Disclaimer: Nothing that you recognise is mine, though I wish it were, I'm merely playing in JKR's lovely sandcastle.
Author's notes: Where have all my betas gone? J was the only one that gave this chapter back to me, Madame of Sarcasm seems to have disappeared (though it wouldn't be the first time), and Stargurl wrote to me but never gave me her beta work. In any case, many thanks to the lovely J Choo. Anyway, this chapter had been ready since before I posted 10, but I was waiting on my betas, and, when I finally decided to post with just J, the Pope died, and I didn't feel up to updating. I'm a Catholic through and through, and I was very devoted to John Paul II, I still can't believe there's another man wearing his robes. Moving on. To Trowa no Miko: Thank you! You are the only reason for which I still post on FFN! I love your reviews! "And I look forward to your updates more than her books." Oh, I just melted there. As for Rebecca Larson, I don't know how you'd know it, but I used to know a girl in High School by that name, and she was a real sports fanatic, so I thought I'd use it for a Quidditch player.
And now, on with the chapter that explains all.
Harry Potter and the Bite of No Mortibus
Chapter 11: The Colour of Magic
"Professor Dumbledore?" Harry asked, as though wondering if it had not been the Headmaster himself to lose his marbles (err-more of them).
"Professor Snape has not been privileged of trust among Death Eaters since the Department of Mysteries," Dumbledore began, not reassuring Harry in the least of his state of mental health. "We believe this is due to the fact that some of the students present in Umbridge's office at the time recognised your warning to him for what it was. That, of course, means that the information that he has been able to infiltrate us has not been too reliable, and very scarce in any case."
Harry stared at Dumbledore. Was he blaming him for giving Snape's alliance with him away? The older man was fixing him with a penetrating stare, yet there was no accusation in his twinkling gaze. Harry stared right back, expecting his elder to come to the point soon. "Have you ever heard of the `Colour of Magic', Harry?" There was that old question about his sanity again!
After recovering from his initial confusion, Harry fidgeted in his seat for the simple reason that he felt he wasn't going to like what was to come. "No," he answered, "can't say I have, Professor."
"No?" Dumbledore questioned, seeming surprised. "I would have thought Miss Granger might have mentioned it once or twice in passing," Harry tried, he truly tried to remember if anything of the sort had ever happened, but came up with nothing. Knowing that he generally had a very good memory, he gave a sure shake of the head, indicating that no such thing had ever happened. The Headmaster, settling further in his seat to ponder his next words, kept his unwavering gaze on Harry. "You say you can feel her," he began strongly. "When did this start?"
"Second week of classes," the young man replied surely, with no hesitation in his voice. "During Transfiguration."
The old wizard smiled at him. "Would this have been the day in which everyone's assignment shattered, but yours?" Harry had no idea how he knew this (or everything else for that matter), but he nodded rather sheepishly nonetheless. Getting serious again, Dumbledore cleared his throat in a way that very clearly indicated that a lecture was coming. "The `Colour of Magic', Harry, is a theory, saying that every living being, human, animal, or plant, is filled with magic-made of it, so to speak. It's a theory that states that Magic is life itself." Harry looked ready to question, but Dumbledore prevented it.
"If you think about it, it's not so unbelievable. There are some Muggles that are capable of performing some rudimental charms-even better than learned wizards at times-entirely of their own nature. Some have the gift of Foresight-the Inner Eye-others can separate their minds from their bodies, effectively finding themselves in different places at the same time, some have what they call `telekinesis', the ability to make objects move without touching them. What Muggles call `Telepathy' to us is a form of Legilimancy. Why, there are even Muggles capable of communicating with those that are crudely called `spirits'.
"This theory," he continued, returning to the Colour of Magic, "states that magic is in everything that we are. It's what tells us how to breathe, what makes our heart beat, what allows reproduction, and we would not even be able to lift a finger without it. It's what makes a muscle pull another. We could not exist without it. This magic is part of us since the very moment we're conceived, or-better yet-it's what conceives us.
"Now, theoretically, magic should be entirely colourless at the time of out conception, though I personally think that there is always a shadow of colour from the residual magic of our parents, from which we are made. In time, as we grow, our magic grows with us, taking it's colour from us, changing hue as we mature. Now, I find that `Colour' is not quite the word to use in this case, because it makes too much reference to White and Black magic, Light and Dark arts. There is actually no such thing as White and Black magic, I personally think that magic takes on `Personality', not `Colour'."
"So why do we call the Dark Arts with that name?" Harry asked, taking a chance to ask his question in a break in Dumbledore's long explanation.
"A fluke of the language, really," the ancient mage replied with a shrug. "It's the same as saying that someone has a black heart. The heart is not truly black, it is an expression used in our tongue. It is true, however, that only those with a certain `hue' of magic can use certain spells to their desired level." Harry, very clearly did not understand the last part.
"Muggles' magic, for example, though present within them, does not allow them to do nearly any kind of intentional magic. Your friend, Neville Longbottom, couldn't perform to the level of your class when he first began attending Hogwarts-though he was more than a Muggle-yet, with time, and the right teachings, his magic is becoming closer to that of you and your classmates." Harry still didn't seem certain.
"You, yourself, have tried your hand at what are commonly known as the Dark Arts," the young man jumped in his seat, but Dumbledore was not disappointed, and he wasn't accusing. "What did you find out, then?"
Harry brought his hand up to his cheek to scratch it nervously. "It seemed to work," he said, remembering Bellatrix's screams when he cast the curse. "But not really. I didn't have the will behind it."
Dumbledore nodded. "That's one way to interpret it. Another is, that your magic is not attuned to it. Your magic makes you who you are, Harry. Its personality is the same as yours, and if it weren't, you wouldn't be able to live with it; it would eat away at you from the inside. I know this because it has happened. No, not from one's own magic. Since that grows with you, it grows like you. But there are very rare circumstances that can bring to that. When a creature dies in mind and body, Harry, it's magic disperses, drifts out of the body that it inhabited to become oxygen, and create new life-new magic.
"When two creatures touch or come in very close contact, so does their magic. If the two forces are opposing there is sometimes a reaction, showing in instant dislike, or an immediate feeling of companionship, depending on just how they oppose. When contact happens during the death of one of those to creatures, its magic, leaving the shell, will weaken, and be pulled by the one that is still living, the most likely of cases being that it will be drawn entirely into the other body and absorbed. If this were to happen to someone whose magic was not compatible with the deceased, the two forces would fight for domain, and damage the body that is carrying them. This, of course, if very rare, because generally, if the magic is otherwise occupied, it would not attract that which is dispersing, meaning that if in battle you are touching a dying Death Eater, but not contacting the Death Eater with your magic, his will not reach out to you.
"Now, let's make another example here. Let's say that there are two people whose magic is more than compatible, that one is nearly vital to the other, and one of them dies while in the arms of the other. Not only will the dying one disperse and try to attach itself to the one that is living, but the latter will also try and reach for the other because that would mean that it could never again have contact and that couldn't be allowed to happen. What do you think would be the result?" Dumbledore pierced Harry with his twinkling blue eyes.
Harry stared back at him. "A bond."
"Precisely," Dumbledore replied proudly, giving him a smile of admiration.
"And you think that's what happened with me and Hermione," it wasn't a question, but the old man replied nonetheless.
"Something of the sort, at least."
"But Hermione's not dead," Harry tried to convince Dumbledore as much as himself. What if she wasn't? What if all that he'd been hearing in his mind was a result of his magic bonding and reacting with hers, making him hallucinate, and hear what he wanted to hear?
"True, she is alive now," the old mage agreed, allowing him to breath out a sigh of relief. "But she did effectively die."
"What?" Harry's question shrill, confused, and not slightly scared.
"Miss Granger was poisoned that night. Remember what that newspaper that I sent you said?" He continued, like an attorney making his case.
"It said that it had to be a potion or something," Harry replied, after a moment of recollection.
"Quite right," Dumbledore concurred. "Now, I'm sure you've heard at least once of some kind of concoction that makes the person who ingests it seem dead until they awake."
"Yeah," Harry replied quickly. "Romeo and Juliet. A Muggle play." He'd studied it briefly in school, and Aunt Petunia owned every edition of it ever made, adapted to TV screen, of course. She cried over it at least once a week.
"Yes, there are many allusions to it throughout literature, both Magical and Muggle, yet there are just as many historical references of it, the earliest being recorded from Ancient Egypt. There has never been a recorded recipe for anything of the like, so many believed that only determined families of apothecary were aware of it, and they passed it along to their heirs. However, after several millennia, there was no more records of it, and it was believed that the bearers of the secret had died with the pest," Dumbledore explained.
"But how could something like that work?" Harry asked, truly befuddled. Even if the original makers had died, there were ways of finding out what potions were made of, he'd read it in Hermione's notes, so the fact that it had suddenly vanished made Harry think that it was nothing but a legend all along. "A potion that makes sleep look like death?" Snape had said something like that on their first class in first year, but Hermione had said that he was just trying to catch their attention because there was no written record of anything of the sort in recent times.
"Exactly," Dumbledore replied softly. "There is no such thing."
"What?" Harry asked aghast, getting more and more confused by the second.
"Death cannot be simulated. It can be delayed, and sometimes avoided, but there can never be a fake death," the ancient man spoke forcefully. Harry was feeling as though he were going to faint…or strangle the Headmaster.
First he would say one thing, and then he would say the exact opposite. Maybe he really was just mad, but the young man couldn't just leave it at that, he had to find out exactly where the old wizard was getting with this. And, if he didn't get anywhere, and he really was just senile, well Harry would at least have that question cleared. "So how did Hermione manage to look dead and still live?"
"Like I said. She did die."
"So how is she still alive?" Harry nearly screamed in exasperation.
"First," the old man spoke, raising his finger to make a point, "we should be asking ourselves how she died." Harry looked about to finally strangle his Headmaster. For Merlin's sake! Hermione was being held captive by escaped Death Eaters! But Dumbledore ploughed on in search for his answer, completely ignoring Harry's state of impatience. "Are you aware of the fact that some potions have delayed effects?"
"I thought all potions acted immediately," Harry replied more than slightly irritated.
"And they do," the old man answered readily, "but, sometimes, they may have ingredients that act at a later time-like a Muggle medicine may have side effects-or, sometimes, after a certain time, it will reverse itself, if it is so projected."
Harry blinked stupidly at his Headmaster for a few seconds. "Er-sorry, what?"
"Let us say, for example, that the Pepper Up potion's first effect is to make one's temperature raise drastically, therefore making the cold evaporate," Harry nodded for him to go on. "Now, that cures the cold, but the sudden overheating of the body can be very damaging, forcing it into a high fever," again, Harry nodded, displaying his understanding so far. "To compensate this, the Pepper Up has a delayed cooling effect."
"Makes sense," the young man mumbled under the heavy scrutiny.
"Now, let's return to the No Mortibus concoction that was administered to your friend, Miss Granger," Dumbledore continued. "There is a recording of someone who had been subjected to this brew, before it went lost. The recorder said that the subject's blood stops moving, frozen within the veins instantly, coincidentally the exact opposite of what the Pepper Up does," understanding suddenly arose like the sun on Harry's face.
"If the blood stops moving the heart can't beat anymore," he said, slightly awed.
Dumbledore nodded. "How long after the heart stops beating do Muggles declare death?" He asked Harry, who had finally gotten tired of being surprised and outraged at his elder's seemingly crazy questions, so he simply shrugged, letting him know that he didn't have the answer. "I'm not quite sure, but I believe it is around fifteen minutes. Maybe twenty. Any idea why?" A negative shake of the head, since there was no need for answer, it would be provided by the Headmaster. "Because they have to try and make the heart start pumping again, and it doesn't usually happen quickly, or as quickly as most would like. Once those minutes are up, the organs begin to cool, and the muscles can't move anymore, they become hard."
Dumbledore pierced Harry with another of his eloquent glances. "Do you know how long it takes for Wizards to declare death after the heart stops?" The young man doubted it would be long; remembering how Hermione's death certificate had been signed before she'd even managed to cool. "Three minutes," Harry wasn't surprised. "That's because, with magic the heart's beat can be reactivated instantly. If one spell doesn't work, the Healer moves onto another one until either the heart resumes, or he runs out of spells." A quiet nod from the student, and the lecture started up again. "Knowing this, we know that Miss Granger had effectively died."
And, while Harry heard these words, his mind went back to the first mental conversation he'd shared with Hermione, where she'd used that peculiar word `awake'. But she couldn't have awoken, because she hadn't been sleeping. She'd been dead. And then she just stopped being so. As though reading his thoughts, Dumbledore started his speech again from there.
"However, we also know that she is effectively alive," Harry nodded again-he'd been doing that a lot. "It's quite easy to figure out how that came to be really. We know that in past times, there was a potion, or poison, that froze blood within the veins, since the heart cannot pump frozen blood, it effectively causes death. To revive the subject, very simply, the poison had to either have a delayed effect that made the blood warm up and flow again, or it reacted to something else, such as, for example, a spell.
"Theoretically, that brew should have died several centuries ago, but I know for a fact that Tom Riddle had always found extinct magic fascinating. All three Unforgivables are based on it," Harry gave him a questioning look. "Oh, yes, Lord Voldemort never had any inventive. Others pursued even his quest for `purity' among Magical folk before him. I'm quite sure that whatever was used on Miss Granger was based on the potion that we spoke about."
"So," Harry began uncertainly, "our…connection. It's just because she died, and I was close and our magic was connected?"
"In part," was the pragmatic answer, "but you're forgetting some of the things I told you. When magic disperses, it is only when both mind and body die. After that there is no chance of revival. Evidently, there was something in that brew that kept Miss Granger's mind tied to her body, preventing her magic from dispersing, therefore giving the chance for her return to life."
"But then how-?"
"The Department of Mysteries."
Harry found himself blinking stupidly again. "What?"
"Do you not remember the spell that she received when at the Department of Mysteries?" Of course, he did, how could he forget? He merely nodded. "What was it?" Harry gave him a questioning look. "The spell. What was it?" Dumbledore repeated.
"I don't know," the young man replied after a long pause. "He was silenced, and I couldn't tell what it was. Hermione didn't know it either."
Dumbledore nodded quietly. "Do you know why we use wands, Harry?"
Harry blinked at him. "Er-I… " Don't know. Yep, that's what he would have said, but he decided against it. "Maybe to concentrate the spell in one place," he guessed.
"In part," Dumbledore replied. "We don't need our wands to use magic. You, yourself have done several things without meaning to and without needing your wand, the last of which I believe was turning your uncle's sister into a hot air balloon," Harry blushed profusely. "As you said, a wand is most helpful in concentrating one's energy in one place, and expelling it in one direction, to a determined place, thus reducing a possible waste of magic, or the use of an unnecessarily wide range. But that's not all. Through the wood, always magical, and the core, our magic takes on more power and some of the characteristics of those two things."
Again, Harry nodded for the professor to go on. "Why do we call out incantations when using our wands, do you think?"
Not having the slightest clue as to what the answer could be, the young man shrugged, his stare unwavering on his elder, who nodded, and began to rub his mighty beard in deep thought. "When a spell is invented, it generally has a motivation, or a purpose. An intent. Many wizards, when performing a spell either don't have the time or the intent to perform it, resulting in a faulty spell. To avoid that, all wizards are taught to pronounce the right incantation, and give intent to the spell without need of concentration." Harry was still staring, a furrow of confusion creasing his brow in ever increasing amount. "Without the incantation, a spell might become quite weak because of the unnecessary dispersion of magic, or, if performed with the wrong intent, do so causing contrasting effects."
Dumbledore pierced him with another of his intense, twinkling looks before shifting in his seat. "What I believe happened there, is that the spell used by Dolohov, like nearly all other curses used by Voldemort and his kind, was meant for the torture of the receiver, and the enjoyment of the caster." Harry's mind flew back to the memory of Bellatrix Lestrange telling him that to make an Unforgivable work, one had to wish the receiver a world of pain. He nodded, letting the Headmaster know he understood. "Well, when Dolohov cast the curse, he was most likely angry from the blow received from what he might have considered nothing by lowly scholars. That anger would have naturally contrasted with the original intent of the spell, which required a cold calculating enjoyment, and furthermore the incantation was not pronounced."
The Headmaster didn't wait for Harry to nod as he ploughed through his lecture. "Like I said before this could have made the spell quite weak, but it didn't because Dolohov's anger was great, and anger is very strong fuel for a curse. That of course, could only resolve in an even bigger dispersion of energy."
"Now, from what I've been told, the curse was cast at very close range, was it not?"
Harry knew that there was actually no need to answer, but he did so anyway, "Yes, sir, it was."
"What do you think this could lead to?"
Harry didn't want to think anymore, he didn't want to know, he was getting tired, and wanted to draw back into his comfortable shell of numbness.
Yet Dumbledore would not let him.
"This, Harry, would result in Miss Granger getting the full strength of a very heavy spell cast incorrectly, and a big load of excess magic with it to boot. The spell rendered her unconscious, allowing the invading force to fill her body, who has been fighting it ever since."
"No," he didn't want to believe it. He didn't want to believe that a piece of Dolohov had been living inside Hermione, festering, slowly torturing her. "She said she was fine." And she did, and she had to be. "Madame Pomfrey said she healed from the curse." And she had, she didn't even have a scar.
"The superfluous wound did heal, her skin scarred and healed completely, but her organs were suffering a great deal, her lungs especially. She had great trouble breathing," the twinkle was gone from the Headmaster's eyes, yet Harry would not allow it.
"She could breathe just fine," anger was rising within him again, an anger that hadn't been there since he'd left Hogwarts for the summer. "She spent hours laughing and running around the study at Grimmauld Place all summer." She was fine, she was not dying from within, Dumbledore was wrong.
"Tell me, Harry," the elder began, "did you notice anything different in your friend? In the way she moved this summer?" Harry was ready to snap at him again, but stopped before the words left his mouth. There had been something different. "Did she seem stronger, perhaps?" She did. "Did she seem quicker, more agile?" She did. "Did she seem to never truly stand straight? Was she always leaning against something?" She was. "Had you noticed anything of the sort?" He had. And he'd been worried. But he hadn't asked.
So maybe it was time he did.
"Why was that?"
"Miss Granger had been taking a media of ten potions a day since the Department of Mysteries to help replenish her magic, keeping the invading energy under control. That resulted in her heightened reflexes and in her improved strength, but it wasn't enough. Her organs were deteriorating so much that she could not stand straight anymore because it strained them."
A heavy silence seemed to blanket the whole room, chilling them both, and it was interrupted only when a terrifying question occurred to Harry, and he could not withhold the need to express it. "But…those potions. She's been without them for weeks! She must be so sick, and those Crucios! How can she still…?"
"Be alive?"
Harry flinched at those words, but there weren't really any others that could be used. He nodded. "Now there's a very good question!" Dumbledore's whole face lit up with something that resembled glee quite closely, but how could it be? The Headmaster really must be mad. "You see, Harry this leads us right back to the question you had earlier of how your bond came to be with her. Part of it was because your magic and hers is so very much compatible, but the bigger part is because of the curse that she received! Despite the fact that Madame Pomfrey managed to heal her physically, there were she was hit her magical barrier was much weaker, and it caused for quite a bit of magical loss. When she received the bite, even though the No Mortibus brew is constructed to keep her magic within her, very much of it left her, because her barrier was far weaker than it had ever been. And there you were, next to her calling out to her, and her magic answered for her, reaching for you as well, creating this connection between the two of you!"
Harry's heart swelled with what the Headmaster was saying, and how he was pronouncing them, but he couldn't let himself be dragged by the flow and he knew it. He was going to try and stay level, just like Hermione would have in this situation, even though he was sure Hermione wouldn't have even been in such a situation, because she'd have it all figured out already. "That explains the bond," he said quietly. "It doesn't explain how she could possibly still…be alive."
"Oh, but it does! It does so splendidly, actually. You see, when she was attacked with No Mortibus, the brew prevented her body from releasing her magic, and only her own magic. Her body, which was repelling Dolohov's energy from the start, must have expelled it nearly instantly, which means that, by now, her magic is very likely nearly entirely restored. You weren't affected by Dolohov's magic because you were calling out to your friend, and only her, repelling everything else, much like you tried to repel me when I came close to you that day," Harry's cheeks coloured mightily, but Dumbledore was either too kind or to absorbed in his explanation to call him on it. "All this time she must have been in good conditions, or you would have come to me much earlier, which means in part that she must have been fed by magic to keep her healthy, but I'm quite convinced that she was subconsciously drawing quite a bit of support from you, which would, of course, be the reason for why she is still sane after all the Crucios she was hit with."
"Er-how so?"
"Quite simply, she would, without even knowing it, draw into the shelter that she finds in your mind, allowing her to escape most of the pain, which in turn explains the pain that you felt from it. It could also explain why you didn't feel anything from Voldemort."
"What do you mean?"
"Well," the elder began, his fingers drumming on his chin in thought, "more than once you've felt what Voldemort was feeling, if it was intense enough, true?" Harry nodded. "Tom, in school, used to love torturing small animals, though he hid it well enough. I'm sure that he would have drawn great pleasure from watching one of the most important people in Harry Potter's life, the one person standing between him and all his plans of Pureblood glory, tortured to madness or death-and I'm sure he was present at the time. He never misses a torture. I daresay, you ought to have felt at least a twitch."
"Maybe I'm just closed to him."
"Maybe," Dumbledore nodded. "But I doubt it. At least in the sense that you mean it. You're closed to him in the sense that he can't break into your mind on purpose, but strong emotions should still be able to filter through, but they don't, apparently. Any idea why?"
Harry was, in all honesty, getting very tired of this game of rhetoric. It was quite obvious he knew why, but he insisted in asking. "Why?" he relented, giving the Headmaster what he wanted.
"Because your mind is entirely filled by Hermione's presence. It's like Occlumency, though it works in exactly the opposite way from what is orthodox. Generally, one clears the mind as much as possible, not letting anything through. Your mind, though, does not only hold you, but Hermione as well, there is no space for another intrusion, so to speak. Naturally, that works for your Miss Granger as well. I say that may come in handy quite marvellously."
Harry didn't like the sound of that. Staring at the Headmaster, he thought he knew what it was that was making him feel that way. "You want her to spy for you. Since they can't get into her mind, you can use her." There was more than a little accusation in his voice.
"As I already said, Professor Snape has no longer been trusted by the Death Eaters, and we do need much more help," his tone had been soft and pleasant, yet Harry found it incredibly irritating, entirely out of place, and unbelievably frightening.
"You're willing to sacrifice her?" He pronounced this as though the realisation had dawned on him right then and there, which it had.
"Not at all," Dumbledore hadn't even been phased by Harry's declaration. "Absolutely not."
"Then why would you risk her life for some of your information?"
"Exactly because I don't want to risk her loss, and, without any information it will take an incredibly long time to find her, and each second we waste is a second too long," the elder's voice was fierce, proud, and urgent, and then it turned menacing. "Death Eaters like to play with their toys, but they're spoiled. They tire very quickly, and once they do, they like to break their toys."
Harry felt his blood turn to ice at those words.
"Contact her, Harry, before it's too late."
*°*°*
And there he was, that very same night, lying in his bed during the wee hours of the morning, awake and restless, calling out to his best friend while she refused to answer, increasing his worry. He'd tried everything, from telling her that Hagrid had been fired-which was false-to telling her that he was planning a secret affair with none other than Severus Snape-outrageous, yes, and she would have never believed him, but it should have arisen some kind of reaction. And it hadn't. What if it was already too late? She was still there, he could feel her at the back of his consciousness, aware, but was she still sane?
He needed to know.
And he knew of a way that would get her to answer if she could understand the question, though he was terrified to try. He'd gone against his word to her, yet he'd had no choice, and he feared for her life. Taking a deep breath and bracing himself, he pulled the last card that he had up his sleeve, and called to her one last time.
"Hermione," he spoke, "Hermione!" Stronger this time. And then another deep breath. "Hermione, I went to Dumbledore today," and there, he could feel a tension coming from her, as though she guessed what he would say, but wouldn't let him know that he'd heard until she was sure. And he'd give her that certainty, knowing that at least that would make her speak to him, if not in friendly terms. "I told him everything."
Another hesitation, and then, finally, a response. "What do you mean, `everything'?"
And he sighed. "I mean, Hermione, `everything'."
"Oh, Harry!" She sounded exasperated, and scared. "Why would you do that? You promised you wouldn't."
And he felt anger. Shouldn't she know why he did that? But maybe she really didn't, so he'd tell her, just to be sure. "Because," his tone still bitter at what she said, "I could have either done that, or stayed on hold, knowing you're being tortured, and waiting for it to be over, without even being able to do anything. Sorry if I chose the first option."
"Oh," and another one of her blasted hesitations followed. "I didn't think you knew."
"Of course I knew, Hermione, you thought I wouldn't feel at least part of those Crucios?" For the life of him, he didn't know why was so frustrated and irritated, much more than he should have been, but he was, and he hated it.
"I didn't want you to know."
And a heavy silence followed, weighing mightily on his heart. "You should have answered me, and told me."
"I didn't want you to know." What she said, the way he said it, made him almost feel guilty for the fact that he felt betrayed by her silence, hurt by her indifference of his worry.
In any case, there was no point in crying over spilt milk. There was much to discuss, and it was high time they started on it. "Hermione, Dumbledore has a plan."
And the planning went on into the night, their earlier conflict ignored, but not forgotten.
Never forgotten.
To be continued.
There you have it. Hope you enjoyed it, but tell me either way by leaving a review, or mailing me at Robbygal@hotmail.com
Thank you
Pearl
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