But Not Forever

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and his friends are the property of J.K. Rowling, and they are used here for entertainment purposes only. No profit shall be accrued hereby, now or ever.


Author's Note: I didn't plan on allowing so much time to pass between posts, but I have a very good reason for the delay. Two, actually.

First, I've been busy writing a very special story as a birthday present for one of my favorite people. (Note From Fae Princess: Happy Birthday to ME! **huggles my story**) Everything else took a back seat until that happy project was completed.

The other reason is that the story commencing below is my oldest inventory work. I wasn't as happy with it as when I first wrote it two years ago. I've been working to bring it up a notch, lest it be found wanting in such splendid company as this site boasts. As it was written a year before OotP, it paints a more tranquil picture of Harry's fifth year than the novel presented. Since the focus of the story is post-grad, school is downplayed here. The past matters only insofar as it helped to shape Harry's present. As to that, the readers, as ever, will be the final judge.

This is, as mentioned, a post-graduate story, abetted by flashbacks. The latter will be easy to spot. Anything that takes place in a Hogwarts setting or time-frame will be happening in Harry's memory. All else is present-time.

I wrote this story in part to see if I could play by J.K.'s rules. I normally prefer the vaster dimensions of pure third-person narrative. Here, however, everything will be seen through Harry's eyes, per JKR.

In addition, I appropriated another of J.K.'s standard ploys. I'm sure everyone has noticed that she will introduce something magical, something never seen before, early in the story -- and lo and behold, that magical whatsis becomes crucial to Harry's predicament. In Goblet of fire, we are introduced to the concept of the portkey, only to have it turn out to be the crux of Voldemort's plan to spirit Harry away to Little Hangleton. In addition, the Summoning Charm used by Molly Weasley to appropriate all of Fred's and George's ton-tongue-toffees serves Harry twice, Summoning his Firebolt during the first task, and later retrieving the transformed Triwizard Cup so he can escape from Voldemort. Be ye forewarned, therefore. What's good enough for Her Majesty, Queen Joanne, is fair game for the rest of us.

Enough blather, then. On to Chapter 1.

Wakefulness came to Harry with a sensation of burning heat. He raised his arm sluggishly in an attempt to block out the sun scorching his face.

The heat persisted. As his torpid mind began to clear, Harry realized that the back of his arm was growing hot where it touched his forehead. The conclusion was irrefutable. The heat wasn't coming from the sun, but from himself. He had a fever.

Harry shifted his weight, to be rewarded by jolts of excruciating pain of undetermined origin. He relaxed, grimacing as tears flooded his eyes and moistened his cheeks. He allowed his limp arm to fall from his face and come to rest beside him. He lay motionless until the pain subsided. With a ragged sigh of gratitude, he opened his eyes.

A tangle of branches met his blurred gaze. He lay in shadow, the sun just visible through the foliage as it hung above a forest rimming the Western horizon. A forest, he supposed, not unlike the one surrounding him.

But what forest? Where was he? Why could he not remember?

In lieu of reason, instinct asserted itself. Harry reached for the pocket where his wand should be. He hadn't the presence of mind to worry that it might not be there. His fingers closed on the smooth wood. He raised his arm heavily until the tip of his wand was hovering over his face. His eyes crossed painfully as he sought to bring the tip into focus.

His mouth was dry, his throat tight. He swallowed with some discomfort, licked his lips ineffectively with the tip of his tongue.

"Aquas," he whispered.

A tiny stream of water fell from his wand and splashed down on his face. He blinked gratefully as his eyes felt the cool, delicious wetness. He slowly maneuvered his wand so that his cheeks and forehead were covered with the downfall. Rivulets ran into his mouth, and his constricted throat softened as he choked, coughed, and finally managed to swallow a few halting gulps.

Without warning a terrible cry reverberated from the dense canopy. A chill surged through Harry that was unrelated to his fevered state.

As if a door had been kicked open, Harry remembered everything! He froze, halting the falling water with a flick of his wrist. His eyes now fresh and agile, he focused on that portion of the sky he could see without turning his head. He listened carefully. Over the rustling of the leaves and the beating of his heart, he searched for a sound he hoped never to hear again. A sound like canvas sails rippling on an ocean breeze, yet coming from a place where frigate nor schooner never sailed.

Dragon wings!

Harry fought down panic. He lay still, controlling his breathing with a yoga-like exercise he had learned but recently. Clearing his mind, he felt his heartrate diminish, his muscles relax.

Reason and clarity returned to his mind, and that reason told him he could not -- dared not -- remain where he was. But could he travel? Could he even move?

Returning his wand to its pocket, he extended his hand and placed it atop his right thigh.

It was as if he had touched the surface of a boiling cauldron. The flesh of his thigh was taut, swollen, and burning hot!

Harry took out his wand again. He lay it across his chest, held loosely in fingers strangely relaxed, as he searched his mind for the appropriate healing spell.

As he closed his eyes to concentrate, Harry saw moving images of the drama enacted on this spot only hours ago.

Having lost his way in a dense woodland, Harry had emerged into a clearing to encounter one of the most fearsome sights to which mortal sanity -- wizard or Muggle -- could be subject: Two bull dragons locked in a death-struggle over a nesting female.

He'd had no warning. Chinese Fireballs (he was, after all, in China) always fought in silence, wasting no energy on posturing nor vocal challenges. Their cries resounded only afterwards, whether bellows of triumph or cries of pain and defiance ere death stilled their cloven tongues forever.

Only Harry's training saved his life. Had he been a second slower, he would have been decapitated by the sweep of those flashing, leathery wings in the first moments. But even as he dodged that deadly swipe, he was hurled through the air by an angry flick of a crimson tail. He had a vague impression of a burst of heat in his leg that told him his right femur had been fractured by that fierce blow. But any further thoughts on the matter were abruptly swallowed up -- along with consciousness itself -- as he crashed into a stand of wild bamboo and fell heavily, senseless before he hit the ground.

That capricious blow, Harry thought now, had undoubtedly saved his life, bearing him out of harm's way while the dragons fought on oblivious to everything but their mating frenzy. He reminded himself of this as he touched his wand to his thigh and murmured the incantation that would cause the ends of his broken bone to knit together and merge into a single unit again.

He'd been quite lucky, actually. The break was a clean one, the skin unbroken. Harry felt a series of sharp stings as his bone mended, the sensation reminiscent of the occasion when he'd had to have the bones of his right arm regrown after their accidental removal by Professor Lockhart. In the case of a simple fracture such as this, a professional Healer could have performed the procedure painlessly, in half the time. Someone like Madam Pomfrey, the Hogwarts Nurse. Or even --

Harry snatched his thoughts away from that avenue and thrust them in an another direction. His broken bone would be mended directly, but he still needed to bring down the fever and the swelling. For that he needed a potion.

Daring to move only when he was certain the bone was whole once more, Harry propped himself up on his left elbow as he dug his heel into the sward for purchase. The effort taxed his reserves of strength and sent his head to throbbing. Casting about with teary vision, he spied that which he valued more in this moment than all the gold in his Gringotts vault: His pouch. Slightly dizzy now, he pointed his wand and said faintly, "Accio!"

The pouch did not move. Harry tried again, with the same negative result.

"Merlin's bum!" Harry muttered as his head dropped onto his chest. He hadn't the strength of will to initiate a simple Summoning Charm!

Pocketing his wand, Harry heaved a vindictive sigh and proceeded to drag himself across the forest floor, kicking with his left heel to augment his grasping hands. By the time he reached his pouch, he was bleeding from a score of places due to the abundance of splintered bamboo littering the ground. Pulling a jagged shard from his left palm with his teeth and spitting it out peevishly, Harry flung open the pouch and emptied it impatiently before him.

An assortment of tiny pokes spilled out, each bound with a drawstring and secured with a Sealing Charm. Finding the ones he sought, he dropped them into his pocket and tossed the others unceremoniously back into the pouch.

Next he opened a flap on the backside of the bag and drew forth a circular sheet of pewter about the size of a dinner plate. This he touched with his wand. The flat metal curved upwards on all sides until it had become a bowl. A handy piece of equipment this was, requiring far less magical concentration than would be required to Transfigure a bowl outright. In his present state, he doubted he could have Transfigured an acorn into a sewing thimble. He filled the bowl with water from his wand, pulled out his pocketful of pokes and began to sort through them.

"No," he caught himself, shaking his head sluggishly. "Heat water...first..."

With a wave of his wand, a tiny ball of blue flames appeared, hovering just above the ground. Harry smiled in spite of his discomfiture, remembering the one who had taught him how to conjure those flames more than seven years ago. He set the bowl of water over the flames on a Hover Charm.

"Couldn't do a bleedin' Summoning Charm when I needed it," Harry said scornfully to his wand as he waited for the water to boil. "Had to lose two square feet of skin crawling over a carpet of flippin' bamboo." He licked at the wound in his left palm as if for emphasis. "Ruddy Phoenix's arse is what you are!"

Once the water was boiling, Harry selected a poke, effaced the magical seal with a wave of his wand and opened the drawstring. He dipped in with thumb and forefinger, extracted a pinch of coarse, dun-colored powder which he held up to his eyes and appraised. Satisfied with the portion, he sprinkled the ingredients onto the surface of the bubbling water. He stirred the mixture with a bamboo splinter, not wanting to risk warping his wand. He repeated this action with the three remaining pokes, each time judging the measure purely by eye. He'd earned top marks in Advanced Potions in his final year at Hogwarts, earning him as well the grudging praise of Snape, who doled out such acknowledgement in teaspoon-sized doses. The words had seemed to taste of dung on the Potions Master's tongue, and Harry smiled now in spite of his miseries as Snape's sour face swam before his mind's eye. In a very short time the potion had thickened to where it clung to the splinter and dripped off in slow, unsavory-looking drops. Satisfied, Harry extinguished the flames and let the potion cool, stirring it regularly.

When the pewter bowl was cool to the touch, Harry raised it with his right hand while pinching his nose with his left. He drank it down, making a face that would have rivaled a mountain troll's for unpleasantness.

Within minutes his leg was markedly less hot and the swelling noticibly diminished. As the fever and pain melted away, they were quickly replaced by another sensation that had previously been subordinate: Hunger.

Harry's spirits fell a notch. Though his Survival Pouch held dozens of valuable, even indispensable, items, not a one of them was food.

Wizards typically relied upon their wands to provide food during times of privation. Wand-produced food was palatable at best, lacking the savor of natural sustinence. But, to the surprise of many an apprentice sorcerer, producing truly edible food was very advanced magic, requiring deep concentration and much practice.

Harry had a dearth of the latter, and, owing to his present state of affairs, precious little of the former.

Harry stared at his wand in dismay. Without proper purpose of will, it could easily produce something that looked for all intents and purposes like food, yet which could just as easily make him physically ill, if not actually poison him.

No. Under present conditions, his wand were better used to acquire food than to produce it.

As he sat pondering his dilemma, Harry's head suddenly snapped up as if jerked by a leash.

His Firebolt! With his broomstick, he could fly high enough to get his bearings, find a village, perhaps obtain a modest meal from a kind Muggle family. In his wanderings across China, Harry had found the people both friendly and generous. Surely they would --

Abruptly, Reality stamped its heavy boot onto Harry's enthusiasm. Where in Merlin's name was his Firebolt? Initially, it had been fastened to his pouch by a loop. Its rhythmic bounce against his back had been reassuring on his yearlong trek across the vast expanses of Asia. Where was it, then? He'd found the pouch quickly enough. But that might have been a fluke. Harry had no idea how far he'd been flung by the Dragon's tail. It might take him days to find his broomstick. Days he did not have. Weakened as he was, how long could he survive without proper food? How long before his strength gave out and he fell into a sleep from which he might never awaken?

Harry cuffed himself mentally. Defeatism would solve nothing. He would address his missing broom later. Hunger was the problem now.

Slowly a smile grew on Harry's face. He caught up his pouch and opened a small pocket on its side. From this seemingly impossibly small space he withdrew his Invisibility Cloak. Charmed with a Tesseract Spell, the hand-sized pocket was large enough inside to accomodate a hundred times its outer dimensions. Asking Arthur Weasley to teach him that spell during the holidays preceding Seventh Year might have been one of the smartest things Harry ever did. It had gone far toward earning him an O on his N.E.W.T.'s.

Shouldering his pouch, Harry flung the Cloak over himself. He spied a large tree and sat with his back against the rough bark. Wand in hand, peering out though a fold of the hood, Harry placed himself into a meditative state. He knew that these forests teemed with small game. With patience, and a little luck, his meal would come to him.

Sitting thus, Harry found time, at last, to think.

His first thought was to ponder the circumstances which had led him to such a state as this. It was a journey comprising many steps, taken over many years. Sorting them into a semblance of order was a task for which his weakened state left him ill-prepared. But the first step -- ah, the first step!

It was a day Harry would never forget. September 1, 1995. The Hogwarts express. Ron had gone off in search of the food cart, leaving Harry and Hermione alone in the last compartment. They sat together, so close that Harry could have reached out and taken Hermione's hand in his -- something, to his surprise, he found he very much wanted to do. It had been two months since they had parted at King's Cross Station. Two months since he had felt Hermone's soft lips pressing against his cheek. He'd thought about that moment all Summer. He'd thought of the day when the two of them would meet again, of what he would do when they were alone together for the first time. He'd come to no decision then. And he was no closer to a course of action now. He felt he should do something, say something. Anything.

But in the silence following Ron's departure, it was Hermione who spoke first. And nothing would be the same again.

"I came to a decision over the Summer, Harry," Hermione said with a suddenness that startled Harry. "After witnessing so much death last year, I've decided to devote myself to Life. You do know that we have to decide this year what sort of career we want after we graduate, so we can take the proper courses to prepare. When Professor McGonagall calls us in to ask us what we want to do, I know what I'm going to tell her." She paused just long enough to turn and fix Harry's eyes with hers. "I'm going to become a Healer."

Harry stared at Hermione with his mouth slightly open. With a calm that might might be expected from one ordering tea and cakes at Madam Puddifoot's, Hermione had announced a decision that would affect the rest of her life. And it was not merely her voice that evidenced such indefinable serenity. Her whole aspect had altered in only two short months. Every last trace of the young girl Harry had met on this very train exactly four years ago was gone. Here was a woman sitting before him, still weeks shy of her fifteenth birthday, yet radiating an aura of maturity rare in one with twice her years.

"That's...great," Harry stammered.

He had no idea what to say, how to react. Harry had spent the Summer making decisions of his own, mostly revolving around Voldemort and the newly-reformed Order of the Phoenix. After much soul-searching, he had resolved to do whatever was necessary to destroy the Dark Lord. Yet, despite all that decision portended, the war against Voldemort had a foreseeable end. Harry's decision, however significant, was not immutable. Hermione's, however, implied a virtual lifetime of dedication, sacrifice, selfless devotion.

It was ironic that, while Harry knew he might well die in his effort to square accounts with Voldemort, he was decidedly less than fanatical about devoting his entire life to such causes. He'd spent many a sleepless night on Privet Drive, and later at the Burrow, pondering the conflict to come. But when, as he hoped, the good fight was won, he saw for himself a future as far removed from death and sacrifice as was possible. He would sit at his window late at night and envision himself as a world-famous Quidditch player, enjoying the adoration of the masses (and of sexy young witches like Cho Chang) as he traveled the world free as the wind that carried his Firebolt.

Freedom. Harry ached for freedom! After living for years in a broom cupboard, he'd gone off to Hogwarts full of great hopes and expectations, only to discover that he was not so free as he supposed. Schedules. Rules. Regimentation. "You must do this -- now! No, no, you must never, ever do that!"

Harry lived for the day when he would be free as Hedwig, to spread his wings and soar on the winds of caprice.

And here on the Hogwarts express taking them to begin Fifth Year, Hermione had just announced a decision that would effectively circumscribe her freedom for the rest of her life -- which, in the wizarding world, could last upwards of two centuries! The very thought was anathema to Harry.

Why, then, did he suddenly feel a subtle tugging at his heart as he looked on her tranquil, smiling face framed in its omnipresent nimbus of bushy brown?

Could Hermione have read his mind in that moment, she would have seen the truth immediately. A truth Harry did not yet recognize himself. It would be a very long time -- years, in fact -- before Harry would look back on this time and place and realize that it was in this moment that he began to fall in love with Hermione Granger.

Author's Note: FYI, Harry's presence in China has nothing to do with Cho, who is acknowledged only peripherally here. I simply needed Harry to be as far away from England as he could get. Why? All will become clear in due course.

Thanks to everyone who stuck around after The Price. I promise, this story will be far easier on the constitution. Harry's angst will be of the more pedestrian variety -- though he won't get off easy for that. This story is composed of eight chapters, none of them long (as is my norm). I hope everyone will set aside a few minutes each week to see this to its conclusion.

As always, thanks for reading.

Author's Note: Finishing the birthday story referenced last time took a little longer than I anticipated. Now that it's finished, I should be able to get back to my usual weekly posting schedule.

Thanks to all who reviewed. Time to peel back another layer of Harry's past as he copes with his present difficulties (which, he will soon learn, have only just begun). On to Chapter 2.

Time held little meaning for Harry as he sat securely under his Invisibility Cloak and watched the forest for signs of movement. He'd gained certain new perspectives in his time in China, among them being the concept of time as a river, gently carrying its human flotsam forward toward an unseen and ever retreating horizon. Not that he truly understood even a fraction of what he had learned on his pilgrimage of self-discovery -- the Master stressed that even a wizard's lifetime barely permitted one to skim the surface of learning and understanding. It was enough that one made the effort.

Harry ran his hand over his right thigh. The flesh was supple once again, the fever gone. But, he noted, the relief in his leg seemed not to extend to the rest of his body. His face still felt flushed, his joints achy. Well, he reasoned, he had been dashed through a wall of bamboo by an angry dragon. It would be unnatural if he didn't feel some discomfort.

Simple healing spells had removed all trace of his numerous scratches and cuts. He saw only unbroken skin through the small tears in his garments. He would have to secure new clothes at the first opportunity. This would be easily accomplished, as nearly every village had one or more among the elderly whose living was gained by the loom, the spinning wheel, and needle and thread. The clothes he wore now were just such, obtained in exchange for a day's labor in the fields.

Harry had begun to despair of getting a meal anytime soon. He felt certain that this part of the woods was safe from dragons; the trees were relatively close-set, and none showed any sign of having been disturbed by anything large. Nothing the size of a dragon could fail to leave some trace in so confined a space. And the smaller animals would find it safe to live and forage here.

But these were not exactly ordinary circumstances. A violent dragon battle like the one Harry had stumbled upon might frighten the animals away for days. There was no way of knowing.

A twig snapped, a soft, muted sound. Harry might have missed it were he not so deep in meditation that even his heartbeat and breathing seemed non-existent. Peeking through his Cloak, Harry just made out a small patch of fur, mottled and well-camoflaged in the patchy sunlight.

It was a Mouse Deer.

To Harry, it was supper.

Drawing his wand noiselessly, he eased the tip past the folds of his Cloak and whispered, "Avada Kedavra."

A short spurt of green energy burst from the wand, shimmered feebly for a moment, and died.

Cursing silently, Harry repeated the spell, with similar results.

Harry sighed. The Killing Curse was strong magic, powered as much by force of will as by practice and personal mettle. While he was sufficiently recovered to perform basic spells, such as the earlier Summoning Charm, he was simply too weak to provide the necessary impetus for such a potent Curse as this one.

The tiny deer was still in view, its ears twitching nervously, seemingly intent on some plant at which it appeared to be nibbling. Alert for sound and scent only, it had not seen the faint green sparks emitted by Harry's wand. His mouth set, Harry pointed the wand a third time.

"Stupefy!"

Harry congratulated himself on his aim at a distance which he estimated at no less than eighty yards. The deer lay motionless, though still alive. All that remained was for Harry to bring it to him with a Summoning Charm.

Harry thought again of his lost Firebolt. Would that he could recover his broomstick so easily. But for a Summoning Charm to work, it was necessary to know at least a general direction in which to point one's wand. He could hurl the Summoning Charm at random all day and into the night and not even be close to the right direction. Moreover, every attempt would be a drain on his magical energy, further sapping his already diminishing reserves.

But a good meal would replenish his strength for some future attempt. And he had a right to expect some good luck after so much bad, didn't he? It was with this happy thought that Harry drew a relaxing breath and pointed his wand --

Harry's jaw went slack.

The deer was gone!

It could not have run off. He'd hit it squarely, of that he was certain. Grunting in frustration, Harry aimed his wand toward the spot where he thought he'd seen the deer last and said, "Accio deer!"

When nothing happened, Harry merely sighed. He'd had little hope to begin with, so the reality of failure brought no real disappointment.

There was nothing else for it. Using the tree for support, Harry pulled himself upright. He tested his weight on his right leg, which proved to be pain-free, if a trifle weak.

"Not a bad job of bone-mending, Potter," he said aloud. Smiling, Harry set off at a slow, halting pace in pursuit of his supper.

As he walked, Harry passed the long, tedious march in reflection. His thoughts came to rest, as they so frequently did, on Hogwarts. He saw himself as he was nearly two years ago, at the beginning of Seventh Year. He was sitting in Dumbledore's office, the Headmaster's voice ringing out loud and clear in his mind:

"To become a fully functional Auror, Harry, you must know much more than how to cast and repel attacking spells. You must become a completely self-sufficient individual. There will be times when you will find yourself alone, under adverse conditions, with no one to turn to for succor but yourself.

"You must learn how to find or build shelter from inclement weather. You must learn to live off the land, finding food how and where you may. And you must become skilled in the rudiments of healing. If a Death Eater or Dark Wizard should wound you in battle, there is no guarantee that a Healer will find you before you succumb to your injuries.

"As a first step, you will be taking a special Advanced Potions class twice a week. Professor Snape will instruct you how to brew potions that may very well save your life one day."

Harry groaned at the prospect of seeing Snape twice more per week. Dumbledore responded with a chuckle.

"In addition, you will need to prepare your own potion ingredients in avance and keep them with you. Mr. Longbottom has kindly volunteered to assist you."

Though caught off guard by this, Harry was in no way surprised. If Neville seemed inept at actually brewing potions, that was due in no small part to his fear of the Potions Master, who derived a sort of sadistic delight in badgering Neville into a flustered tangle of nerves every lesson. Left to his own devices, Neville was more than competent at Potions -- he had performed admirably during his O.L.W. practical exam, far from Snape's derisive, intimidating sneer; and when it came to the matter of potion ingredients, especially those of an herbal nature, he was easily the most skilled student in Seventh Year. Even Snape had yet to find a single criticism for Neville's Potions Kit, which was organized in a manner that even Hermione could not surpass.

"Furthermore," Dumbledore continued, "you will be reporting to Madam Pomfrey twice each week to be acquainted with the healing arts. Should you ever find yourself in circumstances similar to those experienced by Mr. Weasley in the Shrieking Shack three years ago, you will be very grateful indeed to have such skills to call upon in your time of need."

Nor was this a surprise to Harry. He remembered Remus Lupin once commenting, "I'm not as good at mending bones as Madam Pomfrey," implying that he could, at need, do so, if not as skillfully. That presupposed that the healing arts were not uncommon among magical folk as a whole.

Thus it was that Harry reported to the hospital wing two days later and found himself sitting before Madam Pomfrey in similar fashion as he had sat before Dumbledore.

"I regret to inform you, Mr. Potter," Madam Pomfrey declared (in a tone in which Harry detected no regret whatsoever), "that my present duties leave me unable to render the services required by both you and the Headmaster.

"However -- " and here Harry thought to detect a decidedly Dumbledore-like gleam in the Nurse's eye, " -- I have assigned you a most capable substitute. You need have no fear. A list has been compiled of those healing spells which we feel will be of the greatest service to you in your, 'ahem', chosen profession."

Madam Pomfrey handed Harry a scroll of parchment, which he took with a polite nod.

"And now, if you will excuse me..."

Knowing he had been dismissed, Harry rose with a muttered, "Thank you," and left the Nurse's office.

Outside, Harry unrolled the parchment and began to read the list of spells, noting the name of each, the incantation, and the results.

"I'm sure you'll find the list complete, Harry," came a familiar voice from behind him. "We were very thorough, Dumbledore and I."

Harry's head jerked up as he whirled about.

"Hermione? You mean you're -- "

"Not very intuitive for an Auror, Harry," Hermione teased. "If you're planning on using those same instincts to fight the Dark Side, you may be needing those healing spells a lot sooner than you think. Maybe we should increase to three nights a week -- or even four."

Or every night, Harry thought, so long as you're the teacher. But aloud, he said, "So -- where do we begin?"

"The list is double cross-referenced," Hermione said, walking over to peer at the list upside-down. "The first column lists the easiest spells to learn, in descending order. The other contains those which will be most valuable to know, but more difficult to master."

"I'm in your hands," Harry said with a nod.

"To start," she said thoughtfully, "I think we'll try healing simple cuts. But first, you need to drink a pain-suppressing potion."

"Wouldn't it be better," Harry suggested, "if I learned to work through the pain?"

"You will," Hermione said. "Later. First, I want you to concentrate on learning the spell. When you've got it down, then you can practice applying it under adverse conditions.

"Until then," she smiled, "rein in the testosterone, Rambo. I assure you, that macho chest-pounding rubbish will score you no points with me!"

"Yes, ma'am!" Harry saluted, grinning broadly. "You're the teacher, ma'am!"

"See you remember that, Potter," Hermione returned, her stern expression outranked by her laughing eyes.

Harry saw those eyes clearly now as he slogged through the forest clutter in pursuit of his meal. Every painless step was an affirmation of Hermione's dilgence and skill in the healing arts. It had been necessary for Harry to suffer any number of broken bones during their practice sessions, and Hermione had not been satisfied until Harry could perform the healing spell as well (if more slowly, and not quite as painlessly) as she.

In the end, he had not taken the Auror's road for which he had prepared so diligently. With the destruction of Voldemort, Harry found his passion dampened considerably in regard to his chosen path. He'd chosen another road instead, one leading here to this ancient land where he hoped to find within himself an indefinable something that would give his life meaning. Or so he told himself. The simple truth was, he knew very well what was missing from his life -- or, more accurately, who.

Harry now stood at the spot where he believed the deer to have fallen. He prowled about, peering through the underbrush --

There it was. It had slipped under a tangle of fallen branches, its camouflage making it virtually invisible. It was thoroughly stunned, but still warm and alive as Harry extracted it. It appeared to have been nibbling on a small tuber of some kind. The law of the land, Harry thought. It had come seeking a meal, and now it would become one.

Harry had considered various means of humane dispatch as he walked. The best would be to sever a neck artery, allowing the animal to quietly bleed to death. It was a proven method over many thousands of years. A simple Incisor Charm would make the tip of Harry's wand razor sharp. It would be over in seconds, quickly and painlessly.

And he couldn't bring himself to do it.

It was one thing to kill at a distance with a beam of magical energy. It was quite another to hold a warm, living creature in his hands and take its life away in such calculating fashion.

Harry sighed heavily.

"Ennervate."

The tiny deer leaped up, its large brown eyes wide, and bounded away like a streak of Summer lightning.

Harry sank down into the brush. After a minute's quiet contemplation, he reached down, his fingers closing on a small, elongated object.

"Potato soup, then," he said as he studied the small tuber that was peppered with tiny teeth marks on one end.

Within minutes he had water boiling in his pewter bowl. He sliced the tuber into small sections with his wand and dropped them in, stirring it with a fresh bamboo splinter. The result was a sort of potato mush that reminded Harry of some of his more Spartan breakfasts at the Dursleys.

Among his pokes of potion ingredients was a small number containing simple spices. A pinch of one and a dash of another added the final touch to his meal.

Not even bothering to conjure a spoon, Harry sipped his repast from the bowl, sighing aloud at every swallow. Eschewing civilized manners, he licked the bowl clean before rinsing it and returning it, flattened once more, to his pouch.

Now that he had eaten, a lethargy came over Harry. He lay back in the shade, weariness wrapping him like a heavy cloak.

Madam Pomfrey always said (and Hermione concurred) that no spell or potion was as efficient at healing the human body as the body itself. Harry's body was trying to heal, drawing all its energy for the task and leaving Harry barely enough to think.

Harry watched the shadows around him steadily lengthen. Night could not come soon enough. Using a combination of magic and astronomy, he would be able to use the stars to tell him his exact position, as well as the date. He chided himself for losing track of something so rudimentary as the date. But wandering across a timeless land for weeks and months on end tended to diminish the significance of such modern devices as watches and calendars.

Harry had spent more than a month in a temple overseen by a Chinese wizard who was so ancient that a beardless Albus Dumbledore had been one of his students more than a century ago.

Ushered into the aged wizard's presence, Harry sat cross-legged for what seemed hours before the Master finally spoke:

"Who are you?"

"Uh...Harry Potter. One of your old students, Albus Dumbledore, sent me."

After a contemplative silence, the old wizard said again, "Who are you?"

"I told you," Harry said. "Harry Potter."

The teacher declined his shaven head slightly.

"Those are labels by which you are known to others. A brand burned upon you by your parents, at a time when you bore no distinction. Again I ask: "Who are you?"

"Uh..." Harry said slowly. "I don't know."

The Master smiled and bowed deeply.

"Now we may begin."

A part of Harry wanted to stay longer at the temple, but Wanderlust continued to tug at his sleeve. But he was the wiser for his brief stay. And even as the great bronze doors closed behind him and he walked out into the light of a new day, the words spoken to him by the Master in that first session remained with him:

"A man wears many masks in a lifetime. Those behind which we hide from others are as nothing beside those behind which we hide from ourselves.

"You must peel away your masks, young Potter. Only then can you discover who you truly are."

Author's Note: It's interesting to consider that I wrote this story at least a year before OotP came out, yet much of Harry's preparatory regimen, in particular the stress on Potions skills, plays out much as it did in the book. It only goes to prove that a little reasoning goes a long way when facts are at a premium. It will be interesting to see if Harry actually takes rudimentary Healing lessons from Madam Pomfrey in Book 6 (we already know he's taking Advanced Potions). If that's the case, I may just challenge Trelawney for her position as Divination teacher. If I'm proven right about the medical training, we'll be tied at two accurate predictions each. And if the Hermione of canon REALLY opts for a medical career, that will leave me one up. Pack your bags, Sibyll. Maybe Madam Rosmerta is hiring at the Three Broomsticks. Two butterbeers, please. Are these peanuts fresh?

Tune in next week when Harry's predicament tightens by another half-turn of the screw. Until then, thanks for reading.


Author's Note:

Author's Note: In thanking those who reviewed last time, I address a very valid question from davaca: Why is the story coming in weekly doses if it was written so long ago? Quite simply, the original story is not good enough to post without diligent re-writing. I've never been satisfied with anything I've written until it's been turned inside-out at least twice. And since this has to be done during free time budgeted around my work schedule, a chapter a week is about all I can re-write. Even then, I'm never satisfied. I'm eternally grateful that the readers are happy with what turns up every week; if only I could say the same for myself. Alas, it is ever thus.

Let's press on, then. Chapter 3 awaits.

Early on in Fifth Year, Hermione started to notice signs that both Harry and Ron were beginning to fancy her as more than a friend. Given everything the trio had shared over the preceding four years, it was inevitable that they should all come to regard each other as extensions of themselves, sharing a closeness none outside their circle could understand, much less experience.

What might have become a friendship-straining rivalry between the two boys was quickly ameliorated by Hermione's increasingly busy schedule. Employing the quiet forcefulness that was her trademark, she made it clear to both of them that the rigorous nature of her new career goals would not accomodate any emotional entanglements. Boyfriends were out of the equation until such time as she deemed appropriate. This understanding allowed Harry and Ron to continue on as they had, both of them recognizing that the path to Hermione's heart was locked securely behind a door which no Alohomora Charm could breach.

This edict, however, did not preclude simple dating, much to Harry's and Ron's surprise and delight. Throughout the ensuing years, it was not uncommon for one or the other to escort Hermione to Hogsmeade, engage her in a stroll around the Hogwarts grounds, or sit under the stars on a clear night and contemplate the universe and their place in its unfathomable plan. But any attempt by either of them to elevate their relationship with Hermione to the next level was met with quiet but unyielding rebuff.

"Passion," Hermione explained in her usual perfunctory manner, "robs the mind of reasoning and common sense. It leaves one out of control. And I will be in control of my life, and my choices."

This declaration notwithstanding, there was yet no lack of love in her heart for her friends. When, under romantic conditions, Harry yielded to his desire and drew Hermione into a heartfelt kiss, she never failed to respond with warmth and tenderness. With love.

But no passion.

Harry was quietly adamant in his refusal to believe that there was not a fire inside Hermione, like unto his own, just waiting to be kindled. With all the love she possessed, passion could not be far removed, so he reasoned. And, drawing (even if unknowingly) on the hubris which was his legacy from his father, Harry determined that Hermione's flame, once set alight, would burn for him alone. He began to see it as his life's mission to ignite that flame in her heart. But as the years passed and graduation loomed, his goal began to seem as far away as the surface of the moon.

"I plan to marry someday," Hermione said on one seventh-year Hogsmeade trip when the subject of post-graduation came up, as it did so often in those last months of their Hogwarts tenure; but her declaration came with a clinical detachment that shocked Harry by its sterile tone. "The life I've chosen will be difficult. And the clearer my vision becomes, the more I realize that I don't think I can do it alone. I can't speak for others, of course. I mean, Madam Pomfrey does alright for herself here at Hogwarts. All I can do is look inside myself and try to be honest enough to recognize the truth when I see it. I may be heading into dangerous seas, and the journey will be easier with an anchor to hold onto.

"If I learned anything from Third Year," she said with the ghost of a smile on her determined lips, "it's that I sometimes take on more than one person can handle. No time for that sort of rubbish now. This is too important. When the time comes, I'll need someone beside me, to support me, to lend his strength to mine..."

"To love you," Harry said.

"Love," Hermione repeated with an almost total lack of emotion. "Yes, I suppose."

"Do you love me, Hermione?"

The question seemed to startle her.

"Of course I do."

"No -- I mean, are you in love with me?"

Hermione lowered her eyes a trifle, making no attempt to reply.

Harry caught her up suddenly and pulled her into a kiss. He burned his lips into hers, poured every ounce of passion he possessed into his action. Hermione returned his kiss gently, with love and warmth -- but no fire.

Harry pulled back angrily.

"Damn it, Hermione! You're like a bloody robot! Or a zombie!"

"I'm sorry you feel that way, Harry," she said quietly. "But you shouldn't act so surprised. I told you -- "

"I know! I just -- I can't -- Bloody Hell, Hermione! You're driving me up the wall!"

"Are you trying to get me into bed, Harry? If that's all you want, I'm sure the Hogsmeade Inn -- "

"I don't want your body, Hermione!" Harry shouted, heedless of their public location. "I want -- I want -- your heart."

Hermione placed a hand on Harry's arm.

"I'm sorry I said that, Harry. I wasn't serious. I know you too well for that. As for my heart, you've always had it. All of it. What you can't seem to realize is that the something more you're asking of me isn't mine to give. Not yet."

Hermione leaned in and kissed Harry on the cheek. He did not look at her as she turned and walked back to Hogwarts, leaving Harry to sit with his hand gripping his mug of butterbeer with trembling, white-knuckled fingers.

Harry awoke from his dream with a start, the ghost of Hermione's face still imprinted on his mind. Beads of cold sweat glistened on his head like morning dew. He raised a hand to wipe his face, finding the action only slightly less difficult than hefting a cauldron full of potion on the crook of his little finger. The fatigue in his joints that should be abating seemed instead to be intensifying. Following his first instinct, he reached for his pouch to sort through his potion pokes in search of a possible remedy.

As he threw open the pouch with a twinge of discomfort, his eye flickered over a tiny gleam of amber on the buckle of the khaki shoulder strap. He rummaged amongst his pokes a full minute before something clicked sluggishly in his brain and he returned his attention to the strap and buckle.

He felt his heart leap. Could it be?

He plucked the sliver from the buckle, careful not to drop it nor lose it to the wind. He caught his breath!

It was a fragment of broomstick twig! He was certain of it!

His fatigue forgotten, Harry pulled out his wand and touched the tip to the broom sliver. If this were, indeed, a fragment of his lost Firebolt, it could be used in a Tracing Charm. But was it?

The incantation finished, Harry stood and lay his wand across his upraised palm. In like manner as his wand had pointed to True North in the Maze during the Triwizard Tournament under the impetus of the Four-Point Spell, so now would it point directly to the primary body from which the tiny fragment had come.

Harry turned, stopped, turned, each time watching his wand closely. At last the wand stirred. It wavered a moment, then darted to one side and stopped.

Noting the location in his mind, Harry turned the other way and repeated the process. This time the wand hesitated not a whit, spinning about to point in the same direction as before. There was no doubt. The wand was pointing directly at the "parent" from which the "offspring" had come.

But was it his Firebolt?

There were two ways to go. A Unification Charm would cause the two parts to be attracted one to the other, like non-ferrous magnets, uniting the tail shard with the broom from which it came. It was certain and infallible. Unfortunately, the spell would inevitably cause the lesser body to take the initiative; if the twig leaped from Harry's hand and flew out of his sight, it would be united with his broomstick right enough, but he might not see precisely where it had gone. And his chance to repeat the process would have vanished as completely as the errant twig.

No, the second option was the safer, if less expedient: A simple Summoning Charm.

Harry squinted, drawing on his failing reserves in the gathering twilight. He pointed his wand and said, "Accio Firebolt!"

Nothing happened. Unperturbed, Harry shifted his aim by a degree and repeated the incantation. Depending on the distance between him and his broomstick, the shifting of his wand only a quarter of an inch could mean a variance of hundreds of feet in regard to the invisible compass of which he was the center and his wand the point. Thrice more he tried, without success. Then, on the fifth try --

"Accio Firebolt!"

From a point some three hundred yards away came a muffled explosion. A clump of brush erupted upwards. From it burst a long, slim column of polished wood that arched high in the air before describing an arc aimed directly at Harry. With gladness of heart he felt his fingers close around the familiar, smooth haft. Harry held the broomstick before him, resisting the urge to kiss it.

'Now," Harry thought with a new lightness of spirit, 'I can go home.

'As soon as I figure out where home is!'

Author's Note: Now that Harry has his trusty broomstick back, the means for his return to Hermione is no longer an issue. But other problems await. See you next week (I hope).

Author's Note: In extending thanks once again to those who reviewed, I address two thoughtful questions.

First, does it matter how accurately a wand is aimed in regard to a Summoning Charm -- or any spell? In a general sense, we've seen that spells usually shoot straight from a wand. Aim is therefore a factor. GoF was not specific, but if any of us were Harry, would we not have pointed our wand directly at Gryffindor Tower, being as that was where his Firebolt was? Hermione said that distance was not a factor; if, therefore, Harry's spell had missed the tower, it might well have continued on until it encountered the first Firebolt on its line of fire, regardless of the distance. Standing on the Hogwarts grounds, Harry was likely well within sight of Gryffindor Tower. He need only have sighted down his arm to hit his target squarely. And in BNF, Harry was hardly so precise as to adjust his angle by a thousandth of an inch. In essence, Harry was standing in the center of a gigantic circle, slicing it by degrees as one would a pizza. It requires only a slight variance of the cutting tool to increase the size of the slice dramatically. In Harry's case, a half-inch either way would widen his target area by dozens of yards, enough to make even a continually expanding spell less accurate as distance increased. That is assuming, of course, that Muggle geometry applies to magic.

Next, is Hermione out of character in being so pragmatic and unemotional? Maybe -- and maybe not. I am taking the license here of modeling Hermione after her mother. Granted, we know very little about Mrs. Granger. But we have it from J.K. herself that the Grangers are deadly dull to the point that she won't even bother devising back stories for them. Hermione's mother is thus painted as a career woman with nary a trace of Wingardium Leviosa in her soul. And before she was saved by Harry and Ron from the mountain troll, Hermione was well on her way to becoming a clone of her mother. I have simply reverted her to her old pattern for the sake of the story.

I appreciate people giving such deep thought to this little ficlet. Thoughtful criticism is a harder medicine to swallow than the sugar pill of praise, but like all medicine, it does the body (in this case, the creative soul) more good in the long run.

Right, then. On to Chapter 4.

With the passing of his elation at the recovery of his broomstick, Harry's lethargy returned with a vengeance. As weariness assailed his cogitative processes, he abandoned any thoughts of a potion, choosing instead to employ Madam Pomfrey's preferred method of treatment. Having so decided, he settled back against his tree and relaxed as best he could, conserving every bit of physical energy for the task of healing his battered body.

He hadn't long to wait now. The sun was painting crimson brush strokes along the Western horizon. Within an hour the sky would be a velvet canopy splashed with stars. Harry hugged his Firebolt to him, caressing its handle absently. In his present state -- which did not seem to be on the verge of improving any time soon -- Apparating was not even a consideration. At best he might travel a dozen yards before falling unconscious, perhaps awakening with a mouthful of bamboo splinters. At worst, he could be splinched into a scattering of body parts resembling the Black Knight in Monty Python and the Holy Grail. If he was to get home -- and oh, how he wanted to get home! -- it would be by broomstick, or not at all.

Fresh droplets of perspiration beaded his simmering forehead, running down to sting his eyes. His left hand locked fast to his broom handle where it lay across his knees, he slid his right hand up along his face to wipe his eyes.

A short laugh rose unbidden to his lips, his face splitting in a smile of genuine mirth.

He had not worn his glasses for more than a year now, and still he could not break himself of the lifelong habit of reaching for his eyes covertly from under a pair of lenses.

Still laughing, he rubbed his eyes, remembering thereby the delicate touch of other fingers than his not so long ago...

Harry lay on a bed in the Hogwarts hospital wing, his eyes closed. In a chair to his left sat Hermione. She held his left hand in hers. The first two fingers of her right hand lay upon Harry's left eye. Her own eyes, like Harry's, were closed, her face set with concentration.

Harry felt a subtle pulsing sensation in his left eye. The instinct to panic lay dangerously close to the surface of Harry's mind; few things stir panic like a threat to one's sight. But Hermione's soft hand holding his was worth a hundred relaxing potions or tranquilizing spells. He knew it was there solely as a point of contact, as part of the spell; but to Harry, Hermione's touch was magic of a singular kind, one not to be duplicated by any means, supernatural or otherwise.

Harry felt his eye relax. The light pressure of Hermione's fingers eased, telling him that she had withdrawn her hand. In like manner, her left hand released his. Harry opened his eyes and turned his head. A blurred oval that was Hermione's face swam before him. Instinctively he reached for his glasses where they lay on the bedside table.

"No," Hermione said.

Harry withdrew his hand. With a softly spoken, "Accio," Hermione Summoned Harry's glasses and tucked them into a pocket of her robes.

"Now," she said in a professional manner, "sit up and face the far wall."

Harry complied. He tried to focus, but his eyes seemed at odds with each other, and the result made his brain throb.

"Sorry," Hermione apologized. "I forgot, your eyes are out of balance now." Waving her wand, she produced an eye patch and handed it to Harry. He intuitively placed it over his unaltered right eye, and Hermione smiled, a fact he clearly noted as his left eye began to assert itself in the absence of its brother.

Merlin, but she was lovely when she smiled!

"Ready?" she said.

Harry nodded.

Hermione pointed her wand at the bookcase shouldering the far wall. A large book detached itself and hovered. Another wave of Hermione's wand and the book opened, its pages facing Harry.

"Let me guess," Harry chuckled. "Hogwarts: A History. You'll do anything to get me to read that ruddy book, won't you?"

"Might as well kill two basilisks with one stroke of Godric's sword," she smirked. "Now, if you're ready, please read the third paragraph."

At first Harry was doubtful. Yesterday, he wouldn't have bet two Knuts against the Sorcerer's Stone that he could accomplish such a task without his glasses. But now --

"Hold on. How will you know if I'm getting it right? Your eyes aren't that good, are they?

"No," she conceded. "My vision is about 20-30 or 20-25, something like that. At this distance I can make out the capital letters, but not the lower case."

"Then how are you -- Oh, Merlin! Don't tell me you have the bloody thing memorized!"

"Only certain chapters," Hermione said defensively through smiling lips. "Of which this is one. Now, if you please?"

Harry focused his eye, smiling with delight as the page appeared clearly before him. He read aloud:

"Upon his return to Hogwarts following his defeat of Grindlewald, Dumbledore resumed his duties as Transfigurtion teacher. Shortly thereafter, he was appointed to the post of Deputy Headmaster, from which he eventually ascended to the top position following the retirement of Armando Dippet."

"Very good, Harry," Hermione nodded with satisfaction. "Except the second line should read, 'he was appointed to the office of Deputy Headmaster.' I've no doubt you read it correctly to yourself. Thought you'd catch me, didn't you, Potter?"

She laughed, and to Harry it was music more beautiful than any he could imagine.

"This is really amazing," Harry said as he turned his head about to test his enhanced eye on other objects in the room. "Why has this never been done before?"

"It's -- " Hermione began, rising from her chair as she reached a hand toward Harry's face. Without warning she slumped back in her chair, her head falling onto her bosom.

"Hermione!"

Harry leaped to her side, placing a hand to her face to tilt it up gently. He was relieved when Hermione expelled a weary sigh, her eyelashes fluttering.

"It's nothing," she smiled, straightening as she placed a hand to the back of her neck and rubbed. Harry immediately duplicated her action, and her smile grew tender with gratitude. "Wandless magic takes a lot out of one. That's why wands were invented, don't you know. Transfiguration is especially draining."

Harry was now holding Hermione's hands in his and rubbing them gently. Within a minute the full color had returned to her cheeks.

"Nice bedside manner, Potter. Ever consider a career in wizard medicine?"

"No, thanks," Harry laughed. "I'm exhausted just watching you. My gosh, the schedule you've kept these last three years -- you didn't get another Time-Turner from McGonagall, did you?"

"There are times when I wish I had one," she sighed. "If only to catch a hour's sleep now and then. There's just so much to learn..."

"You've done marvelously," Harry said. "Every time I think you can't possibly impress me more, you turn around and do something even more spectacular."

An awkward silence held until Hermione, fully recovered, rose and resumed her examination of Harry's transfigured eye. She placed her fingers against Harry's temple, closed her eyes for a space of some thirty seconds, then nodded.

"So," Harry said. "About my question?"

"Question? Oh, yes. Why has this never been done before?

"You see, Harry, this procedure involves a mingling of magic and Muggle science. Optometrists have known for a long time that people are nearsighted or farsighted because their eyes are oblong instead of spherical. Recently they've been using lasers to reshape the eye and restore normal vision. But the wizarding world doesn't need lasers. We have Transfiguration.

"Only we should have been doing this ages ago! But too many wizards still hold that magic and science don't mix. Load of balls! Pardon me. It's just so frustrating! Here we are, on the doorstep of the twenty-first century, being held back by nineteenth century thinking!

"Well, that's going to change! When I think of all the witches and wizards who could throw away their glasses and have normal vision -- "

Hermione jerked her head angrily as she withdrew her hand from Harry's temple.

"So," Harry said, as much to derail Hermione's angst as for his own enlightenment, "you simply Transfigured my eye from oblong to round."

Hermione nodded, the lines on her forehead softening once more.

"But I can't use my wand. The human eye is much too delicate. It requires very low waves of controlled magic. To make so subtle a Transfiguration, I have to touch your eye and transfer the magic through my fingers. It requires a lot of concentration, rather like holding your breath while balancing a dozen books on your head. And practice! Heavens, I practiced for a solid month before I could convince Madam Pomfrey to let me work on you."

"What did you practice on?" Harry asked. "Animals?"

"Don't even joke about such a thing!" Hermione snapped, horrified. "I...well...I used...grapes."

"Grapes?" Harry laughed.

"Yes, grapes. They're a lot like eyes, when you think about it. And they're just the right shape. So I practiced transfiguring them from oblong to spherical."

"How many did you go through before Madam Pomfrey was satisfied?"

"Oh, hundreds.

"And only three exploded."

"Exploded?"

But even as Harry reeled back, his face a mask of horror, Hermione fell off her chair in a fit of laughter.

"Funny, Granger," Harry intoned, trying to hide the twinkle in his eyes lest it foil his somber mein. "You should make the chat show circuit. And I hear Monty Python is recruiting new members."

"I wish I had a picture of your face, Harry," Hermione gasped tearfully between giggles. "Where's Colin and his camera when you need them?"

Harry's facade tumbled at last, and he fell back on his bed and laughed until he was forced to remove his eye patch before it became sodden with tears.

"So, then," Harry gasped when Hermione was back in her chair, "is Dumbledore going to let you do his eyes next?"

This restored Hermione to full sobriety in an instant. She 'tutted' in annoyance.

"He doesn't want to. He says he's used to his glasses, that he wouldn't know what to do without them. If you ask me, he's afraid, pure and simple."

"Afraid? Dumbledore?" Harry couldn't wrap his mind around the concept.

"Everyone's afraid of something, Harry," Hermione said wisely. She added no embellishment, but Harry could not help but feel that her statement had not been directed at Dumbledore alone.

"So, uh, everything okay, then? With my eye, I mean?"

"Oh," Hermione smiled. "Yes. Perfect 20-20 vision. Now, lie back and we'll do the other eye."

"I just thought," Harry said as he settled his head against his pillow. "Ideally, shouldn't an Auror have even better than perfect vision? Say, 20-10? I mean, as long as we're already at it..."

"I considered that," Hermione said contemplatively. "But I dismissed it out of practicality. Perfect 20-20 vision is the best that can be achieved within normal parameters. For 20-10, one would have to modify the vision center of the brain, and that's much too delicate to attempt at this early stage. In future, perhaps. Now, lie back and close your eyes."

Harry did so as Hermione sat on the opposite side of the bed and took his right hand in hers.

"Any time you want to have a go -- at the brain thing, I mean --" Harry added quickly, " -- I'm up for it. I trust you completely."

And as Harry felt Hermione's fingers pressing gently against his right eye, he sensed without need of physical sight that she was smiling down at him warmly.

Now, as Harry tugged his Cloak about him in the deepening gloom, he longed to see that warm smile again. Indeed, he longed for warmth of any sort. His fatigue had birthed a slight chill, and he found himself huddling under his Cloak more for comfort than security. Through watery eyes he watched the sun vanish below the wooded horizon and waited patiently for the stars to appear.

Author's Note: And another layer is peeled back, drawing us ever closer to the core. Will that core be composed of smooth, sweet cream, or hard candy? More flashback revelations next time. See you then.

It seemed to Harry that he closed his eyes for only a moment. But when he opened them again he saw the stars blazing overhead in indescribable majesty.

Harry rose stiffly, his muscles rebelling against the effort. It was like swimming through molasses merely to pull himself to his feet, employing his broomstick as a makeshift crutch. He doffed his Cloak, reached down for his pouch. His knees buckled, and he had to catch himself on the tree to avoid falling on his face. He caught up his pouch with a sweep of his hand and heaved upward, snapping his legs straight so that his knees locked and prevented another spill. Once his breathing was back to a semblance of normal, he stuffed his Cloak into its pocket. He then slung the shoulder strap over his neck, freeing his left hand to support him against the tree.

Harry was loathe to relinquish his hold on his broomstick, even for a moment. But he needed both hands free to accomplish his next task. He compromised by placing a Biomagnetic Hovering Charm on his Firebolt. It hovered at his left elbow, and it would follow him like a magical shadow without need of command. He was now free to focus his attention on his pouch.

Lacking the patience (or, in truth, the strength) to rummage around for the item he sought, Harry drew his wand and waved it once over the open mouth of the pouch, employing a sharp swish and flick that made his arm throb unpleasantly.

"Wingardium Leviosa!"

The contents of his pouch drifted up slowly, the Levitation Charm controlled by Harry's force of will, which proved barely equal to the task. He watched his potion pokes and other sundries emerge and hover in a cloud at eye-level. Finally a folded piece of parchment emerged, and Harry froze it in mid-air with a brisk "Impedimenta!" He negated the Levitation Charm, and the assorted items drifted past the stationary parchment and back down into his pouch.

At the last moment, Harry caught a glint of reflected starlight in the midst of the potion pokes. Without conscious thought, he reached out and snatched this oddity from the air as the last of his supplies settled into the belly of the pouch.

At first the object in his hand baffled him. It was a small crystal phial, about the size of his finger. It was sealed by magic, but to what purpose Harry could not fathom, for it was clearly empty. Surely it was he who had placed it in his pouch -- if only his thoughts were not so dull and blurred. Why was this phial here? What had it held?

And even as he posed the question, the answer came flooding back to his memory. And a bitter smile came unbidden to his lips. He caressed the phial, his thoughts harkening back to a day not far gone, nor ever to be forgotten:

Harry sat cross-legged before a low table. Sitting across from him, the Master picked up a small loaf of bread and spoke a quiet blessing over it. Then, setting his thumbs opposite each other upon the loaf, he broke it in two and handed a section to Harry. The merest hint of a smile flashed across Harry's face as he broke a small piece from the loaf, availed himself of a small dish of yak butter, and ate.

"What amuses you, Young Lion?" the Master asked, pouring himself some tea from a china pot hand-painted with trees and birds.

"All my life," Harry said, holding out his own cup to be filled from the painted teapot, "I've heard the expression, 'breaking bread.' But not until today have I actually seen it done."

"You do not break bread in Britain," the old wizard said, his words bearing the intonation of assertion rather than query.

"In England we have sliced bread," Harry said before sipping his tea noiselessly.

"And that is better."

Harry caught a trace of skepticism, even mockery, in the Master's smooth voice.

"It's easier," Harry said at last, unsure where the Master was going.

"And easier is better."

Again, Harry sensed doubt underlying the Master's words.

"It's also more fair," Harry continued, feeling as if he were defending not only himself, but all of Western civilization. "The slices are all the same size. If more than one person wants bread, everyone gets an equal portion."

The Master sipped his tea thoughtfully before opening a pot of honey and dipping a piece of bread into it.

"When I was a boy," the old man said, delicately licking honey from his thin, wizened lips, "I hid myself in an alcove, behind a tapestry, and watched my father break bread with a guest. I was not permitted to attend -- nor, indeed, to watch -- " the Master smiled briefly at this confession, " -- but I was a boy, with a boy's curiosity and willfullness. And what I observed on that day, and on many others to follow, taught me a very valuable lesson."

"What did you observe?" Harry said with polite curiosity as he inhaled the savory aroma wafting from his teacup.

"What did you observe, Young Lion?" the Master countered.

Harry thought a moment, his cup held before him pending an interrupted sip.

"You blessed the bread. Then you broke it in two and gave me half."

"Did I?"

The question surprised Harry. He didn't know how to respond.

"I set my thumbs to the center of the loaf," the Master said. "Just as I saw my father do countless times. Yet, when I broke the bread, it did not part at the mid-point as I would have it. Such is the nature of the loaf. It parts where it wills, not where I will. So it was with my father. So it is now. So shall it ever be."

Harry waited for the Master to continue. But as the seconds stretched into a minute, Harry perceived that he was expected to reply to the Master's last statement. Yet Harry had no reply. What was there to say? What lesson was the wise old wizard trying to impart?

"When a loaf is broken," the Master said at last, "one portion will always be larger than the other. Not all our diligence can alter this. So it was here. I, being the host, gave over the larger portion to you, my guest. Thus it was with my father on that day long ago. Nor did I ever observe him to do otherwise. It mattered not if his guest was a visiting lord arrayed in purple and gold, or a peasant swathed in tattered rags. Each of them received the larger portion.

"If you would know a man, Young Lion," the Master said, regarding Harry over the rim of his uplifted teacup, "observe him as he distributes his goods; behold what he keeps versus what he gives away. In this shall you know which he values more in this life: The material, or the spiritual.

"For life is a shadow that passes briefly across the face of the sun and is gone. We enter this world with nothing; when we leave, we bear nothing away. In between, we hold many things in our hands, vainly imagining that they are ours." The Master sipped his tea unhurriedly, enjoying its flavor, fragrance and warmth. The ghost of a smile passed across his ancient lips. "Remember always, Young Lion: The only thing a man may truly possess is what he has given away."

Harry heaved a ragged sigh before tucking the phial in his pocket. The smile on his lips was feeble, but it possessed an underlying strength his illness could not abridge.

Harry now turned his attention to the parchment hovering before him. He snatched it from the air, shrugging his pouch behind him as he set off with halting steps toward the edge of the trees, his broomstick following like an obedient pet.

Emerging into the clearing, he drew a series of slow, cleansing breaths, embracing the open sky. Looking up rather than down, he nearly stumbled into a large depression which he recognized as a dragon footprint, sunk deep in what had evidently been a mud hole following a recent rain. Feeling that this was as good a place to work as any, he dropped down and sat on the edge of the depression, sighing as his legs relaxed from their brief but arduous trek.

He unfolded the parchment and smoothed it out as best he could. He lay it flat upon the palm of his left hand, affixing it there with a mild Sticking Charm against the gentle night breeze. He regarded the surface of the map, squinting in the feeble starlight. No mark was visible upon it.

Harry tapped it with his wand. Immediately a myriad of dots appeared, enclosed within a circle that was marked with four compass points. As Harry watched, the four points rotated until the most prominent was pointing due North. Following this, the black dots rearranged themselves until they were a mirror image of the stars blazing overhead. Harry smiled. Within seconds he would know his exact position, latitude and longitude. The map would also tell him the date, as well as the time to the very minute (both local time and GMT).

Harry fixed the map with his 20-20 eyes and noted each bit of information as it appeared, in fashion not unlike the Marauders' Map. Latitude appeared, degrees, minutes and seconds. Longitude followed. The date now began to appear. The year, the month, the day --

Harry cried out as if stabbed through the heart!

No! It couldn't be!

August 31st!

"Hermione!"

"Ron proposed last night."

Harry's hands caught at the railing of the Astronomy Tower, a pain seizing his chest like the pressure of a giant hand.

"I said no," Hermione continued, not taking her eyes from Harry's. She paused, essayed a small smile. "So, is there anything you want to say, Harry?"

Harry tried to open his mouth, but he couldn't. His tongue appeared to freeze to the roof of his mouth. Instead he spun away, leaned out over the parapet and stared out at the broad expanse of Scottish highlands surrounding Hogwarts.

"You once said you loved me, Harry."

Silence.

"Ron loves me. He loves me enough to marry me. He knows what I want. A husband to stand by me, to support me in my endeavors. Someone willing to put me first in his life.

"My refusal didn't deter him, you know. Dead stuborn, those Weasleys. He said he'll keep asking until I say yes."

Harry spun around, his eyes a wide, feral green, their brilliance undiminished by his discarded glasses.

"Don't marry him, Hermione! He doesn't -- "

The words caught in Harry's throat.

"He doesn't what, Harry? Doesn't love me as much as you do? Is that what you were going to say?"

"Hermione, I -- I can't -- "

"I know, Harry," Hermione said without malice. "I've heard it a hundred times. I can probably recite it verbatim."

"You don't understand, Hermione! You can't possibly understand! You had a good home, parents who loved you. I had the Dursleys! I lived in a stinking broom cupboard until I was eleven! All I wanted -- all I wanted was to be free!"

"And then you came to Hogwarts."

"Rules!" The word was a growl from the depths of Harry's throat. "Always bloody rules! Wake when they tell you, eat when they tell you, go to class when they tell you! Do this, don't do that! I'm surprised they didn't make us go to the flippin' loo on schedule.

"And it doesn't end here. It just keeps on, like -- like a vice that just keeps getting tighter, half-turn by bloody half-turn. I can't take it any more! Not another day of it!"

Harry turned about, his face strained, his eyes entreating.

"Don't you see, Hermione? I can't stay! I can't! I've got to go! I've got to see everything, do everything! The restriction against underage magic is lifted! I'm free! For the first time in my life, I'm free!"

"Sometimes," Hermione said with the shadow of a smile, "I wish we had never destroyed Voldemort. Things were so much simpler in a black-and-white, good-versus-evil world."

"But we did, Hermione," Harry said in a voice calmer though no less emphatic. "He's gone, and his ruddy Death Eaters with him. I don't need to be an Auror now. The weight of that ruddy prophesy is finally off my shoulders. There's nothing to hold me back. Nothing to tie me down."

"Except me."

Harry felt like weeping. Hermione's words had not been an accusation. Vindictiveness was not her way. It was one of the reasons he loved her --

Harry took Hermione's hands in his. She met his eyes calmly, tranquilly.

"Wait for me, Hermione. Please. If we've ever meant anything to each other..."

Hermione's eyes lowered in thought before rising to meet Harry's once more.

"I'll wait for you, Harry."

Harry's eyes squeezed shut, his shoulders vibrating with pent-up emotion seeking release. Then Hermione spoke again:

"But not forever."

Harry's hands went numb. He scarcely felt Hermione detach her own hands from his. She turned and took Harry's place at the parapet overlooking the Hogwarts grounds.

"I'm going home for two weeks," she said, her voice resounding with quiet strength. "Then I'll be reporting to St. Mungo's. Madam Pomfrey is on the Board. She's arranged an internship for me. I'll be serving for just over a year. Next June, after the students leave here, she'll be returning to oversee my final qualification. And on September first, when she returns to Hogwarts, I'll be leaving as well.

"Molly Weasley will be throwing a party for me at the Burrow. You're invited, by the way. The whole family will be there. Including Ron, of course. And if he asks me to marry him..."

"I'll be there, Hermione! I swear to Merlin I will!"

Harry wrapped his arms around Hermione, burying his face in her hair as his cheek brushed hers.

"The graduation ceremony will be starting soon," Hermione said, her hands rubbing Harry's arms as her eyes embraced the magnificent expanse of the Hogwarts grounds for the last time. "Being as I'm valedictorian, I suppose I oughtn't be late. Shall we save time and Apparate down?"

Momentarily startled, Harry spun Hermione around and gave her a bemused look.

"You can't Apparate or Disapparate on these premises, 'Doctor' Granger. Haven't you ever read Hogwarts: A History?"

"Really?" she said, her eyes wide with exaggerated wonder. "Fancy that. Well, then, we'd better get moving, hadn't we?"

Harry tilted Hermione's head and kissed her lightly. Then, single file, they descended the spiral staircase to the base of the Astronomy Tower and thence to the Great Hall.

Author's Note: Two flashbacks for the price of one! We now know why Harry left Hermione behind. But how is he going to get back in time to prevent her from accepting Ron's proposal?

And what is the secret of the empty phial? Has it anything to do with the Master's tea-time philosophy lesson? In the words of Bugs Bunny, "Eh, could be, doc." Well, only three chapter to go, so we'll learn soon enough.

Thanks to all readers and reviewers, both old and new. I'd linger, but it's after 2:00 a.m. and tomorrow is a work day. See you next week.

Author's Note: Just a brief note before pressing on. In regard to those reviewers who dislike this rather dispassionate Hermione, I have two words: I agree.

Why did I write her this way, then? First, because I wanted a change from the ubiquitous Hermione-adores-Harry standard which I admittedly embrace wholeheartedly, but which can grow stale if overused. Thus do I prove, if only to myself, that I can break from the pattern and go off on a tangent. But I promise not to make a habit of it.

Second, and more important, this is a story about change and personal growth. Thus far we have seen only the Hermione whom Harry left behind more than a year ago. It remains to be seen whom he will find when he returns more than a year later. As to that, only two chapters remain, so the wait won't be a long one.

I never imagined a simple, short fic like this could elicit responses of such profound depth. I feel honored. And now, let's see how Harry is faring this week, shall we?

With hands shaking from more than his mysterious affliction, Harry folded the map and returned it to his pouch. Fighting the panic clouding his thoughts, he closed his eyes, drawing on the Master's teachings to find the right path.

The Master often said that the physical body was nothing compared to the Chi, the inner being. If there was ever a time to put that assertion to the test, it was now.

Inadvisable though it was to Apparate in his weakened state, Harry had no choice. If he did not return to Hermione by September first --

No. He would return!

He knew he was far too weak to Apparate all the way to England in one jump. Short hops was the way to go. Harry did some mental plotting, retracing his steps over the past year. Nepal first, he decided. Then India, Turkey, Germany, France, England. A suitable rest period between jumps -- say, an hour -- should enable him to make the journey by morning. Also, he was racing ahead of the sun. Every jump would gain him at least an hour on the clock.

He could do it. He was certain.

Harry negated the Hovering Charm on his broomstick and grasped it in his left hand. For more than a minute he took slow, cleansing breaths. He pushed the weakness aside, refusing to surrender to it. He withdrew into himself, centered his Chi. He cast his spirit outward, trusting his body to follow --

When he awoke from the oblivion that had enveloped him with the suddenness of a candle being blown out, he found himself lying on his back, his feet still lying in the depths of the giant footprint. A sharp stone was jabbing into his ribs, but the tears flooding his eyes were unrelated to any physical pain. The stars looking down into the clearing seemed to be mocking him like a million soulless eyes.

"Hermione," Harry whimpered, bracing himself on his left elbow as he made to rise. As he lifted his head, a wave of dizziness assailed him and he sank back down, his tears now flowing freely.

He couldn't Apparate! Splinching? Harry laughed bitterly. He hadn't the strength to splinch a fingernail! This lone aborted effort had stolen his remainng strength, leaving him limp as a flobberworm, too weak even to sit up. He couldn't --

No! He would! By Merlin, he would!

Bracing himself against nausea, Harry thrust himself upwards. He lurched sideways, catching himself on his left elbow. He pushed himself up determinedly. The dizziness passed, and he found himself sitting -- actually, leaning drunkenly on his left arm -- only inches from his Firebolt.

Yes! His broomstick! He no longer had a choice in the matter. If he couldn't Apparate, he would fly back to Hermione! It would be a close thing, separated from his destination as he was by an entire hemisphere. But the Firebolt had no equal in the world when it came to speed. If any broom could do it...

Harry used his broomstick like a crutch, pulling himself to his feet with a superhuman effort.

Fly, he thought through the murky waves pounding on the shore of his mind. Fly...home...Hermione...fly...

Harry straddled his broomstick, set his teeth and kicked off shakily. He had not risen ten feet when a pulse of nauseating dizziness nearly unseated him. Acting on instinct, he nosed his broom down just as unconsciousness overtook him.

Harry awoke face-down, his Firebolt under him, the handle poking his ribs.

"No," he mumbled into the dry, touseled sward. "No. Hermione..."

Harry rolled over, and it seemed that the sky was moving, the panoply of stars rotating as their counterparts had done on his map. His own thoughts seemed to be spinning as rapidly as he clung tenaciously to his resolve not to give up, to refuse even to consider surrender.

One step at a time, Potter, he thought, closing his eyes to shut out the dizzily whirling stars. One step at a time.

First, an Adhesion Charm to make him one with his broomstick, assuring that he would not fall off. Yes, that would work --

But a broomstick needed a conscious will to guide it. Harry could scarcely summon the will to lift his head, much less fly a broomstick over mountains, forests and deserts.

Think, Potter! Think!

Harry was now sweating profusely through his chills, of which he'd taken scant note ere now. He pulled at his shirt, his hand feeling the cold dampness on his neck and chest.

And he felt something else. His hand seemed to encounter an object where none appeared to be. His fingers, having torn open his shirt to his navel, closed on the object, enfolded it. It was real. But what --

Harry stopped breathing. His eyes stared into nothingness, his thoughts turning inward with the returning memory.

Slowy, softly, Harry began to laugh.

Harry stood on the platform at Hogsmeade Station. The first whistle had sounded, announcing the departure of the Hogwarts Express in five minutes.

"Please, Hermione," Harry was saying for what seemed the hundredth time. "If I send Hedwig right now, she'll arrive at your house long before your mum and dad leave for King's Cross. We can spend the day in Hogsmeade, and tonight you just Apparate into your living room! Easy as pie!"

"Harry -- " Hermione started to protest, but Harry just waved his hand and changed direction with a swiftness that would have shamed his own personal best on the Quidditch pitch.

"Okay, right, your parents wouldn't like you just popping in like that, Muggle home and all that. So, how about this? We do Hogsmeade, same as before, only you Apparate onto Platform 9 3/4 and go straight through the barrier with none the wiser. Your parents will -- "

"Harry!"

Harry clamped his mouth shut. Hermione was smiling broadly, shaking her head as Harry's face reddened.

"I told you," Hermione said firmly, though in a voice musical and devoid of wrath, "I want to ride on the train. I may not see my friends for a very long time after today. I've neglected them for ever so long these last three years. I want us to have this last train ride together before we go our separate ways."

"What about me?" Harry said wistfully, tracing a finger along her cheek. "I won't be seeing you for fourteen months."

"But that's your choice, isn't it?" Hermione countered. There was no spite in her voice, nor in her eyes, but Harry felt a sting in his heart all the same. His hand left her cheek and he began to twirl a lock of her chestnut hair around first one finger and then another.

Of a sudden, a light came into Harry's eyes. Silencing Hermione with an upraised finger, Harry drew his wand and moved it in a delicate circle below her face. As she watched in mute wonder, a lock of her hair began to move of its own accord, in a fashion like a charmed snake writhing to silent notes from an unseen pipe. It curved back on itself, twirled once and tied itself into a knot. A touch of Harry's wand neatly severed the lock, which fell into Harry's cupped hand.

Switching his wand to his other hand, Harry reached into a pocket of his robes and extracted a small poke with a short drawstring attached. His wand held between thumb and forefinger, Harry tilted his hand until the lock of hair fell into the open poke. He pulled the string tight before switching his wand back to his right hand. He then touched his wand to the drawstring, which lengthened rapidly before Hermione's nocent eyes.

Harry looped the drawstring around his neck and let the poke hang outside his robes. Finally he waved his wand in a brief, elaborate dance, and Hermione gave an involuntary gasp as poke and drawstring vanished completely.

"Professor Flitwick taught me some very complex Invisibility Charms as part of Auror training," Harry explained with a smile even as he tucked the now-invisible poke into his robes. "A Death Eater can't steal your wand if he can't see it. I can only do small objects. I'd need years of practice to make myself invisible, so I don't think I'll be discarding my Invisibility Cloak anytime soon.

"The Charm I used is the most intricate of the lot. This poke is now bonded to my personal aura. It can never be lost, can never be taken from me. It's intangible to any hand but mine. It's part of me now -- just as you are.

"Wherever I go," Harry said throatily, his eyes embracing Hermione's, "you'll be with me. Next to my heart."

The train whistle sounded. Harry cupped Hermione's face and pressed a lingering kiss on her lips. She returned the kiss with quiet depth, with pure and undiluted love.

But no fire.

"Goodbye, Harry. I hope you find what you're looking for."

Time suddenly distorted for Harry. One moment he was watching Hermione board the train, was waving at her as she leaned from the window of her compartment and returned the gesture. Then, in a seeming eyeblink, he was alone on the platform, the tracks empty as his eyes followed them to where they vanished on the Southern horizon, a pinpoint lost in the morning haze.

"I'll be back, Hermione," Harry said into the quiet emptiness of the fresh, clear June morning. "I promise."

And in the stillness of the Scottish morn, Harry heard a sweet, gentle voice whisper in his ear: "I'll wait for you, Harry. I'll wait for you.

"But not forever."

Author's Note: The clues are all in. How will Harry return to England in time to prevent Hermione from doing the unthinkable? Correct guesses win a necklace of genuine flobberworm teeth. Put on your wizard thinking caps and tune in next week for the answer. Thanks!

Releasing his hold on the tiny object which was to be his salvation, Harry tucked his arms in and rolled over. Panting heavily, he placed his hands under him and pushed, at the same time digging his toes into the sward and thrusting up with his hips. Feeling as though Dumbledore's guardian gargoyle were sitting on his shoulders, Harry managed at last to achieve a kneeling position, though the effort nearly caused him to pass out.

His breathing was growing ragged, his strength flowing from him like potion from a sundered cauldron. Grinding his teeth together until his jaws ached, Harry strove with every ounce of will to get to his feet. After three failures, he abandoned any further attempt.

Then, as before, it was only with the loss of all cogent thought that his instincts kicked in. He laboriously extracted his wand and, after a pause to slow his breathing and clear his mind, touched it to his midsection.

"W-Wingardium...Leviosa."

Harry drifted upwards slowly, his legs dangling under him like those of a puppet until his toes were just brushing the ground. Thus released from gravity's burden, Harry's muscles relaxed somewhat, though the pain in his joints was becoming excruciating. He lifted his head, eased his shoulders back slowly to keep from passing out. A casual onlooker would have presumed him to be standing rather than floating centimeters off the ground like a tethered helium balloon.

Harry's pouch was still around his neck, but his broomstick lay on the ground at his feet. This was easily remedied.

"Accio!"

Harry's Firebolt leaped into his left hand. He stabbed the handle into the ground, freeing his hands for the next phase of his plan. He opened the side flap of his pouch and tugged out his Invisibility Cloak. He shook it out and flung it carelessly over his shoulders. Having no further use for his pouch (and being unable to remove it, covered as he was by his Cloak), he severed the strap with an Incisor Charm and let it drop to the ground. His arms now unencumbered, he uprooted his broom and slid it between his dangling legs.

Now came the tricky part. A quick jerk upwards was needed to activate the flying spell with which the broom was Charmed. This was commonly done by the rider kicking off from the ground. Were Harry's legs strong enough to get him airborne? There was only one way to find out.

Harry tested his legs, found them to be responsive, though his knees ached terribly. Perhaps his leg muscles, unburdened by his weightless body, had relaxed sufficiently to have regained strength enough to accomplish this final, and most critical, task. No doubt they would improve with time; but time was a commodity of which Harry had but little, and that meager portion was even now evaporating to nil. He would have to risk it. With a wave of his wand, he cancelled the Levitation Charm.

Immediately his knees buckled, sending sharp pain through his thighs. His breath hissing through his teeth like a weight lifter essaying a clean and jerk, Harry poured every iota of energy into his rubbery legs and thrust upwards.

Elation surged through him as he lifted off and hovered a few feet off the ground. But though the broom under him was stable, its rider was as far removed from that state as was possible. Immediately he began to lose his purchase, his legs and left hand too weak to grip the handle. With desperate haste, Harry touched his wand to his legs.

"Adhesio!"

In an instant it was as if his legs were welded to his broomstick. He quickly repeated the Charm on his left hand. He centered his weight, holding his breath until he was hovering motionless above the ground. Smiling infirmly, Harry pocketed his wand and proceeded to wrap himself from head to foot with his Invisibility Cloak, covering both himself and his broomstick. It was a tricky job to accomplish one-handed, but Harry persevered until naught but his wand arm remained exposed. Without his discarded pouch as an encumbrance, the Cloak wrapped him like a second skin. Once he was enfolded coccoon-like in the shimmering fabric, he extracted his wand (no easy task, encased as he was) and applied the Adhesion Charm to strategic points until he was sealed in. At last he drew his arm inside and applied a final seal, leaving only a tiny slit in the hood through which to see and breathe.

He was wrapped so tightly, in fact, that he momentarily despaired of being able to fulfill the final step. He needed to maneuver his wand into a position where he could touch the poke containing the lock of Hermione's hair. The Unification Charm needed physical contact for maximum effect, and, under present circumstances, nothing less than maximum would suffice. Half the circumference of the globe lay between him and Hermione. The more potent the spell, the swifter it would unite him with Hermione. And at this late hour, speed was crucial. Borne by the Charm, he would be caught up like a leaf in a hurricane at speeds far outstripping that of which even a Firebolt was capable under its own power. But would even that be enough to erase the vast distance separating him and Hermione ere the sun rose over the shores of Britain?

Of obstacles or physical barriers he had no fear. He had long since Charmed his broom to avoid significant objects, whether trees, mountains, buildings, or Muggle aeroplanes. Thus, he need not steer in order to pilot the broomstick. But normal flght did require force of will. The Unification Charm, however, was sufficient unto itself. Once the Charm was initiated, the lock of hair hanging around his neck would be drawn unerringly, and irresistibly, to the head from which it had come. The broomstick would be incidental, becoming nothing more than a passenger on the magical wings of the Charm, even as Harry himself.

That which he had feared when attempting to recover his lost broomstick was not an issue here. Had he attempted to Unify his broom twig with its lost parent, the light sliver would have been snatched from his hand from the force of the spell -- the Unification Charm invariably resulted in the smaller object to be drawn to the larger. Nor would a Sticking Charm have availed; the twig would have ripped the skin from Harry's fingers in its zeal to return whence it came. But the poke containing Hermione's hair would not be snatched away, nor could any power on earth tear it from his flesh. It was magically bonded to his very life-force -- his Chi; wherever it went, he would go. And, being virtually weightless upon his hovering broom, Harry still represented the lesser factor in the equation, ensuring that he would be drawn to Hermione rather than the reverse.

Struggling within the confining folds of his Cloak, Harry managed at last to grasp the invisible poke. He would have made it visible, if only to reassure himself by the sight of it, but he feared that to render it thus might also negate the Bonding Charm. In his weakened state, he could easily botch the spell and undo everything. But in the darkness in which he was now wrapped, he could not see it, anyway. Nor did he need to. His fingers closed around the poke and caressed it. In his mind's eye, he could see Hermione standing in the Weasleys' back garden, smiling at him, beckoning to him. Had it not been magically welded to his person, he would have raised the tiny object to his lips and kissed it.

I'm coming, Hermione. I'm coming. Just like I promised.

And with that silent declaration, Harry eased his wand up within the folds of his Cloak, touched the tip to the poke and said, "UNIFICUS!"

With an abruptness that made his stomach lurch, Harry's broomstick leaped forward like an arrow shot from a bow. Harry smiled as he felt the tug of the poke as it lay against his chest, knew it was being drawn unswervingly, inexorably to the woman he loved.

A great weariness now overcame Harry. Will power and adrenaline had pushed him to his limits, and now, with the realization of his goal, he felt a great lethargy permeate him. Hugging his wand to him, Harry relaxed and lay forward. The Cushioning Charm built into the broom handle supported his head with feathery softness, and as his thoughts eddied in his exhausted brain, Harry imagined that he lay with his head cradled in Hermione's arms.

As immeasurable time passed, soundless but for the rushing of the wind, Harry groaned in a troubled delirium in which objects swam before him, blurred and indistinct. One resolved itself into a face framed by a nimbus of bushy brown hair. Next to it was something glowing brightly -- a flame -- no, a face -- a laughing, joyful face awash with smoldering freckles and crowned with hair the color of fire.

"No," Harry mumbled, his face a steaming oven, his body shivering icily. "No, don't marry him, Hermione! I'm coming! Wait for me, Hermione! Wait for me!"

And Hermione smiled the smile that could melt the snow from Everest's brow and said, "I'll wait for you, Harry. I'll wait for you.

"But not forever."

Harry snapped awake abruptly, unable to remember where he was. Realization came slowly, and with it -- fear.

He was cold, terribly cold, and his instinct told him that it was from more than just his illness (though that seemed to be escalating to fearful proportions). There was a familiar flutter in his stomach that told him his broom was rising. Even through his stupor, Harry found sufficient lucidity to swear aloud.

How could he have been so stupid? Sick though he was, should he not have realized? Mountains! The bloody Himalayas! He was flying over the roof of the world! The air was growing steadily colder, chilling him to the bone -- and thinner! It was already becoming harder to breathe, something he'd found difficult enough with both feet on the ground.

He couldn't divert the broomstick from its magical path. He was flying solely under the impetus of the Unification Charm. And he dared not nullify the Charm. Clouded though his mind was, he was not deluded enough to try to fly under his own power. However dire his predicament, crashing headlong into the peak of K-2 was hardly a viable option.

Was this how it was to end, then? To freeze to death, or asphyxiate, six miles above the world, on a mindless, soulless stick of enchanted wood?

As Harry's last vestiges of reason dissolved into madness, the survival instincts of his Auror training again asserted themselves. It was with no conscious thought that he sought his wand, gripped it with shaking fingers, raised it until the point was touching his breast. His dry, fevered lips pursed; his hoarse vocal cords rasped against each other in the parched, frigid air. As if he were a detached observer -- a patron in a theatre of the fantastic -- his ears heard his voice as if from miles away:

"STUPEFY!"

Author's Note: Thus is the reason for the Unification Charm revealed. Consider it a link in a chain begun in the books. J.K. introduced the Summoning Charm as a means of acquiring Ton-Tongue Toffees, and it ended up fetching Harry his Firebolt when he needed it most. Here, I started with Harry's broomstick and refocused the Charm to unite him with something (someONE) far more important. Thus is my jest ended. But the story is not. Return next time for the finale (I was going to say grand finale, but that remains for the readers to determine). As always, thanks for reading.

As consciousness slowly returned, Harry's first sensation was of a cool wetness on his brow, lying across his eyes.

His eyes seemed to be sealed shut as by a Colloportus Charm. Repeatedly his brain gave the command for them to open, but they obstinately defied his imperium.

Hermione would not be stymied, a distant voice asserted from the deepest corridors of his brain. Remember the door on the third-floor corridor? The window to Flitwick's office? She can open anything with a wave of her wand.

"Alohomora," Harry mumbled dryly, his voice a ghostly rasp. "Alohomora."

"Madam Grimm," came a soft voice as from another plane. "He's coming around."

Though distorted by the kettle drums resounding in his head, the voice sounded somehow familiar. But was it a dream, or --

His thoughts were interrupted by strong fingers sliding behind his head, gripping the base of his neck. His head was lifted, the action making his eyes throb and his brain swirl and eddy. He felt something smooth and hard, with a vaguely metallic tang, touch his lips. A spicy and rather unpleasant liquid splashed over his tongue and ran down his throat. It seemed to carry with it a soothing warmth which quickly spread through his whole body. A cleansing tide washed over his brain, clearing his thoughts. His senses sharpened, enabling him to catalog and identify certain things which were before only vague impressions.

He was lying on a bed. He felt the edge of the pillow against his shoulders as his head hung suspended above it. He heard the faint creak of bedsprings, one of which seemed to be poking through the mattress and worrying his lower back. The cool wetness on his head and eyes appeared to be a damp cloth. Even as he thought thus, the cloth was removed as a burst of cool air kissed Harry's face.

"His color is coming back," the familiar voice said in a satisfied manner. No, Harry detected more than mere satisfaction. Relief. Happiness.

Harry opened his eyes slowly, finding the light painful. The urge to lift his arm and cover his eyes was defeated by muscles which refused to respond. The fingers gripping his neck still holding him firmly aloft, Harry mumbled in inarticulate gratitude as the cloth dabbed lightly at the edges of his eyes until he was able to open them completely. He blinked repeatedly until his surroundings came into focus.

He was in a sparsely-furnished room painted in soothing pastels. Magical candles encased in what appeared to be soap bubbles hovered overhead, casting a soft light over all.

Unable to turn his head, Harry could see only the peripheral outlines of two persons, one on either side of his bed. The one on the right appeared to be holding him up. The other figure was in motion, disappearing from his line of sight a moment later. Abruptly Harry felt the hand gripping his neck lift him higher, and what he took to be a pillow was stuffed behind his back, thereafter being pounded into shape by unseen hands. The fingers on his neck relaxed, and he felt himself being eased back until his shoulders and head encountered the delicious softness of the fresh pillow. He shifted his weight, rolling his shoulders until he found a relatively comfortable position. He sighed heavily as the hand was removed from the back of his head and its owner appeared before him. It proved to be a witch of mature years, with broad shoulders and iron-grey hair pulled into a tight bun. Her square face was etched with delicate trac ings of worry lines so common in St. Mungo's Healers. She smiled a homely smile of approval which Harry hadn't the strength to return, then disappeared from sight.

Able to move his head now, Harry shifted his attention to his left, his heart fluttering in expectation. His other ministrant, having fluffed his pillow to satisfaction, came around and turned to face him, flashing a smile that sent a warmth through him rivaling that of the potion flowing through his veins.

"Hello, Harry," Hermione said softly, the merest hint of a tear on her cheek. "Welcome back to the land of the living."

With a herculean effort, Harry lifted his left arm sluggishly, his fingers spread out in longing. Seating herself in a nearby chair, Hermione took Harry's hand and guided it to her face. He touched her soft cheek, felt the wetness there. His own eyes misted.

In his brief but extensive travels, Harry had seen the world's splendor in all its forms, had beheld wonders eclipsing the ability of human language to convey. They were all swept away now like ashes from a grate by two soft brown eyes that stole the breath from his lungs and plundered all reason from his mind. In a hidden valley never recorded on any map, he had found a garden of wild orchids of a beauty to wring tears from a stone statue, had held the fragile blossoms in his hands and wept shamelessly at their soft, exquisite delicacy. But now, as he caressed Hermione's peach-colored cheek with trembling fingers, they became in his memory as rough, scaly dragon hide.

Rising from her chair, Hermione sat on the edge of Harry's bed, still holding his hand to her face. She leaned in, fixing Harry's emerald eyes with her coffee-colored ones.

"It was touch and go for a while there, Harry. More than once in those first few hours, I thought -- we thought we might lose you."

"What was wrong with me?" Harry asked, a bit fearful now, though he felt fit, if weak as a newborn.

"Malaria."

Harry's eyes widened, his hand going limp against Hermione's face. Her fingers tightened around his as she lowered his hand to her lap, caressing it lightly.

"I've...heard about it," Harry said slowly. "I think Uncle Vernon mentioned an uncle who came back from the war with a case of it. But -- I didn't think it was that bad. I mean, it's not supposed to be fatal -- is it?"

"Not to Muggles," Hermione said. "Excepting the most extreme form, 'Plasmodium falciparum,' the symptoms are usually the equivalent of a severe case of the flu. Proper treatment usually brings a full recovery, though the symptoms may recur from time to time, making it more of a nuisance than anything else.

"But with wizards," she said with an ill-suppressed shudder, "the malarial parasite mutates on contact with magical blood. The resulting contagion is more virulent than the bubonic plague. Without immediate treatment, death usually comes within hours.

"On the good side, swift application of the Anophelus Potion not only brings complete recovery, but results in total immunity thereafter.

"But it was a close thing, Harry," she said, her voice tinged with a sort of anguished relief. "To be honest, if you hadn't thought to use the Stunning Spell on yourself, you might not have made it back in time. Madam Grimm began administering the potion immediately, but you were so far gone -- thank Merlin you thought to use that Charm! I don't believe anyone ever thought of that before. It slowed your breathing to almost nothing, which meant that the parasite couldn't get any oxygen either. Brilliant. It's almost a shame that the Ministry and the Order rounded up all the Death Eaters after Voldemort's fall. You'd have made a smashing Auror."

Harry wisely elected not to set Hermione to rights as to the real reason why he had Stupefied himself. Better she not know just yet that he had administered the Charm to keep himself from freezing to death and/or suffocating over the Tibetan plateau. Plenty of time for the truth later. In a year, perhaps. A decade. Or a century, even.

"In Stupefied form," Hermione went on, sounding like the bushy-haired, indefatigable Walking Encyclopedia Harry had so grown to love, "your body's functions were frozen and the malarial infection was completely arrested. It came back to life when we Ennervated you, and when we saw how advanced it was, I'll admit we were worried.

"As it was, when you crash-landed at the Burrow, it looked like you were already gone. It's a good job Madam Pomfrey was at the party. She helped me diagnose you, and we got you here to St. Mungo's straightaway. All certified Healers are authorized to enchant emergency portkeys at need. We always keep our potions cupboard fully stocked, and we began treatment immediately. Madam Grimm has been giving you small doses of Anophelus Potion over the last three days -- you were too weak to take a full dose all at once. I've been sleeping next to your bed so I could report on your progress. Some of the consulting Healers had their doubts about your recovery, but I set them straight. Once the potion was at work inside you, all that was required was that you fight, and keep fighting. The most critical part of the cure is the will to live. I told Madam Grimm not to worry. I knew you were a fighter. If Voldemort couldn't do you in, a little bug didn't stand a chance!"

"You're the reason I fought, Hermione," Harry said, his eyes beginning to shine wetly. "I had to get back to you. I had to keep my promise. Had to prove that -- that I can be the kind of man you deserve. Someone you can depend on.

"I thought about you every day I was gone, Hermione. And every night. I was a fool to leave you. But I'll never leave you again! I love you, Hermione! Oh, Merlin, how I love you!"

Harry lifted his hand from Hermione's lap and caressed her face. Slipping his fingers behind her ear, he drew her to him in a single fluid motion and pressed his lips to hers. All the love and desire pent up for fourteen lonely months poured out of him. He devoured her, inhaled her, flowed into and through her. And somewhere in the midst of this maelstrom of emotion, a realization struck him like a blow to the core of his soul.

Hermione's kiss was like a living flame, burning, surging through him like a raging firestorm; electric -- volcanic -- exploding through him like every Filibuster Firework Fred and George had ever set off in their seven years at Hogwarts, all igniting in a single nova-burst at the point where his and Hermione's lips met. She was gasping, whimpering, pouring out all the passion she had held under lock and key for a lifetime.

Feeling totally spent, Harry let his hand fall away and onto his bed. Hermione's face drifted back just far enough so that their eyes could reach into the other's soul with a touch soft as a sigh and unyielding as steel.

"Marry me, Hermione," Harry panted, his cheeks damp with tears of joy and love. "Please, oh please marry me!"

Hermione took Harry's hand in hers, brought his fingers to her lips and kissed them.

"I'm sorry, Harry," she said in an anguished voice, her own cheeks moist. "I -- I can't."

Harry's heart sank into his belly. His mind spun dizzily as in a renewed malarial delirium. Then it was that Hermione's words from minutes earlier crashed into Harry's brain like the Hogwarts Express at full throttle. The party! The Burrow! They had been feeding him potion here at St. Mungo's for three days -- THREE DAYS!

"Ron," Harry croaked in an agonized whisper, the light in his eyes dying as his face paled into a mask of horror. "Merciful God in Heaven. Ron..."

But Hermione placed her hand on Harry's face and smiled through her tears.

"No, Harry. Not Ron. Yes, he was at the party. He did ask me to marry him...I told you he was a persistent bugger. I said no. And my answer would have been the same even if you hadn't...er...crashed the party, so to speak."

"B-but -- " Harry stammered stupidly, " -- I thought -- you said -- "

"Yes," Hermione said with a look of deep introspection in her eyes. "I remember. I said a lot of things back then. I wanted it all, and nothing and no one was going to stand in my way. A successful career. A stable, well-ordered life. Job, home, husband, all neatly filed and catalogued like the Dewey Decimal System. But in the last year I've -- I guess you could say I've readjusted my priorities."

"But -- what brought this on?" Harry asked.

"Dumbledore," Hermione smiled mysteriously. "And you." Harry's puzzlement was manifest, and Hermione laughed softly as she leaned back and shook her hair away from her face with a casual toss of her head that Fleur Delacour would have envied. "Dumbledore has been sending me regular owls for the past year," she said. "Keeping me abreast of your travels."

Harry was about to ask how Dumbledore could know where he was and what he was doing from the other side of the world, but he thought better of it. Harry's own experience had taught him that what Dumbledore did not know on any given topic would scarcely fill a thimble in a Muggle sewing kit. And the old wizard's inscrutability in such matters was at least on a par with that of the Master whose pupil he had been more than a century before Harry was a gleam in his parents' eyes. Some questions, he decided, were better left unvoiced.

"Dumbledore told me about all the people you met during your travels," Hermione continued. "And about how you helped them in so many ways, whether with magic, doing chores -- even dipping into your Gringotts vault.

"And healing."

Hermione paused, and her eyes seemed to embrace Harry down to his very soul.

"Mending bones. Mixing potions. Using the skills I taught you at school to help so many -- and asking nothing in return. Even risking your life."

These last words baffled Harry; but before he could open his mouth to question this curious statement, Hermione reached into her robes and drew forth a small object which she held up to the candlelight. It was a small crystal phial, magically sealed but clearly empty.

"Well, Harry?"

How, Harry wondered, did Hermione manage, in a voice soft as the flutter of a fairy wing, to indict him with all the elemental force of an Atlantic hurricane?

"Part of my Potions Kit," Harry said simply, his eyes avoiding hers as he spoke. "Must have left it in my pocket."

Hermione sighed.

"I saw Dumbledore give you this after graduation, Harry. And I heard him tell you what was in it. Phoenix tears. A single drop from this phial could have cured your malaria in moments."

She held the phial up to the light, scrutinized it for a moment, then returned her attention to Harry. Again he averted his eyes.

"There was...a cholera outbreak in Bangladesh," Harry murmured. "And a little girl with leprosy in Kazakhstan...and -- "

"And you used it all," Hermione said gently, almost worshipfully. "Every drop. Until there was none left to save your own life."

Hermione's fingers closed around the empty phial as if it were a sacred relic and pressed it to her bosom.

"The wizarding world doesn't need another high-priced Healer," she said determinedly. "Prescribing potions to High-Society pure-bloods like Narcissa Malfoy. It needs more people like you, Harry. People who do good for its own sake.

"The party you 'crashed' at the Burrow was a going-away party, Harry. You see...I've applied to the Ministry for a Missionary Passport. It will admit me into any magical community in the world. Percy is working on it personally at the Department of Magical Cooperation. As soon as the paperwork is in order, I'm off on a three-year mission. I'll be hard to go. I've a lot of people to say goodbye to...a lot of friends I won't see for a long time...who I know I'll miss terribly. But I know it's the right choice. It's what I need to do.

"You once asked me to understand when you made a difficult decision. I need you to do the same for me. Can you understand, Harry? I -- I can't marry now. Not anyone. For the next three years, I've got to be married to my work. This may be the most important thing I'll ever do. I -- I can't do it by halves. Can you...forgive me?"

Tears were streaming down Harry's face as if a tap had been opened.

"I said it before. Just when I think you can't impress me more...I love you so much, Hermione. I wouldn't stop you for all the gold in Gringotts."

"Thank you," Hermione said in a voice softer than moonlight. She turned away, allowing Harry as much as herself a respite for composure. When at last she turned back around, her face was dry, though her cheeks glowed crimson and her eyes were still a bit puffy.

"Now, Mr. Potter," she said in a crisply professional voice, reminding Harry forcibly of Madam Pomfrey at her regal best, "I think you've had enough excitement for your first day back among the living. We may have flushed the malaria out of your system, but your recovery still has a little ways to go. Doctor Granger prescribes a Sleeping Draught." She gave Harry a withering look, as if daring him to object while she fought desperately not to smile.

"I always follow doctor's orders," Harry said obediently, his eyes flashing at Hermione's in a silent chuckle.

Hermione secured a flask from a cabinet and filled a goblet with a practiced eye. Harry drained it, feeling a relaxing warmth spread through him delightfully. Hermione removed the pillow from his shoulders, and he lay back with a contented sigh, looking up at Hermione with a mixture of deepest respect, boundless admiration -- and unequivocal love.

"By the way, Harry," Hermione added as a seeming afterthought, "I have a small problem you may be able to help me with."

"Anything," Harry said as a delicious drowsiness crept through him.

"Dumbledore warned me," Hermione said in a serious voice, "that there are many dangers inherent in such a mission as I propose. He strongly urged me not to go alone, but to take someone along to act as a sort of -- bodyguard, shall we say.

"So, Harry, you wouldn't happen to know of any unemployed ex-Aurors who might fill the position, would you?"

"I might know someone," Harry said with a suppressed grin, his speech slurring slightly as the potion took hold.

"Is he trustworthy?" Hermione asked with playful innocence.

"He'll...never...let...you...down."

Straining to see through blurring eyes, Harry saw Hermione lean close, felt her warm breath on his ear.

"Tell him he's hired."

Soft fingers parted his hair; tender lips touched his forehead in a feathery kiss.

"When...leaving?" Harry mumbled through a drowsy smile.

"Don't you worry about anything but getting well," Hermione instructed. "There's no hurry.

"I'll wait for you."

Harry held his breath. All that followed Hermione's words was a quiet, blessed silence. But to Harry, that silence was the most beautiful sound in the world.

Author's Note: Thanks to all who followed this story to its end. I hope it was worth the time invested. This story was deeper and less straightforward than my usual fare, and I felt increasingly uncomfortable in such unfamiliar territory. But when an idea springs up and demands to be written, one can but follow where the Muse leads. May she be kinder to me in future. Until then, thanks again.