 4 and 5 together to see the true significance of the Mortalis Potion. I didn't want to be TOO obvious, lest Chapter 5 become a textbook lecture as opposed to a series of natural events (or as "natural" as things ever get in the wizarding world).

In answer to nurray's query, it has been established that Dumbledore's age is in excess of 150 years. One reputable site lists his year of birth as 1840. Yet, in the flashback in Chamber of Secrets, Dumbledore's hair was still a youthful auburn in the year 1945, despite the fact that he was all of 105 years old. A wizard's lifespan appears to be roughly twice that of a Muggle, and the only difference between one and the other is magical blood. Put another way, can any of US reasonably expect to live 150 years? And if we could, would our bodies be as healthy, and our minds as sharp, as Dumbledore's? So I feel safe in concluding that magical blood IS the deciding factor. (As an added bonus, isn't it a delicious thought to consider that Argus Filch won't be around that much longer? Now why couldn't HE be allergic to magical blood? Oh, wait...I just made that up, didn't I? Never mind.)

Thanks to all who are still reading (with added thanks to any who chanced to board the train on the last stop). One more installment should be forthcoming before the long intermission preceding the final chapters. And I promise, no more dark clouds, okay? (But a couple of surprises are hiding around the corner, with the biggest saved for the final chapter.) Until next time...

Dumbledore's office at the Ministry of Magic was not nearly so affable a venue as his study. At least, that was Harry's view. But that seemed only natural, as it was here that the actual business of running the Ministry was conducted. If Dumbledore's study were the heart of his offices, this was the brain.

Sitting in a hard wooden chair (a sharp contrast to the friendly stuffed chairs of the study) before Dumbledore's desk, Harry accepted a large envelope from the Minister with a mildly questioning look. It was not the common parchment envelope of the wizarding world, but a plain Muggle manila envelope. At a nod from Dumbledore, Harry opened the flap and dipped his hand inside. The crisp papers which emerged in a thick sheaf were very official-looking. Harry lay the pile on Dumbledore's desk and flipped through them one by one, his expression reflecting a growing amazement.

Lying here before him was full documentary evidence of a life -- two lives, actually -- lived for the past two decades exclusively in the Muggle world. His and Hermione's lives. Lives which, following their eleventh birthdays, might have been but never were.

"Muggles do thrive on paperwork," Dumbledore chortled, enjoying the glow of wonder illuminating Harry's face. "Although, truth to tell, the wizarding world is closing the gap every year. Merlin, the red tape I am forced to endure nowadays! At least once a week I feel I would gladly chuck it all for a sack of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans and give it all back to Fudge. I daresay he thrived on this sort of bureaucratic rubbish."

Harry's eyes were now resting on a pair of documents which seemed to assert themselves over and above their fellows. He stared the elaborate scrollwork around the edges, at the crisp, black Old English text spreading like an arching ironwork bridge across the top. They were diplomas, attesting that he and Hermione had both completed the necessary courses to qualify as high school graduates.

"If the two of you are to go on to university," Dumbledore said, recognizing the papers in Harry's hand, "those will be among the most valuable documents you will find in that not inconsiderable assortment."

Harry was scrutinizing the two diplomas intently. "I recognize this school. It's one of the most exclusive boarding schools in Britain. I think I remember Uncle Vernon mentioning it once. He seemed put off that they wouldn't even give him an appointment so he could submit an application for Dudley. Then, quick as you please, he started in how they weren't half as good as Smeltings and forbade anyone to mention their name again."

"Indeed?" Dumbledore said with an amused chuckle. "Not too surprising. Dudley is not the first young man to be refused admission, and I daresay he will not be the last. It is no exaggeration to say that Eddington Academy is the most exclusive institution of learning in the whole of Britain, including Hogwarts." When Harry's eyebrows rose questioningly, Dumbledore said, "Oh, yes. Hogwarts has hundreds of students, and their only requirement for admission is the possession of magical blood. Eddington hosts only a fraction of Hogwarts' number, and its requirements are far more stringent. It was established, and is maintained, by the joint efforts of Hogwarts and the Ministry of Magic."

"I don't understand," Harry said. Dumbledore chuckled again.

"Have you ever wondered, Harry, how it is that so many children of Muggle families can attend Hogwarts without their absence being noted by the non-magical world?"

In truth, Harry had scarcely given it a thought. "I know the Dursleys told everyone that I attended St. Brutus's Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys." A slight shiver accompanied this echo from his past. Given Harry's present state of affairs, perhaps the Dursleys' metaphorical dart wasn't so far off the bullseye after all.

"That is, indeed, the story they told," Dumbledore said knowledgably. "And, in their way, they were not far removed from every other Muggle whose child has gone off to attend Hogwarts. In a modern society, a Muggle child cannot simply 'disappear' from the school system without some form of documentation. It would arouse suspicion, drawing unwanted attention to our world. Thus, when any Muggle-born child attends Hogwarts, a document is prepared and delivered to his or her parents or guardians, attesting that the departed child is attending another school -- one fully accredited by Her Majesty's government. And when that child's term of study at Hogwarts is complete, a subsequent document -- a diploma -- is forwarded in like manner." Nodding toward the papers in Harry's hands, Dumbledore said, "The diplomas you now hold are the ones previously held by the Grangers and the Dursleys, respectively. I don't believe the Dursleys even opened the envelope, but merely set it aside in case someone should ask for proof that they had disposed of their duties as your guardians in an acceptable manner. They surrendered it quite docilely when Alastor called on them on Tuesday last."

Harry grinned at this, remembering how Uncle Vernon had cowed before Moody's magical eye at King's Cross station a few years (and a lifetime) ago.

"Most Hogwarts graduates have little or no need of such documentation once they enter the wizarding world as fully trained witches and wizards," Dumbledore went on. "In your case, however, they will prove invaluable when, as I presume you will, you and Hermione set out to prepare yourselves to become gainfully employed -- and, alas, taxpaying -- citizens of the Muggle world."

"But," Harry said as he pondered the two diplomas with knitted brow, "we didn't actually do anything to earn these diplomas. It wouldn't surprise me if Hermione knew enough to go straight into Oxford, but what I know about history and math and literature wouldn't fill a Cornish pixie's teacup."

"As may be," Dumbledore agreed pleasantly. "And that is why your first task upon leaving the wizarding world will be to earn your diplomas. In fact, the paperwork for your enrollment -- yours and Hermione's -- is being processed at Eddington even as I speak."

"You mean," Harry gaped, "this is a real school? It's not just a Muggle smokescreen?"

"Oh, it is very real, Harry," Dumbledore said assuredly. "And it serves many functions. One department serves to educate Squibs whose wizarding families prefer not to immerse them too deeply in Muggle society. Another exists to educate Aurors and other agents of the Ministry in the ways of the Muggle world, so that they can pass among them freely without drawing undue attention to themselves, and, by association, to our world. Rest assured," he added summarily, "we will be taking great care to see that none of these 'students' comes anywhere near Hermione so as to weaken her Memory Charm."

"The teachers are all non-magical, then?" Harry said.

"Quite so," Dumbledore nodded. "And they are all fully accredited, with references that will withstand the most rigorous Muggle scrutiny."

"The last thing I expected to do after I left Hogwarts," Harry mused, "was go back to school, Muggle or otherwise." Looking at his diploma again, he saw that two lines were conspicuously blank: the date of graduation, and the signature of the headmaster or headmistress. If these had existed before as mere formality, they had been effaced since. "It's been a long time since I attended a Muggle school," Harry reflected. "I'm really going to have to work to earn this."

"You will work quite as hard as you ever did at Hogwarts," Dumbledore said, sounding more like the old Headmaster of Hogwarts rather than the present-day Minister of Magic. "The Headmistress will see to that, make no mistake."

"She's a Squib, too?" Harry said.

"Yes," Dumbledore replied. (Was it Harry's imagination, or was there a familiar twinkle in the corner of the old wizard's eye, just visible over the rims of his half-moon spectacles?) "She is herself a graduate of Eddington, after which she went on to secure a teaching degree at Cambridge before returning to her alma mater. She taught history and governmental studies before being promoted to her present station. She may, in fact, be teaching some of your classes. Though she may have a bit of catching up to do herself."

"Why is that?"

"Well," Dumbledore said (and here his eyes carefully avoided meeting Harry's), "she took a sabbatical of sorts a few years ago -- at my request. In so doing, she risked losing her old position when she returned. But I am happy to say that, with the help of a sympathetic friend in the Ministry (Dumbledore was now fairly bursting with ebullience) she was reinstated with little or no fuss -- shortly after your graduation from Hogwarts."

Harry's body jerked as if he had just touched an exposed electric wire.

"Mrs. Figg?"

As Dumbledore laughed delightedly, Harry's eyes came to rest on the diploma bearing Hermione's name.

"How much do the Grangers know?" He spoke so softly that he was unsure if Dumbledore had heard his question until the old wizard, his humor now subdued, spoke in calm, measured tones.

"Precisely as much as Hermione. In the main, I believe they are delighted that their daughter is returning to their world on a permanent basis. They were always supportive of Hermione's new life, but I sensed that they never quite made peace with the notion of a magical world existing side-by-side with their own. In their opinion, Hermione's 'malady' was nothing less than Heaven-sent."

Harry was holding Hermione's diploma with something akin to reverence. "She always wanted to go to university. I heard her talk about it more times than I can remember."

"How did Hermione take -- the 'news'?" Dumbledore asked gently.

"Like the Hermione I fell in love with would be expected to," Harry said with a pale smile. "She's still in a sort of semi-shock at the realization that she's no longer a witch. But it didn't surprise me to learn that, organized as she's always been, she had her whole academic life mapped out by her tenth birthday. Her Hogwarts letter may have put those plans on a side track, but she never really abandoned them. Now, she's just shifting her priorities back to her original agenda. She didn't know precisely how she was going to do it, but there was never a doubt in her mind that she would go to university after Hogwarts. Now," and Harry brandished the diploma for emphasis, "I can remove her last doubt. I think it will be the best thing I can give her."

Dumbledore's face fell momentarily, as if he were deciding whether the time were right to broach a certain matter weighing upon his mind. He evidently decided to postpone the moment, for his face brightened almost immediately.

"While you are establishing your new lives in the Muggle world," Dumbledore said, "you will need funds more appropriate than Galleons and Sickles. Using my authority as Minister, I have closed your Gringotts account and converted the contents of your vault into pounds sterling. I will be conferring with Hermione's parents as to a suitable institution to which to transfer your funds. Is that acceptable to you?"

"Yes," Harry agreed easily. "I'm sure they'll choose wisely for us." Harry continued to look through the bogus paperwork before him. "Will all of this really stand up to Muggle scrutiny?"

"Duplicates have already been placed on file in every appropriate location," Dumbledore said with a confident smile. "Memory Charms have been applied where necessary. I believe we have left no stone unturned to assure that your transition to Muggle life will be smooth and unchallenged."

Dumbledore noted a wave of sadness clouding Harry's face. When at last Harry's eyes rose and beheld Dumbledore's concerned expression, he sighed with a heaviness belying his youth.

"Hermione could have been the best, Albus. She -- she might have been Minister some day. I used to tell her so until she threatened to put a Silencing Charm on me." Even as he essayed a wan smile, Harry felt his throat tighten as he realized that such threats were now mere vapor. Hermione would cast no more spells, now or ever. "Between you and me, I think she would have preferred to become Headmistress of Hogwarts someday. She respected and admired you and Minerva more than she could express." Harry's voice dropped to a dusty rasp. "She could have done great things. And now..."

"Do not sell Hermione short, Harry," Dumbledore said gently. "Nor yourself. I believe you will both accomplish great things in the Muggle world. And I would remind you that there are still far more Muggles in the world than there are wizards. If anything, you and she are likely to have an even greater impact on the world.

"I am no great believer in Fate, Harry. My abundant time in this world has taught me that we are no mere flotsam on a universal ocean, cast hither and yon on the tides of chance. We choose how and where we will leave our mark. Your lives have been altered dramatically. But I do not believe that these events were ordained as part of a greater Destiny for you both.

"I remember, back in the 60's, I found a most interesting shirt in a Muggle shop on Carnaby Street. It said, 'Life is what happens while you're making plans.' I shall have to search my wardrobe and see if I can find it." With a warm smile, Dumbledore said sagely, "In life, things simply -- happen. It is up to us to deal with them as they occur. And there is no doubt in my mind that both you and Hermione will thrive in your new lives. It is only your bodies that have been changed. Greatness is not determined by wands or magical blood. The potential for greatness is within us all.

"Do you remember the words Hermione spoke to you in the Potions Chamber as you set off to protect the Sorcerer's Stone from Lord Voldemort?"

Harry started at the question. How could he ever forget Hermione's words in those dark tunnels deep under Hogwarts? But -- how in Merlin's name did Dumbledore know, when Harry had not even told Ron?

"Greatness is not always measured by the size or number of our achievements," Dumbledore said. "It is my belief that Molly and Arthur Weasley have done more for the wizarding world than any three Ministers of Magic, myself included. They have instilled in their seven children a spirit of goodness that will spread out and create ripples touching unguessed shores. So shall it be with the two of you. The world will be a better place -- indeed, it already is a better place -- simply because you and Hermione are in it."

Harry's heart skipped a beat. That allusion to Arthur and Molly, and their children -- was it possible -- but how could Dumbledore possibly know that Hermione was -- ? Harry peered mutely at Dumbledore's long, pale face, wondering just how many secrets lay hidden behind the deceptively transparent windows of those pale blue eyes.

Following a studied silence, Harry asked, "Is Hermione really going to accept all that's happened to her without questioning? It hardly seems in her nature to do so."

"That is a concern not to be dismissed lightly," Dumbledore conceded. "But humanity is continually being afflicted by new ailments about which little will be known until research yields the answers we seek. AIDS was virtually non-existent only a generation ago. Any new malady or condition must inevitably claim a first victim. We must trust that Hermione's intelligence will itself convince her that hers is but the first of many such cases that will be revealed with time."

"I don't want her thinking I'm some sort of martyr for joining her in exile," Harry said. "I couldn't bear the thought that she'd want to treat me as some kind of selfless hero, when the truth is that I'm the cause of it all in the first place."

"To begin with," Dumbledore said with quiet firmness, "you are not the cause. Evil does as it will. You were merely Mr. Malfoy's justification. The blame, and the guilt, remain his alone.

"As to the rest, I have been considering that very point. It would not be conducive to a homologous relationship for one party to feel an overwhelming debt toward the other.

"Fortunately," and Dumbledore all but winked at Harry as his eyes sparkled mischievously, "being as this is a new condition, we are constantly discovering new aspects heretofore overlooked or, if seen, not understood. The Healers' examinations have led them to conclude that Hermione contracted the condition more than a month ago -- by means as yet unknown -- during which time it incubated in her bloodstream before attacking her in full force. Moreover, they have determined that the condition is communicable -- though not by casual means, so Hermione need not fear afflicting her friends simply by association. As for you (and the old wizard's eyes twinkled even more brightly), it appears that, at some time during the incubation period, you contracted the condition from Hermione during an -- ahem -- intimate encounter." Dumbledore's cheeks flushed, and Harry could not help grinning in spite of himself. "It was therefore only a matter of time before you became afflicted even as she. You did not submit to the Mortalis Potion merely for her sake, but for your own."

"But won't Hermione feel guilty for ruining my life?" Harry said with an ache in his voice.

"Perhaps," Dumbledore admitted. "For a time. But surely she will know and understand that you would have followed her under any circumstances. A love such as yours cannot be divided. It will be no deception when you assure her that your life would be devastated without her. None who knows you -- even as do I -- can look into your eyes and believe otherwise. We are faced with two paths of deception, each fraught with its own obstacles. This one, at least, is the less injurious. I earnestly believe that to be so. Time alone will tell."

"This is going to be difficult, Albus," Harry said. "So much deception. I'm not that good a liar."

"Would that we all were so afflicted," Dumbledore said pleasantly. "No, there is no easy answer to so complicated a problem. It will no doubt be a war to be waged over a lifetime, one battle at a time. But such is the price to be paid.

"However, touching on that..."

Dumbledore suddenly grew serious, and Harry suspected that the unknown dilemma that was clearly weighing on the old wizard's mind was about to be brought into the light.

"Insofar as the wizarding world is concerned," Dumbledore said, "your sentence has been pronounced and carried out. The matter is closed. But I fear there are others who will not accept the justice meted out today."

"Nasrcissa Malfoy," Harry said with growing alarm. "She was outraged when I was cleared of the murder charge. And now that I'm not going to Azkaban for the charge I was convicted on, she's not going to just sit back and let me live my life as if nothing had happened."

"It will not be enough for her -- nor for the remaining Death Eaters who still blame you for for Voldemort's final downfall -- to see you expelled from the magical world," Dumbledore agreed. "I am not being overdramatic when I say that, once you are removed from the protection of the Ministry, your life -- and that of Hermione -- can be measured in days, perhaps hours.

"For that reason, I made a visit this morning to Hogwarts, to confer with Filius."

Harry comprehended instantly. Filius Flitwick, teacher of Charms at Hogwarts, had assisted Dumbledore more than two decades ago in placing a Fidelius Charm upon the Godric's Hollow cottage of the Potters -- James, Lily, and baby Harry. Under present circumstances, Harry needed no prompting to accept Dumbledore's proposal. After all that he, Harry, had done to protect Hermione, foolish pride was not going to unmake everything now.

"I'll use Ron as my Secret Keeper," Harry said. But, to his surprise, Dumbledore shook his head.

"I strongly advise against that, Harry. Ron will be the obvious choice, and while I believe he can be trusted not to betray you of his own volition, there are too many others whom Narcissa can threaten to force his compliance."

Harry shuddered at the vision of Ginny or Molly being tortured in front of Ron to extract the secret from him. Harry himself would not blame Ron for cracking under such duress.

"Rest assured," Dumbledore said reassuringly, "young Mr. Weasley has his part to play, as do we all. He would not have it otherwise. But not here. Another has already stepped forward and volunteered, and I have approved this unselfish gesture unreservedly. I pray you, Harry -- trust me."

Harry was about to ask who it was who had volunteered for so dangerous a duty, but something about Dumbledore's plea -- and the fact that he had carefully avoided mentioning the other party by name -- seemed a clear statement that no name would be forthcoming.

"Right, then," Harry said. Confidence was creeping slowly but surely through him. Though the dangers he and Hermione faced were as real in their way as the one-time threat of Voldemort himself, Harry had no reason to doubt that Dumbledore, now as ever, could be trusted to do what was necessary to assure victory. "In that case," Harry said as an introspective shadow clouded his eyes, "I have have only one more thing to take care of."

"And that would be?" Dumbledore queried.

"You have your secrets," Harry smiled mysteriously. "And I have mine."

Dumbledore returned Harry's smile without reservation. As if acting on a shared thought, the two rose from their chairs almost as one. Harry extended his hand as Dumbledore emerged from behind his desk. But instead of taking the offered hand, Dumbledore wrapped his arms around Harry in a grandfatherly gesture that caught the young wizard-turned-Muggle totally by surprise. Harry returned the embrace, fighting tears. It was a struggle doomed to failure. When Dumbledore pulled back, Harry saw that the old wizard's eyes were quite as moist as his.

"Take care of yourself, Harry," Dumbledore said. "I wish you and Hermione every happiness. The wizarding world will never forget you. I most certainly shall not."

"Thank you, Albus," Harry wheezed. "For everything."

Wiping his eyes, Harry stuffed the papers back into their envelope and closed the flap. He smoothed his robes, chuckling silently. "After today, I'll never wear these again." He reached into a pocket of his robes and pulled out a small pouch secured with a drawstring. "And I'll never use this bloody stuff again." He caught Dumbledore's eye with a smirk. "Have I ever mentioned how much I hate Floo powder?"

"I know of no one who doesn't," Dumbledore grinned. "Fare you well, Harry Potter."

His voice failing him, Harry smiled once before exiting the Minister's office and closing the door behind him. A moment later, another door opened at the rear of the Minister's office.

"Is he gone?"

"Yes," Dumbledore said. "You may come out now."

A young man with a round face and soft, warm eyes emerged from an antechamber. He looked uncertainly at the chair vacated by Harry, as if wondering if he dared sit in the presence of the Minister of Magic. Smiling genially, Dumbledore seated himself, inviting the newcomer to do likewise.

"Are you certain you wish to do this?" Dumbledore asked carefully. "I am unequivocal in my own belief that you are up to the task. But you must be equally certain. The moment you become Harry's and Hermione's Secret Keeper, your life will be in constant danger. I do not exaggerate when I say that Narcissa Malfoy will stop at nothing to find and punish Harry. She will not be swayed from her purpose by the specter of Azkaban. She has lost a husband and a son. Grief and hatred can blind reason as few things. Should she or any of the Death Eaters ever suspect you, there is no Dark Curse they will withhold to force you to speak."

"I know, Minister," came the reply in a thin, reedy voice that yet bristled with strength and determination. "But I'm the best choice. No one would suspect me, would they? And even if they did -- I mean -- I have no -- no family to threaten -- I mean, not really," he added sadly. "It's -- the right thing to do. You once told me that it took courage to stand up to one's friends. Shouldn't I be just as ready to stand up for them?"

Nodding slowly, Dumbledore said, "Filius will have prepared the first stage of the Charm by now. For the nonce, Harry and Hermione will be staying with the Weasleys at the Burrow. The Healers have assured Hermione," the old wizard said with a twinkle in his eye, "that the Mortalis Potion has left her with a temporary immunity from 'magical contamination' that will remain in force for another week or so. In like manner, they have also assured us that Hermione's Memory Charm will not suffer from this brief exposure. This interval will allow her and Harry the opportunity to say their goodbyes to their friends before their exile begins. From there, they will transfer to the Granger house until such time as they have found a home of their own. In both cases, they will be guarded by a contingent of Aurors under the auspices of Alastor Moody. I know I can trust them to keep Harry and Hermione safe."

"But what about the Weasleys and the Grangers?" the visitor asked. "Won't they still be in danger afterwards?"

"I feel certain that the Weasleys can handle whatever comes their way," Dumbledore said. "As for the Grangers, they will be protected by a subsequent Fidelius Charm when their daughter and son-in-law depart. I will let it be known that I myself will be Secret Keeper in both instances. That will allay suspicion from the two genuine Secret Keepers. I shall not reveal the other's name, even as I have kept your name secret, even from Harry."

"Then how will I tell him?" came the surprised query. "After the spell is completed, he won't even know where his own house is unless I tell him. So how can I keep him from knowing who I am --"

"You will print the information on a piece of paper," Dumbledore said, "which I will then show to Harry and Hermione. I have used this method before. Trust me.

"Now," Dumbledore said resolutely, "the time has come to prepare your mind for the spell. Once that has been done, transferring the secret itself at the proper time will be a simple matter. Are you ready to begin?"

"Yes, Minister."

"Neville, Neville," Dumbledore said, shaking his head with amused exasperation. "Why can I not impress upon you to address me as Albus?"

"I -- I can't," Neville said, his round face beginning to resemble a tomato. "You're the Minister of Magic. It isn't...proper."

"God bless the Neville Longbottoms of the world," Dumbledore murmured piously. "What a sad place this world would be without them."

Author's Note: This chapter is far and away the longest of the story. That may serve in some small way to lessen my burden of guilt over the fact that Chapter 8 won't be forthcoming until May.

Thanks to all who are are reading and reviewing, with a special nod to nurray, whose thoughtful analysis of events past -- and those yet to come -- is most welcome. This story was written well before OotP was released, and I've been polishing up each chapter to be sure it's worthy of this site. There are so many penthouse-level writers here, I must constantly strive to keep my elevator from sinking down to the basement. With reviewers like nurray keeping me alert, maybe I'll enjoy a garden flat of my own someday.

As has been seen, many questions were answered this time. A handful remain, and they will be addressed in the two remaining chapters. I only hope I haven't missed something along the way. Part of the pleasure I derive from writing comes from weaving complex tapestries and then striving not to get caught in my own web. If I DO let something slip by, please don't hesitate to wave a red flag so I can go back and set matters to rights. I made a big goof in a story posted at FanFiction.Net (shortly to appear here at Portkey), and an alert reviewer enabled me to go back and fix things. Too bad J.K.'s editors aren't as alert as fanfiction reviewers. When I note how many blunders SHE has made, I feel considerably less foolish over my own.

I hope this chapter will tide everyone over until next month. Until then, thanks for reading.

Note From Fae Princess: As Stoneheart has stated over the past few chapter in his Author's Notes, there won't be an update until May. To babyhalo19: I'm going to B.C for a month starting tomorrow -- and as I'm Stoneheart's official posting-girl, I will not be able to update the story until I return. To pass the time (as you all wait for an update) I strongly recommend reading Stoneheart's other stories -- either posted here or at FF.net (there are more at FF.net that you should all check out). And Creepy Susie -- thank you! I would love to see a Canucks game, however ... I am an avid Leafs fan. And I'll be staying in Victoria -- which is so beautiful! I visited last year for two weeks, and I was ... in awe. I mean, if you saw the town I live in right now, there's just no comparison. Victoria is where my heart is.

See you all when I return! ~Fae

Author's Note: I hope no one got tired of waiting and lost interest in the story. To all who are reading this, welcome back, and thanks for returning. The wait is over, so here we go.

Hermione lay quietly in her hospital bed, the crisp, white sheets tucked dutifully under her chin by her husband, who sat in a chair at her side. Harry knew she would sleep for several hours. Owing to her small stature, both had known that the birth would be a difficult one. Harry had insisted that Hermione be given a general anesthetic. Her protests were in vain. She'd wanted very much to witness the birth of her first child, but the doctors agreed with Harry that the labor would be long and agonizing. Harry could sometimes be adamant to a frightening degree when it came to sparing his wife undue pain or discomfort. Hermione chafed outwardly at Harry's overprotectiveness, but secretly she loved him all the more for his unswerving devotion.

Harry was sitting so close to the bed that his elbow rested on the mattress not six inches from his wife's shoulder. Her stillness brought back terrible memories of another time not so long ago, when Hermione lay in a bed very like this one, in a hospital as unlike this one as it was possible to be. Harry curbed his fearfulness and brought it to heel. That day was in the past, never to return, save in the occasional nightmares which still haunted the young former wizard. St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries was hundreds of miles, and another lifetime, away. This was an ordinary Muggle hospital. Hermione's sleep was a natural one, albeit induced by artificial means, from which she would shortly awaken. They were together. They were safe.

And, as of one hour and seventeen minutes ago, they were parents.

Harry's arms cradled a tiny bundle of blankets containing his newborn son. He could just make out a minute face roughly the size of a croquet ball, its eyes squeezed shut. James Potter the Second slept as peacefully as his mother. Looking at the two most important people in his life, Harry vowed that, so long as he lived, they would never know the fears which had been his legacy since that day when Voldemort had murdered his parents. He would be there for them always, withhold no blessing that was within his power to bestow. He would be the father that his baby son's namesake never had the chance to be to Harry.

There had been some doubt at first as to whether this child, fathered by a wizard of no small magical prowess, would be born with magical blood or not. But tests conducted by Madam Zorgas (the last only a week ago) had confirmed that Hermione's firstborn would be 100% Muggle. Harry was more than a little surprised at this news, but Hermione showed no surprise at all.

"Wizardry comes from magical blood, Harry," she reminded him. "You and I no longer have magical blood. Not since we took the Mortalis Potion. The baby is being nourished by my non-magical blood, so it's not surprising that he or she will be born a Squib."

"But your parents are both Muggles," Harry reminded her. "Not a drop of magical blood between them. Yet you were born a witch."

"It all comes down to genetics, Harry," Hermione said patiently. "One or both of my parents obviously has a latent magical gene. To my knowledge, I'm the first magical person ever born in our family. That makes my genetic predisposition to magic razor-thin. Even without the Mortalis Potion, the odds were 50-50 that I'd have at least one non-magical child, even with you as their father. And don't forget that your mother was Muggle-born herself, so your genetics are in question as well. Now, with neither of us possessing magical blood, our chances of producing a magical offspring are practically non-existent.

"In fact," she said softly as she caressed the prominent bulge of her pregnant abdomen, "I'm just as glad our child won't be a wizard. Madam Zorgas said that his or her magical blood would eventually have been a threat to our health -- all of us," she mouthed throatily, patting her belly again. "We would have been faced with the choice of destroying our baby's magic with Mortalis Potion -- or -- giving him up."

Harry was equally relieved that such a choice had not been necessary. Had their child been born a wizard, his magical blood would have been a threat not to Hermione's body, but to her mind. Even carrying such a child in her womb would have been impossible, especially during the last trimester, when its magical blood would fully develop and, ultimately, attack the barrier that was Hermione's mental and emotional salvation with catastrophic consequences.

Looking down now upon little James sleeping peacefully in his arms, Harry knew that it was nothing short of a miracle that the child possessed no slightest trace of magical blood. But it was not an unqualified miracle for that. The latent gene of which Hermione spoke was no doubt imbedded as firmly in James' DNA as it had been in her parents'. If James were not a wizard, he could still father a witch or wizard, even through a Muggle wife. The odds were slim, but that did not make them wholly non-existent. The magical threat to Hermione's life and sanity was not completely erased. But such worries were fuel for fires to be kindled in the future. Harry's attention was focused firmly on the present. Despite all that had happened in the past year, Harry knew he was truly blessed, and he vowed that he would spend every day of his life in grateful acknowledgment of that blessing.

Sensing movement from the corner of his eye, Harry looked toward the door and smiled. A slender figure in green surgical scrubs had entered without knocking. A gloved hand tugged at the surgical mask over which soft brown eyes peered warmly above the bridge of a freckled nose. The mask fell away, revealing a face radiant with a smile matching Harry's own.

"Everything go okay, Gin?" Harry asked softly so as not to disturb his sleeping son.

"Piece of cake," Ginny whispered. Standing beside Harry now, she bent to look into the ruddy face of baby James. "May I hold him?" she asked with a childish tremble in her voice. Harry allowed Ginny to take James, whose blankets shifted to reveal a few small, feathery wisps of raven-black hair. Ginny looked longingly at the infant in her arms, and Harry knew the mothering urge was exerting a powerful force on her. He sincerely hoped that she would not have to wait long to find a special someone whose life she could complete even as Hermione did Harry's. Ginny kissed the tiny forehead gently before returning James to Harry's waiting arms. In the same motion, she leaned in and kissed Harry on the cheek. She laughed silently as Harry's face assumed the same ruddy glow as his son's (though neither could match the coal-fire lambency of Ginny's freckled cheeks).

"As soon as Hermione's on her feet," Harry said before Ginny could withdraw, "we'll do lunch. I'll send Hedwig."

Ginny nodded before straightening and re-tying her mask. Dumbledore had assured them that very limited and controlled exposure to magic would pose no threat to Hermione's Memory Charm. Hermione was duly informed that properly-spaced visits, lasting no more than two hours each, would be insufficient to trigger her magical "allergy." Hermione and Harry both looked forward to their monthly visits from Ron, Ginny, Dumbledore, et al. No more than two persons per visit was the rule. Much as Harry missed his magical friends and anticipated their visits, he would take no undue chances with Hermione's sanity at stake. At first he had demurred altogether, but it soon became evident that Hermione's improved state of mind following visiting days was a boon to her health outweighing the limited risks of exposure. Seeing her old friends made her happy; being happy made her healthy in both body and spirit. It was a fine line to walk. But it was, as Dumbledore had said, simply the price to be paid.

Her surgical mask affixed once more, Ginny smiled through the green folds. "We're having a family reunion at the Burrow next month," came her muffled voice. "I'll take plenty of snaps."

"Muggle photos only," Harry said through an anticipatory smile.

Her hidden grin widening in acknowledgment, Ginny said, "Give Hermione my -- " She caught herself. It was an instinctive parting comment, but she well knew, as did Harry, that Hermione must never know of her visit to the hospital today. Magic or no, Hermione was no fool. She must never so much as suspect what had taken place in the operating theatre following the birth of her son.

Her brown eyes caressing the threesome one last time, Ginny exited the room and was gone.

His baby son held firmly in his arms, Harry leaned onto the bed until his cheek brushed against his wife's bushy mane. With James effectively lying on the bed next to his mother, Harry freed his left arm and very gently teased at the wisps of sable crowning his son's tiny head. The smile that washed over his face was one of satisfaction, though spiced with a dash of guilt.

Ginny had excelled at Charms at Hogwarts, getting top marks. He had supreme confidence in the Memory Charms she'd cast on the personnel in the operating theatre today. The doctors and nurses assisting James' birth would have no recollection of a nameless surgical resident with soft brown eyes and flaming red hair tied in a neat bun. They would not remember this strange woman waving a magic wand over the newborn babe, changing his white-blond hair to raven black and his ice-pale eyes to emerald green.

Harry rested his head on his wife's shoulder, his hand lying protectively upon the warm bundle which was James Potter the Second. It had been a long night, and his eyes began to droop heavily.

"You're going to be a great man, James Potter," Harry whispered as he drifted off to join his wife and child in a light, blissful sleep. "But more than that, you're going to be a good man. The sins of the father will not be visited on you. You are my son. Mine and Hermione's. And I love you."

Author's Note: I dare not neglect to extend a heartfelt thank-you to everyone who took the time to review last time. A special nod goes to Kenji, whose questions and speculations hit VERY close to home. Believe me, reviews like that keep me on my toes. I always try to tie things up without leaving any loose strings dangling. This chapter answered a couple of questions. The next (and last) chapter may or may not surprise, but we had enough surprises earlier. What we need now is closure. Tune in next week, won't you? The wait is almost over. See you all then.

"I'm definitely getting old," Hermione said to herself as she tugged her shawl more tightly around her shoulders. As she shifted in her chair before the fireplace in search of a comfortable position, her eyes flickered over the large portrait hanging just over the mantel. "Go on," she smirked. "Say 'I told you so.'" The smiling image of Harry said nothing. A gift from her old classmate, Dean Thomas, it was painted in simple oils rather than magical, moving paints. Nevertheless, there were times when Hermione could swear that the face in the cherrywood frame, like the Fat Lady in the portrait guarding Gryffindor Tower, could understand what she was saying. "You're entitled," Hermione went on as if engaged in conversation with the man in the painting. "You wanted to live down the coast in the Carolinas, where it's warm. But I insisted on Nova Scotia, to remind me of Scotland. And Hogwarts."

As if the name itself were an incantation, Hermione's eyes swung magically to her writing desk, upon the uncluttered surface of which sat a most curious paperweight. Though her bifocals were within easy reach, reposing in a pocket of the apron she herself had sewn while carrying her fourth (and last) child, Hermione's hands remained folded about her shawl. She had no need of physical sight to envision the object in question. Her mind's eye brought out every smallest detail of that treasured artifact with crystal clarity. A gift from Ginny Weasley on her first birhday following her expulsion from the magical world, it was a tiny replica of Hogwarts castle, complete to the smallest detail. Ginny had herself Transfigured it from a stone taken (with Dumbledore's permission) from the castle itself. In the more than six decades since, it never failed to bring a smile to her lips and a tear to her eye. A reminder of her carefree days (so her rose-colored memories blithely informed her) as a witch-in-training at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, its value was beyond price to her. She would not have sold it for a pile of gold the size of Cape Breton Island.

Hermione had but to close her eyes to see the whole of Hogwarts in all its splendor: The enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall; the Gryffindor common room with its warm friendly fire, and countless overstuffed chairs filled with chattering students; the classrooms, ranging from Snape's dank, chill dungeon to Trelawney's stifling, perfumed tower. The grounds, the forest, the Quidditch field, the lake, Hagrid's cabin, the Whomping Willow -- they were all as fresh in her mind as the day she last saw them. Graduation day. The day she began her life as a fully-trained witch. A life, as Fate would have, that would last barely seven short years.

"I still miss it so," Hermione whispered, her words swallowed by the silent walls of the living room where she and Harry had shared so many happy hours since their retirement more than twenty years ago. She turned again to the picture above the fireplace. "But I miss you most of all."

Harry was gone three years now. But his presence lingered, ghost-like. He was not a ghost in the same sense as the specters haunting Hogwarts. But there were times when Hermione could swear that he was lying in bed next to her, as he had for nearly seventy years. She could still hear his laughter, still see the smile that could steal the strength from her knees as it had when they were teenagers. She could still see those piercing emerald eyes, framed by an unruly head of raven hair. She could still feel his arms holding her, his lips kissing hers. She could feel Harry everywhere in this house. But most of all, she could feel his presence in her heart, where he would ever remain.

The walls of the living room were awash with photos, tiny windows to a past that had seen its share of hardship, but in which the good had outweighed the bad in a proportion which both had felt beyond their deserving.

Immediately to the right of the large portrait of Harry was their wedding photo -- or, to be precise, it was a Mugglized copy of what was originally a moving wizard photo. They were both so young then. Where had the years gone? In some ways, Hermione felt no different now than she had the day that photo was taken. But the Hermione in the photo had long, flowing chestnut hair, skin the color and texture of peaches and cream. The young bride happily clutching the arm of her new husband bore little resemblance to the woman in the rocking chair who clutched her shawl about her against the cool of the morning. The chestnut hair was now white as snow, and the face was seamed with wrinkles bought and paid for by a lifetime of hard work and no small portion of worry. But the eyes of the woman in the picture were undimmed in her mature reflection. And the mind behind those eyes, now as then, was sharp as a scalpel.

Though not a day went by when Hermione did not wish that Harry were still with her, that regret was never more keenly felt than today. For the first time in a decade, the entire Potter family would be assembled in a grand reunion. Ostensibly, they were gathering to celebrate Hermione's 90th birthday. Her actual birthday was still a month and a half away, but it was only during the Summer holidays that the widely-scattered branches of the family could uproot themselves and converge on Potter Castle en masse.

Harry's and Hermione's daughters, Gillian and Virginia Rose, visited fairly often. Both had migrated South to the States, married there, and their respective families had spread out from coast to coast. Much the same could be said for their youngest, Brian, who, though living in Victoria on Vancouver Island, made the pilgrimage across Canada as often as his schedule (and finances) permitted. With so many spokes in the Potter family wheel, not a Summer had passed in the last forty years but that one or another, either child or grandchild, popped in to visit.

James, however, was another story.

James Potter the Second, their eldest son and firstborn, had fallen in love with his parents' stories of England at an early age. Upon graduation, he had sought and obtained a Rhodes Scholarship to study at Oxford. He planned to return, diploma in hand, but fate intervened in the form of a fellow student who swept him off his feet and shortly after swept him "down the aisle." He became a British citizen upon graduation, which both pleased and dismayed his parents. As James' roots became ever more firmly planted in English soil, Harry and Hermione saw less and less of him. He fathered three boys, who were themselves now married with families whom Hermione had thusfar seen only in photos.

But that long drought was about to end. Nearly every square inch of wall space, as well as countless albums in desk drawers and on cupboard shelves, was covered with photos of Hermione's grandchildren and great-grandchildren. But they were all growing so fast, changing from the faces in the photos into people who would be barely recognizable when they arrived. A veritible army of strangers was about to descend upon the Potter household. But this did not intimidate Hermione. She was prepared for such an onslaught as were few before her.

Among the framed photos on the living room wall were two documents which Harry and Hermione had prized over anything else in their lives.

It was Dumbledore's allusion to Molly Weasley, as related by Harry in a reflective moment, that inspired them both toward a career in teaching. In their fifty years in the Halifax school system, they had turned out uncounted doctors, lawyers, teachers, scientists, even a Prime Minister. They had made an unbeatable team, she and Harry. As a history teacher, principal, and superintendant of schools, Hermione had honed thousands of young minds to their absolute keenest edges. And in his own capacity as a physical education teacher and guidance counselor, Harry had given those students the strength of body and spirit to use their gifts for the greatest good. Looking at their framed teaching certificates now, Hermione would not have traded them for the Order of Merlin, First Class.

Upon their retirement, they had moved up the coast into an old stone house promptly dubbed Potter Castle by Hermione. It reminded her so much of her beloved Hogwarts that she insisted it not be "improved" with any modern trappings, such as wall-screen visiphones and satellite communication. An electric furnace was her only concession to practical modernity, but even then she preferred a crackling fire in all but the most severe conditions. A woodpile sheltered by an enclosed porch was always kept heaped high by visitors such as Ron and Ginny, and in case of emergency there was a magic hand-mirror on the night table, which Ginny promised to answer any hour of the day or night (especially now that Harry was gone).

The ocean view was breathtaking, but Hermione found the cool Summers increasingly discomforting. Harry had delighted in teasing her about it, relenting only when threatened with a night on the living room sofa (a threat which Hermione never carried out). But its abundance of bedrooms had proved their worth during many a family gathering, and before this day were over, the old homestead would be tested to its limits. When the letters of confirmation began to resemble the deluge Harry had described when his Hogwarts letters nearly buried Number 4 Privet Drive, Hermione looked at Harry's portrait and laughed, "Do you think I should owl Arthur and Molly? Maybe they can use the same spell on Potter Castle that's been holding up the Burrow all these years."

The slam of a car door roused Hermione from her reverie. She looked at the clock on the mantel. "Right on time," she said out loud, nodding at Harry's portrait. Rising from her chair, she walked to her desk and slid open the top right drawer. She paused, holding her breath, as her eyes fell on the contents of the drawer. Her hand dipped and rose swiftly before plunging into the pocket of her apron. She closed the now-empty drawer smoothy and turned toward the doorway leading to the kitchen. A screen door banged, and a man with brown hair and impish eyes entered the living room.

"Gran!" he exclaimed, wrapping Hermione in a warm hug.

"Harry," Hermione said, nearly choking on the name.

Harry was James' youngest son. Her Harry had flatly refused to name either of his sons after himself ("One Harry Potter in this family is quite enough, thanks.") Little did he suspect that his two sons were conspiring behind his back to ensure that their father's name survived in spite of his staunchest efforts to the contrary. Fate stonewalled Brian, whose efforts to produce a male heir yielded two daughters, after which his wife drew the line with a finality Hermione mentally compared to the one Professor Dumbledore had drawn around the Goblet of Fire. James had better success than his brother, but Harry covertly persuaded his son's wife to name their first two boys after her two grandfathers. But when a third son was born to James, no power on Earth could prevent him from naming the child Harry James Potter the Second.

"I'm named after my grandfather," James had reasoned, his emerald eyes twinkling, "so why shouldn't my son enjoy the same distinction?" As he had but few times in his life, the elder Harry was forced to concede defeat.

Harry's wife and three daughters spilled out of the kitchen, all of them wasting no time in smothering Hermione with tearful hugs. A loud clattering outside indicated that the two older boys were engaged in unloading the luggage from their rented van. As Hermione appraised her great-granddaughters now, she was only just able to recognize them. The youngest, Lily Anne, was all of five years old in the most recent photo in Hermione's album. The 15-year-old standing before her now was a striking contrast to that child.

"J will be here in a minute," Harry said. "Are you ready?"

Hermione nodded, patting her pocket, which responded with a crisp retort. "J", she knew, was actually Harry James Potter the Third. In order to avoid confusion with his father, his mother began calling their youngest son "Harry J." almost immediately. When his sisters were old enough to talk, they began referring to their brother simply as "J." The appellation stuck, and from then on, barring exceptional circumstances (such as moments of exasperation in which either parent would invoke all three names), it was the only address to which he would answer.

Hermione's only clear picture of J was that of a one-year-old. It was, she supposed, the price to be paid for living in the past. Before their retirement, their home in Halifax was fully wired with world-wide visual communications. Since relocating to Potter Castle, she'd had to rely on photo snaps to view her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. She hadn't even a simple microdisc player on which to view stills, something every home in the world took for granted nowadays. Ever and anon Hermione would press for more photos, but the answer was always the same.

"He's a bloody whirlwind," J's mother would tell Hermione in telephone conversations. "Won't sit still for a simple photo."

"Can you put him on now?" Hermione would respond. "At least I can hear how he's grown."

"He's off with his mates," came the ubiquitous response. "He's always off with his bleedin' mates. Not that I'm worried, mind. Never a bit of trouble. And brilliant! Gets that from his great-gran, I expect."

Hermione smiled now, all a-tremble. Her long wait would soon be over. She wondered what he would look like now, at eleven. But why wonder, when he would be standing before her in two shakes of a centaur's tail? (She marveled that she could still think in terms of magical metaphor, after so many years. Old habits did, indeed, die hard.)

The screen door banged again, and Harry gave his wife and daughters a meaningful glance, whereupon they all kissed Hermione again and vanished up the stairs to the bedrooms. As Harry disappeared into the kitchen, Hermione heard him say, "Right, son. I'll go help your brothers with the luggage. Your great-gran is waiting. Go on in."

J. Potter walked into the living room, his manner cautious and studied. As her eyes fell on him, Hermione had to cover her mouth to prevent herself from crying out.

"It's true," she whispered. "Merlin's beard, it's true."

Hermione faltered, and J immediately rushed to her side and helped her to her chair.

"Are you okay?" the boy said with genuine concern. Hermione nodded. Her mind was racing like a North Atlantic hurricane. J's simple words, so full of love and concern, rang in her ears. The sound of his voice echoed through the corridors of her deepest memories, so like, yet so different from, the one she remembered from so long ago. J dutifully raced back to the kitchen to fetch his great-gran a glass of water, and in that respite, Hermione's mind turned inward, glazing over with a light that glowed as from the far end of a long, narrow tunnel. J returned, glass in hand. Hermione sipped the water slowly, her eyes never leaving her great-grandson's face. Very slowly, she nodded to herself.

Almost from the first day of their new Muggle life, Hermione had suspected that neither her husband nor her wizarding friends had been entirely forthcoming regarding the circumstances of her exile from the magical world. Nothing in her extensive reading had so much as hinted at any malady that would make one allergic to magic. The arguments presented were reasonable enough, but she could not dismiss the feeling that she was nevertheless the victim of some sort of grand deception. But if this were true, it was also quite evident that there must be a good and unselfish reason for it. Surely so many dear friends would not go to so much trouble on her behalf without just cause. Thus, though her curiosity burned inside her like a bellyful of raw bubotuber pus, she put it aside and counted herself blessed to be loved so deeply by so many.

For Harry's part, his devotion to her bordered on out-and-out worship. Yet, through more than sixty years of marriage, even Hermione did not suspect just how deep her husband's devotion ran. Not until that night, more than five years ago -- the night the dreams began.

She did not understand them at first. They were sketchy at the beginning, indistinct. And infrequent. She gave them little thought. But slowly, as weeks lengthened into months, the dreams became both sharper and more frequent. Hermione would find herself chained to a wall, naked and helpless. Certain details remained clouded, but Hermione experienced sudden sharp flashes of agonizing torture which sometimes jolted her awake in the middle the night with a cry on her lips and cold sweat on her brow. And in the darkness, both in dream and in heart-pounding wakefulness, a face hovered before her, ghostly, horrible, taunting. It was as if living hatred had been cast in human form. It was a face Hermione knew well, if only in distant memories. A pale, pointed face, with eyes like chips of ice above a slitted mouth curled in a sneer of unbridled malice.

Even in clear detail, all was mystery to Hermione. But not for nothing was she accounted the cleverest witch at Hogwarts in a century. Nor had eighty-plus years dulled the edge of her razor-keen mind. By Hermione's reasoning, mysteries existed for but one purpose: To be solved.

Hermione and Harry had always spoken freely of their life in the magical world, both amongst themselves and with their wizarding friends. But certain subjects, she reflected, seemed to have fallen into disfavor, gradually disappearing altogether from such conversations. Chief among these had been any slightest reference to Draco Malfoy. As she probed her memory, she began to realize that she could recall seeing no mention whatsoever of the Malfoy family in any issue of the Daily Prophet during the years when they received subscription copies by owl-post. The Malfoys, whatever stain might attach itself to their name, remained one of the most prominent families in the wizarding world. How explain, then, the total absence of the name in more than five years of their subscribing to the Prophet?

It was time, Hermione decided, to revive an old and time-honored battle cry: When in doubt, consult a book.

In this particular case, it was the archives of the Daily Prophet Hermione proposed to consult. This was quite easily done. Though Harry's faithful post-owl, Hedwig, was long departed, the Weasleys had seen that Harry and Hermione were never without a means to keep in touch with their old wizarding friends. Visits from wizarding friends being strictly circumscribed, letters became Hermione's life-line to the world she had loved and could never see again. Even now, the attic of Potter Castle was stuffed to the crossbeams with enough parchment communiques to build a bridge across the Bay of Fundy. Once every ten years, like clockwork, Ron and Ginny would appear on their doorstep with a strong, young owl to replace their present one. Unlike Hedwig, these had all been common brown owls. These, everyone reasoned, were less ostentatious than the snowy Hedwig, who had more than once drawn unwanted Muggle attention in the course of a delivery. Even to a wizard, one brown owl looked pretty much like any other. It was an apathy that would serve Hermione well now.

Using their owl, Hermone sent a letter to the Daily Prophet, passing herself off as a young witch doing research for a school essay. Using a small cache of wizard coins saved from Harry's vault for sentimental reasons, Hermione purchased back numbers of the Daily Prophet, their dates ranging from her mysterious blackout in Hogsmeade to her awakening in St.Mungo's nearly two weeks later. The headlines and stories in those papers bore little resemblance to the papers she had been given to read in her hospital bed during her convalescence. With the suddenness of an exploding Filibuster firework, the truth was spread out before her, complete with moving wizard photos. She read all about her abduction at the hands of Draco Malfoy, of Draco's death at Harry's hands, of Harry's trial and the sentence imposed by Dumbledore. From this, she was able to infer the rest.

It was obvious that her mind had been modified by a powerful Memory Charm. Only a very powerful Charm, she reasoned, could have blocked so terrible a memory. And she knew enough about such Charms to know that they could be broken down over time. Hermione flattered herself that her strong, ordered mind, fueled by magical blood, could have broken through even the most powerful Memory Charm in no more than ten years. And the result? She did not delude herself. She would have gone mad. Hubris notwithstanding, she knew this as surely as she knew the sum of two plus two.

"You gave it all away, Harry," she whispered one night as he lay sleeping in blissful ignorance beside her. "For me. I never thought I could love you more. It just goes to show that even know-it-all Hermione Granger Potter can learn something new."

With this knowledge in hand, the dreams were easily explained. Harry and their friends had carefully circumscribed all exposure to magic, limited their friends' visits to the shortest duration. But none, it seemed, had given due consideration to cumulative effects. Those two-hour visits once a month had added up over a period of more than sixty years, like tiny chips of wood nicked from a towering oak. Given enough time, even the dullest axe may fell the largest tree. In the end, the wall of Hermione's Memory Charm cracked, allowing her small glimpses of the horrors that lay deep within. Only the maturity of her advanced years had allowed her to withstand their impact. Had she experienced those same released memories sixty years ago, her sanity would surely have been forfeit.

Hermione never told Harry the truth. It would have served no purpose. Narcissa Malfoy was dead now. None remained who might wish to seek revenge against Harry -- or his family -- for Draco's death. Let the secret remain buried, as her husband and their friends had always intended that it should. It was enough that she knew. She knew as well that no woman had ever been loved so deeply as Harry loved her. He lived his last two years still believing that he was protecting her from herself. She would not steal away his peace of mind by divulging her knowledge. She could do no less for such a man as Harry Potter.

But even as Hermione contented herself with a job well done and a mystery solved, a tiny, nagging ghost remained in the back of her mind. One piece of the puzzle was eluding her, and though she entertained her suspicions, they remained unproven.

Until now. Now Hermione knew beyond all doubt that no man ever lived who loved a woman as Harry had loved her. He had loved her so deeply that he had taken as his own a son fathered by another man, begat in an act not of love, but of the most horrible violence imaginable. And though his own, true son came along shortly thereafter, Hermione never once saw Harry favor the younger boy over the elder. (And if Harry was guilty of favoring his daughters over both boys, had that not been every father's prerogative since the world began?) She had watched Harry lavish a lifetime of love on James, who, if not his own, was yet flesh of her flesh, even as was Harry through the sacrament of marriage. United by that bond, they were father and son in every sense that mattered. In Hermione's eyes, it was an act of love eclipsing a thousand times a thousand sonnets. Hermione did not know what she had ever done to deserve to be loved so deeply. Perhaps she would never know. But from this moment, and for the rest of her life, she would never doubt. Hermione smiled at her great-grandson, who was now sitting in a chair an arm's length away, and he reciprocated with a smile bright and warm as the the morning sun; A smile that illuminated a pale, pointed face with cool, grey eyes that peered fervidly from beneath a shock of thick, silver-blond hair.

"Thank you, J," Hermione said as she set her water glass aside. "Nothing to worry about. Too much excitement is all. It's not every day that I get to meet my great-grandson, after all." She smiled warmly, and was rewarded in turn by a smile that was as far removed from the man whose face he wore as the gates of Heaven were from the deepest pit of Hell.

Without warning, J's smile retreated, as if a discordant note had suddenly intruded on the harmony of his thoughts. His eyes fell slightly, and he began to fidget in a manner that nearly brought tears to Hermione's eyes. It was as if her own, departed Harry were sitting before her, again and evermore eleven years old.

"Something on your mind, J?" Hermione said invitingly.

"Um," J murmured. His hand was fumbling at his side, as if wanting, but not wanting, to slip into the pocket of his faded jeans.

"Do you have something to show me?" Hermione prompted gently.

J nodded. "Mum and dad said I should show you. I don't know what it means. But they said...they said you would." J dipped into his pocket and pulled out something that was crumpled almost beyond recognition. Embarrassed, J did his best to smooth out the abused envelope. It crackled as he did so, with a sound not of paper, but of parchment. A few flecks of red wax crumbled and fell onto the rug. J held out the envelope, upon which the name Harry James Potter III was written, in elegant cursive, in bright green ink. The morning light glinted from a gold seal at one corner of the envelope, casting in relief a large letter H.

Smiling brightly, Hermione reached into the pocket of her apron and pulled out two envelopes which, allowing for the ravages of time, were virtual mirror images of J's. J leaped out of his chair as he saw the names written on the envelopes: Harry Potter and Hermione Granger.

"Better sit back down, sweetheart," Hermione said with a tinkle of musical laughter that seemed to steal at least eighty years from her aspect. "We have a lot to talk about."

Author's Note: My evil computer conspired to keep me from posting this finale. I won out in the end. I hope it was worth it as far as the readers are concerned.

Humble thanks to all who expressed some small measure of pleasure from reading this story. And after phoenixwriter's generous recommendation, I pray this final chapter did not disappoint. If it has a few holes, that's only to be expected from a simple fanfic scribe.

I have a few more stories waiting in the wings. The next one should begin next week, once I've knocked a few of the rough edges off. It's not as dark and depressing as this one, but neither is it fluff. In fact, it presents a Hermione of a type I've not written before now, one more in line with canon. She has elected to put her career ahead of romance, much to Harry's dismay. It's a post-grad story, with flashbacks dating to Fifth Year. It was written before OotP was released, and not hide nor hair of Umbridge is to be seen (praise Merlin!). I call it: But Not Forever.

Thanks again.