Good, Evil, and Everything in Between by Lily White

Rating: PG13
Genres: Drama, Suspense
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 4
Published: 01/03/2003
Last Updated: 12/04/2003
Status: Paused

If fate gave you a second chance, would you take it? It's five years after the trio's
graduation from Hogwarts, and five years after the single event that sent the entire magical
community spiraling into grief and despair. Harry Potter may be gone, but hope is not lost. Now
Ron, consumed with guilt, and Hermione, hopelessly in love with a memory, will get their chance-but
what will happen when the truth is finally revealed? *I have paused writing this story because it
has become too upsetting under my present circumstances. I am very sorry for any inconvenience this
may cause.*




1. Forget
---------

Authors Note: Well, here goes my first fic on portkey. This being the third revision of this
story, I guess all I can do is send it out into the wide, wide world and hope it does not incur any
flames. *Pats fic on head* Off you go!

Disclaimer: I own nothing; it all belongs to the marvelous J.K. Rowling.

Forget

Hermione spent many of her days reading her favorite book of poetry. There was one in particular
that she loved, called "Forget". It talked about how things in the past couldn't be
changed, an aspect of life which Hermione had come face to face with so many times during the
course of her twenty-three years. That poem had always brought tears to her eyes, and she knew as
well as anyone that a good long cry was often the best thing for letting out one's feelings.
Cheery sunlight filtered into the room, past the blood red curtains, casting shapes upon the floor.
A young woman with long, curly brown hair sat in a patched and faded armchair, staring wistfully
out the window. She was curled up, rather like a small, frightened child, with her feet tucked
underneath her, a tattered book of poetry on her lap, and her head resting on her arms. There was a
lump in Hermione's throat, a stinging in her eyes, and an ache in her heart. The tears
threatened to come, but she fought the oncoming sobs. Hermione wished she could let herself cry,
let herself grieve for her old friend.... Harry had been wounded in battle against the dark lord,
and had died later that same night. Memories flooded into her mind at the thought of her old
friend's name.

Hermione remembered their time at Hogwarts vividly. She had been a brainy little witch who no
one would have suspected of anything even remotely interesting or adventurous. Harry had chosen the
life of a mischievous, famous Quidditch player with an unnerving tendency for getting into
life-or-death situations. Of course, there had been Ron as well. He never changed, never seemed to
grow up at all. In some ways, this was cute and endearing. In others, it was just annoying. But,
they were always together, and the other students found it odd if one was ever seen without the
other two.

To pin-point a time frame for the disintegration of the "dream team", as Professor
Snape had so condescendingly referred to the three friends, would be impossible. They had
just...drifted. There had been no quarrel, no huge argument culminating in a fist-fight to justify
it. Harry, Ron, and Hermione had simply grown apart over the years. By their seventh year, the only
conversation between them was restricted to strained "hello"s in the hallway between
classes.

Ron started to follow his older brothers around, eventually resulting in membership in their
crowd, which consisted of the "class clowns" of Hogwarts. Harry had started hanging
around with Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan more than ever, while Hermione drafted Ginny as her new
best friend. The two girls got along fairly well, but Ginny's continuous gushing over Harry was
enough to annoy anyone. The three old friends hadn't even signed each other's yearbooks
come graduation, hadnt even said goodbye to each other as they stepped off the Hogwarts Express for
the last time. Ron enlisted in the army straight out of school, as did a lot of the other. Harry,
of course, was made commander of his own platoon. Hermione had heard a rumor that Ron was actually
serving with Harry as his commanding officer. She remembered thinking that they were probably
either best friends again or at each other's throats day and night. The latter brought with it
a very funny mental image of Harry hitting Ron over the head with a frying pan. She tried not to
think about her old friends too much....

Now, Hermione was a very successful author. She wrote mostly instructional textbooks that were
used in some of the best magic schools in the world, including the Salem Institute of Witchcraft,
and even her old school, Hogwarts. She had a nice house, a cute little calico cat (Crookshanks had
been hit by a car in the summer between her fifth and sixth years at Hogwarts), and she was engaged
to a wonderful wizard. His name was James Silverton, and every time Hermione spoke his name aloud
she had to work to keep her voice from trembling. Harry's father's name. It was eerie.
James was tall, with sandy hair and clear gray eyes. He did have a rather large nose, but she
overlooked that minor detail. He was a quiet, smart over-acheiver, rather like Hermione herself. He
loved to read, and kept their little house stocked with books. On the surface, Hermione appeared to
have everything a woman could want, but her life was consumed with guilt and sadness.

The night of Harry's death was the night that Hermione had met her fiance.

She had gone to a popular London dance club with Ginny, hoping to lose herself in the loud music
and forget her problems, if only for a few hours. The place was dark, since the only lighting came
from flashing strobe lights and the huge, glittering disco ball suspended from the ceiling. It was
also packed, which was to be expected on a Friday night. People of every race and origin were all
dancing together, people wearing everything from the chic styles of Paris and Rome to people
wearing almost nothing at all. One man's ensemble looked suspiciously as if it were painted on.
Upon entering the club, Hermione had felt she had made a mistake in coming. She had chosen to leave
her safe, comfortable little house for this? She slipped through the surging crowds with
difficulty, leaving Ginny near the entrance to fend for herself. Within ten minutes, the pulsing
techno music became Hermione's new enemy, causing a painful pounding in the space between her
ears. She set off in the direction of the bar, trying hard to ignore certain lude comments made to
her as she jostled her way through the crowd; all she wanted was to find someone normal in this
freak show- either that or a very stiff drink, whichever she came across first. >

After sipping her martini for a few moments, Hermione came to the conclusion that there
weren't any normal people in the whole club. The girl sitting next to her was a perfect
example. She had at least six holes in each of her ears, blue hair that stuck out in all
directions, and a large tattoo of a unicorn on her left upper thigh. She was wearing a shiny silver
baby-doll dress that showed as much skin as the average bathing suit and silver ankle boots. She
had also apparently tried to save time by applying two or three weeks' worth of blue eye liner.
When sitting next to Hermione (who was wearing a black knee-length skirt printed with tiny flowers,
a white blouse, black sandals, and no makeup whatsoever), this girl could have been labeled a
hooker- a cheap hooker.

Suddenly, a tall, blonde man sat down on Hermione's other side. He was wearing a neatly
pressed suit, minus the tie, and he looked like an angel sent down from heaven to snatch her out of
the clutches of these weirdos. He ordered a beer, and then turned as if to introduce himself .

"Hi. Having fun?" he asked Hermione. She didn't hear him, due to the loud music
and chatter of the other people.

"What?" she practically yelled.

"I was just wondering if you were having fun!" he yelled back. Even though the two
were barely three feet apart, conversation was virtually impossible.

"No, I mean I can't hear you!" Hermione hollered. At that moment, the song had
ended, letting everyone within a thirty-foot radius hear what she had said.

"Well, I'll just have to talk louder, won't I?" he asked with a small smile on
his face. Then he asked her if she'd like to go for a walk with him. She accepted, desperate to
get away from the noise and stifling heat of the club.

Just let me find my friend and tell her I'm leaving, okay?" asked Hermione, struggling
to make herself heard. He nodded his agreement and then motioned with his hands that he would meet
her at the club exit.

After a few minutes of frantic searching, she located Ginny. She was flirting with some guy with
spiky blonde hair, wearing no shirt, but covered in tattoos; Mrs. Weasley would have gone into
cardiac arrest had she known her daughter was even conversing with someone like that.

"Ginny! I'm gonna go for a walk, okay?" Hermione said.

"Alone?!" Ginny asked incredulously.

"Um...well, not exactly," she had replied, blushing.

"I knew you had it in you! Who's the guy? Is he cute?"

"Very. Listen, I should get going. Don't worry about me getting home, I'll probably
just take a cab," said Hermione, sounding very rushed and anxious to leave.

"Well, okay...I guess. You have your cell phone, right?"

"Don't I always?" Hermione had replied with a grin. She was legendary for never
going anywhere without her trusty phone. While it wasn't that usual that you saw a witch
carrying the Muggle device, they could be extremely useful>

"Okay then. I'll call you when I'm leaving, and I can give you a lift home if you
need one, okay?" said Ginny, with concern for her friend showing in her pretty face.

"Thanks, Ginny. I'll call you. Well, bye!" said Hermione. She walked away quickly,
trying not to pay attention to Ginny's new friend's eyes on her ass as she left. She walked
to the glowing red EXIT sign, where she met up with her mystery date. They introduced themselves as
soon as they stepped out of the hot, noisy club into the crisp night air.

His name was James Silverton, and he was apparently a reporter for the Daily Prophet. If
Hermione had not been so distracted by his eyes (light gray, almost silver) she would have
remembered her encounters with one Rita Skeeter and headed right back into the club. But,
fortunately for the young couple, childhood memories were the farthest thing from Hermione's
mind right then.

As they strolled through the streets of London, they found themselves walking into a cozy little
caf. James ordered a cup of coffee (black, no sugar) while Hermione calmly sipped a tall glass of
sparkling water. They talked, though if pressed, Hermione could not have told what about. After
about an hour of flirtatious chat and stolen glances into each other's eyes, Hermione's
cell phone rang inside her black silk purse (no leather for her). She lifted the phone to her ear,
gazing into James' face as she mouthed the words Its my friend, calling to check up on me.
Imagine her surprise when the voice on the other end choked out the word "Hermione?" as
if it were an extreme effort to utter those three syllables. The voice was definitely male, and
definitely NOT Ginny. But it did sound familiar....

"Ron?" she asked incredulously.

"Yeah. Yeah, its me. Listen, there's been...an accident," came Ron's voice,
soft and slow. It was as if he were gathering his courage for whatever it was he had to tell her.
Hermione had wild thoughts running through her mind at that point, thoughts of injury, of the Dark
Lord, of death....

"What happened Ron?" she asked shrilly, her concern mounting by the second.

"Its Harry. He's been...." Hermione's concern instantly mutated into panic.
Her throat felt constricted and she could feel a wrenching in her middle, as if someone had ripped
out her intestines. By then James had realized something was terribly wrong. Seeing Hermione's
panic- stricken face growing paler by the second, he got up out of his seat, came around to her
side of the booth, and sat down next to her. She held up one finger, motioning him to be quiet.

"Yes...?" she asked.

"Oh, Hermione. Harry's dead. Dead...dead and gone...." replied Ron. Hermione's
world, her universe, was shattered into a million pieces in that split second that Ron spoke those
condemning words. She never heard what Ron said next, missed his explanation of how Harry Potter
had died. She didn't care how it happened. She didn't want to know. She didn't hear his
instructions for the funeral, which would be next week. She didn't hear him when he said they
had both been asked to speak at the service. All she heard was the buzzing between her own ears.
She calmly bid him goodbye and dropped her phone into her bag, stood up, and walked out of the caf,
with James following close behind. He was full of questions. "Why are you crying? Who was that
on the phone? Are you okay? Do you need a ride home?" The last was the only inquiry she
bothered to answer.

She accepted the ride, but didn't remember any of it. Indeed, Hermione felt so out of touch,
it could have been someone else in that car with James. It could have been someone else who said
goodnight to him, climbed the steps to her front door, turned the key, and stepped into the shadows
of the dimly lit front hall. It could have been a total stranger who kicked off the black sandals
(which were usually put away carefully in the hall closet, not kicked off in the middle of the
floor), climbed the staircase to the second room on the left, locked the door behind her, and laid
down on the bed without undressing. It could have been anyone on earth, except Hermione Granger.
No, she was off in memory land, thinking herself into a figurative coma. Hermione had always
thought that she thought too much....

Harry had been a child in so many ways, wiser than an adult in so many others. He had risked his
life in the face of evil so many times. He had saved so many lives in his short lifetime. And he
was gone. She had never even had the chance to say goodbye, to tell him she loved him-had always
loved him. What she felt for him was not love that spans all boundaries, but love that burns its
way into your body slowly, until you realize that if this person is gone, they will take a part of
your heart with them. He had never known, and he never would.

James came home from work to find his fianc curled up in her favorite armchair, crying.

"Shhhhh," he said as he put his arms around her."Oh, honey. Please don't cry.
He's gone. Just try and forget."



2. Blame
--------

Author's Note: Here's the second chapter of my little story (okay, maybe it's not
quite so little.) This one is mostly a flashback, too, like the first one. Oh, and I fixed the
first paragraph. For some reason a lot of it was cut out and the beginning didn't make sense.
Oops! Well, it's fixed now. I also fixed the error regarding the legal drinking age in Britain.
My apologies for that oversight. Hope you like!

Disclaimer: Everything belongs to J.K. Rowling

Chapter 2: Blame

Ron couldn't sleep. He'd been tossing and turning in his bed for hours, trying to get
comfortable despite the fact that he felt like the sheets were trying to strangle him. Now he was
standing in front of his refrigerator, swigging milk straight from the carton while he stood there
in his boxers, his red hair all rumpled. After replacing the now half-empty carton in the fridge,
he went into the living room of his apartment in downtown London and sat down on the couch. He
picked up the sword, running his fingers across the blade.

"Shit!" he yelped, having cut his thumb. He wiped the blood off on his shorts and put
the sword back down on the coffee table. It was a weird place to keep a weapon, but Ron didnt
figure that it mattered. It wasn't like he ever had any visitors. And so, the sword lived on
the coffee table, right next to the pile of magazines and the stacks of candy bar wrappers. Ron
hated that sword. He never took the time to clean it; now it was all rusted and dull. He didn't
care. He would have gotten rid of it, just thrown it into the garbage, if he hadn't felt that
it would be wrong somehow. He felt he needed the sword around as a reminder, a reminder of the
worst thing hed ever done.

Ron sucked on his thumb for a minute, then sat back and closed his eyes, thinking about the
sword and the part that it had played in his life. He replayed the images from his eighteenth year
in his mind, as he had done so many times before. That year he couldn't forget, even when he
tried.

The eighteen year old Ron sat in his hammock, polishing his sword. Dull and covered with rust,
it hadn't looked like much when he'd gotten it. It had been his grandfathers, his fathers
father. Ron received it on the day of his graduation from Hogwarts. Not impressive at first sight,
he'd worked to restore it. Now, as he sat in his tent absent-mindedly wiping at the blade with
a rag, it glistened a bright silver. Engraved into the handle was one word:
"Weasley."

Ron always brought the sword into battle with him, whether for good luck or for actual practical
use he could never quite decide. He hadn't had to use it in combat yet. There was always the
possibility of becoming disarmed and needing to rely on the old weapon rather than on magic. A lot
of the other soldiers carried Muggle weapons, too. Ron knew for a fact that his old classmate
Seamus Finnigan always kept a small hand pistol tucked inside his left boot.

Ron's platoon had been involved in most of the major battles of what was beginning to be
called the Second Childrens' Crusade. Almost all of the soldiers currently fighting against the
armies of Lord Voldemort weren't even twenty; mere boys were risking and, in many cases, losing
their lives in the fight. They came straight from school, be it Hogwarts or Beauxbatons or some
other magic school, to serve in the war currently raging between good and evil. And, like the first
Childrens' Crusade, this seemed to be a lost cause. They were outnumbered, their powers
outweighed, by Voldemort's armies.

Ron had left without a moment's hesitation after graduation to enlist. So had most of the
boys in his graduating class, except of course for the Slytherins. Oh, theyd joined in the
fighting; they were just on the other side of the fence, so to speak. So far, they were on the
winning side.

Voldemort had been gaining power and followers steadily since the end of Ron's fourth year
at Hogwarts. Now, the Dark Lord had an army twice the size of theirs, and at least three times as
powerful. The Ministry told them that it was hopeless, that they could never win. When he heard
that, Ron had thought to himself that they'd just described every great success story in
history.

While Ron and his fellow soldiers felt no regret for joining in what had been deemed a lost
cause, they did fear for their own lives and for the lives of their families and friends. As they
often said to one another, what was left for the magical community if they gave up? Of course,
there was one thing they could do that would stop the war cold. These people, these Dark wizards
who had no discernable souls and knew not the meaning of the word compassion, wanted one thing.
They wanted Harry Potter dead.

Ron's commanding officer and former best friend, Harry Potter himself. The boy who lived,
the famous face with the famous scar was going in to battle the next day. He was going in on the
front line, no less. What an idiot, but Ron had to smile at his friend's bravery. It had always
been this way, ever since their first year together at Hogwarts. Harry risking his life up front,
right in evil's face. Ron should have been used to it by now. But how do you get used to your
very best friend having near-death experiences all the time? The answer is simple. You
don't.

Of course, it wasn't as though they had entered this situation with the same friendship that
had gotten them safely through many a year at school. In fact, it hadn't become apparent that
they were even both present until roll was taken on the first day of training. Harry was a captain,
Ron a soldier. Ron was expendable. Harry was irreplaceable. He knew this and accepted it as a fact,
knowing there was no way to change it.

On that first day, Ron had been gratified to see that Harry had at least recognized his name
when it was called. He had even said hello, though the greeting had sounded strained. Ron couldnt
blame him for feeling awkward; the situation *was* awkward. Harry and Ron hadn't even said
goodbye to one another on graduation day, hadn't even signed one another's yearbooks. Now
they were sleeping two tents apart, and Ron received all of his orders straight from Harry's
mouth.

The next day their company was to march on the Dark Lord's forces; a sneak attack, in the
early morning hours. They would probably have to leave at three oclock in the morning in order to
have the advantage of surprise. Needless to say, Ron was not looking forward to it. He glanced down
at his watch and was shocked to find that it was past ten already. Lights out were always called at
nine- had he missed it, he'd been so lost in thought? He stood and walked to the front of his
tent, poking his head out of the door. Sure enough, he couldn't see a light on anywhere else in
the camp, except....

"Can't sleep?" he asked Harry, whose lantern was still burning brightly on his
small desk. He took a good long look at his old friend. He still looked like a little boy. Hell,
they all did. Sometimes Ron just wanted to scream that they were too young to die and should just
go home, home to where their mothers could hold them when they were scared and home to a place free
from death and suffering. He could tell that most of them felt the same way he did, with the
exception of Harry. Harry had faced death so many times by now that it must have seemed, at least
to him, that he was running out the clock, that his time was short.

"No. You?" Harry replied. Despite the deep shadows underneath his eyes, he looked
wide-awake.

"I'm here, aren't I? I saw your light."

"I'm just working out some plans for tomorrow," Harry said, gesturing to the maps
and charts littering his desk. But Ron knew Harry better than that.

"You were thinking about your parents, you mean?" he asked, knowing full well what the
answer would be. Harry always thought about Lily and James when he was faced with danger, and the
upcoming battle would be plenty dangerous.

"Yeah, I guess," Harry sighed, looking down at his lap. "Ron? I want you to know
that, well, this is gonna sound so hokey but...I never stopped thinking of you as my best friend. I
just want you to remember that, okay?"

After speaking, Harry rose from his seat and gave Ron a quick hug; the two friends had never
embraced before. Sure, they'd hugged Hermione plenty of times, but never each other. Ron
cringed as he remembered Hermione, and quickly pushed all thoughts of her out of his mind.

"I know that, don't even worry about it," Ron replied, taken aback by Harry's
sudden display of emotion. This was a good thing; all was forgiven.

"Now get back to your tent and get some sleep. I need you ready for tomorrow," said
Harry, suddenly all business.

"Yes Sir," said Ron, confused by what had just happened. He pondered it on the walk
back to his tent, but forced his mind to go blank as soon as he had gotten into bed. Harry was
right about one thing; he did need his sleep.

When Ron awoke less than three hours later, he found the camp in utter chaos. From what he could
gather from the garbled bits of conversation he overheard from soldiers walking by his tent,
someone on their side had turned traitor and informed one of the Dark Lords minions, not only of
their plans for the attack, but also of their location. The Dark army had come, in full force.

Ron struggled to get dressed, putting on his pants backwards twice and his shirt on inside out
once before he finished.

He grabbed his wand and shoved his sword into one of the belt loops of his jeans. He left the
safety of his tent and came face to face with the madness that had engulfed the camp. Tents had
been torn asunder, clothing and other personal items belonging to the soldiers were lying haphazard
on the ground. No one was around, they were all heading to the battle now raging on a hillside
about two hundred yards from where the ruined campsite now rested. Ron's immediate concern was
finding Harry. Not only was he worried for his friend, but Harry was his commanding officer. He
needed orders. Ron found him shouting instructions to a group of panic-stricken soldiers while
trying to pull his shirt on.

"Harry! What should I do?" called Ron into the tent.

"Bloody Hell! Just go kill something, Weasley!" Harry shouted in reply. Ron had never
heard him swear before, let alone call anyone besides Draco by their last name. But Ron didnt stop
to wonder, he just charged past the tents to the hillside where all the action was.

He passed many wounded soldiers on his way to the battle, and had to force himself not to look
down to see if he recognized any of them. He did pause, however, when he heard Seamus Finnigan
screaming like there was no tomorrow. Ron looked down to find Seamus writhing on the ground a few
feet to his left, clutching his foot.

"What happened?" Ron shouted over the din.

"Shot myself! Stupid pistol, forgot it was there!" replied Seamus, gritting his teeth
against what Ron could only assume was terrible pain. "You go, Ill be alright!" he
yelled.

Ron did as he was told and rushed into the fray, flinging his sword aside in his hurry to start
cursing. The words *Avada Kedavra* flew from his lips and into the darkness. The entire hill
was lit with bright flashes of green as wizards fell lifeless to the ground, one after another. The
battle raged for nearly two hours, Ron barely escaping death countless times as he fired curse
after curse into the blackness. He had stopped thinking, stopped aiming, even. Now he was just
shooting in the general direction of the Death Eaters. He had even stopped praying.

Suddenly he heard a laugh that stopped him right in his tracks, made his blood run cold, and
sent a shiver of fear running up his spine. He looked to the very top of the hill and saw none
other than the Dark Lord himself, an ominous figure clad all in black standing tall against the
rapidly lightening sky. And what was worse, he had Harry by the hair. He was holding him up off the
ground, while Harry writhed and struggled to free himself from death's grip.

To his credit, Harry didn't scream. He didn't open his mouth once, and his face was
locked in an expression of what one could only call pride. Ron rushed forward, as did many other
soldiers. They couldn't reach Harry, though. There were just too many Death Eaters, who had now
formed a protective circle around their master.

"Finally!" came the voice of the Dark Lord. "Finally you will die, Potter!"
he shrieked. Ron offered a quick prayer to God, if He even existed, to spare his friend's life.
As he looked upwards for that one second, he saw that the sky was lightening from black to gray,
the stars winking out one by one. It was like they were dying....

"You can kill me, but you will be defeated in the end," Harry replied, in a strong
voice devoid of any fear. He spoke not just to Voldemort, but to the Death Eaters and, most of all,
to his own soldiers. Just then, Ron saw the Dark Lord draw something long and shiny from his
belt-His sword!

"Prepare to meet your parents, boy!" Voldemort cackled, raising the blade into the
air.

"I always did wish to die up to my knees in blood," was Harry's perfectly calm
reply.

"And how ironic, Ive just noticed something," the Dark Lord spoke again, pausing with
the sword still raised. "This sword I have, do you see that it bears an engraving?
*Weasley*, it says. That *is* wonderful, the famous boy who lived, killed with his best
friends own sword. I couldn't have written a more perfect ending for you!"

Then he brought the sword crashing down, impaling Harry as he fell to the ground. Voldemort
disappeared, along with what remained of his entire evil army.

Harry died before he was reached by anyone who could have helped him; indeed he was beyond help
and closing in on death's door. One Ronald Weasley, who could do nothing but grasp his
friend's hand, reached him, however. Harry saw those familiar eyes fill with tears, and forgave
him without question, without words. His eyes rolled back, and the famous Harry Potter passed out
of this world.

It was really too bad that the dying Harry couldn't speak though. Ron never knew that he was
forgiven, only knew that he was, at least in part, responsible for his best friend's death. Ron
held onto Harry's hand for a long time, until he felt a hand on his soldier. It was Seamus,
holding out his sword, now clean of blood.

"Its alright; it wasnt your fault, not really," he said. Ron just burst into
tears.

Yes, Ron felt that that night on the battlefield would stay with him forever and for always. He
had dreams about it almost every night.

He remembered making the phone call to Hermione; that had been the hardest thing of all, to tell
his childhood friend that Harry had died. In a way, Harry and Hermione had been closer to each
other than either had ever been to Ron. They had had this sort of bond, and oftentimes Ron had
wondered if they didn't like each other and were just afraid to admit it.

Ron shook his head, lifting himself from the couch. A few hours had passed since he'd first
sat down and started pondering the past. He padded back to his bedroom, thinking about the funeral
and how he'd never seen so many people crying at once, not before and certainly not since.
He'd given a short speech, as had Hermione. God, she'd looked so devastated. She had to
stop in the middle of her speech because she was crying so hard.

Ron slipped between the sheets into bed for the second time that night. He put both of his hands
behind his head and gazed at the ceiling. But, he knew he wouldn't be getting any sleep; not
with that sword in the very next room.



3. There's Still Time
---------------------

A/N: I know that these chapters are coming out pretty fast; that's probably because the
story is already written (at least up till chapter four) and all I'm doing is formatting them
as I go. I hope you like this chapter, and please review. Thanks.

Chapter 3: There's Still Time

Hermione ran her fingers through her wet hair, stepping lightly out of the warm shower and onto
the cold tile floor of James' bathroom. Hermione always thought of everything in the house as
belonging to James- after all, wasnt it she who'd moved into *his* house? Hermione shook
her head, spraying water droplets from her sopping hair onto the mirror above the sink.

She looked into the fogged-up glass of the mirror, then began to slowly trace a word onto it
with her finger: *friendship*. It was a concept she'd been thinking about a lot lately;
Hermione had always been much better at dealing with concepts, ideas, and theories than at dealing
with actual people. They just made more sense to her.

She'd thought and come to the conclusion that a friendship is a very valuable and precious
thing, but to find one with perfect love and perfect trust is pretty damn near impossible. As far
as she could see, every relationship had a few secrets; those little white lies swept under the rug
and so often forgotten. No one person was perfect and therefore no friendship could ever be without
a flaw or two. No union of two people could ever be without its bumps in the road.

Hermione wiped the mirror clean and padded down the hall from the bathroom to the bedroom she
shared with James. She began rifling through her half of the closet, trying to decide what to wear
to dinner, all the while continuing to contemplate the abstract concept of friendship.

Ten minutes later Hermione sat heavily down on the foot of the bed, having despaired of finding
anything suitable to wear. She heaved a sigh, not really caring about her lack of a chic ensemble.
It was just another one of the Daily Prophet's boring press parties, the kind where she stood
by the buffet table all night while James circulated. Hermione did not have the best of reputations
with the reporters, due to her having imprisoned one Rita Skeeter in a jam jar when she was
fourteen, and so she was usually ignored. She hated those parties, but went to please James. Maybe
if she cuddled up to him and asked in her very sweetest voice, they could skip this one...but no,
James would just say that it was his responsibility to go, and couldn't she please come to keep
him company? He would win; he always won.

Hermione lay back on the soft cream-colored bedspread, closing her eyes. All she really wanted
to do tonight was heat up a bowl of soup and retire into the study with a good book. James could go
it alone this once, she decided.

Having made up her mind, Hermione stood up, dropped her towel onto the beige carpet, and put on
a pair of flannels and one of James' old t-shirts. She pulled her long hair into a messy
ponytail and lay down onto the bed once more. Looking around the room, her eyes paused on her old
Hogwarts yearbook, sitting innocently on the shelf between two of her own text books (*Study Tips
and Potion Tricks: a guide for beginning potions students* and *How to Make Something from
Nothing: A Conjurers Guide*.)She knew she shouldn't, but she just had to flip through
it.

She opened the book to the very first page, on which appeared the Hogwarts crest in the center,
with each of the House crests filling a corner. She turned the page and found a list of all the
graduating seventh years, sorted according to Houses. Next came the picture pages- these held
pictures of every student in the school, grouped by House and then put into alphabetical order.
Hermione didn't even realize she was crying until a tear splashed down onto Neville
Longbottom's black and white face, smiling cheerfully up at her from the yearbook. All of the
memories were flooding into her mind and gushing out of her eyes in the form of tears- but there
was no stopping now.

She kept turning pages until she reached the final section of the book, where each of the
graduating seventh years got their own page. A color photograph was in the center, with quotes,
ambitions for the future, past accomplishments, and lists of clubs and activities on the bottom.
The sides and top were for signatures. Hermione knew what she would find here, in a way it was what
she had been looking for when she first picked up the old yearbook.

There, on the page opposite Parvati Patil, was Harry. The seventeen year-old Harry Potter
grinned up at her, waving from the page. His hair was all mussed up, falling into his eyes the way
Hermione remembered it always had. She traced her finger over the jagged lightning bolt adorning
his forehead. Her breath caught in her throat as tears continued to roll down her cheeks. The
desire to snap the book shut was strong inside her, but for some reason she just couldn't make
her hands obey. Instead, she looked down to the writing just below the picture.

Harry had written his past accomplishments himself, he hadn't wanted a big deal to be made
out of him. He'd said that he won a few Quidditch matches, and would that be enough for the
yearbook? Hermione's tears flowed, and she was heaving great sobs. Harry had been so much
better than any of them, he'd been kinder and braver and, now that she took the time to read
this, he was infinitely more modest than any of them had ever suspected. Hermione kept reading,
looking down to Harry's list of clubs and activities. It was impressive; Seeker on the
Gryffindor House Quidditch team for seven years, captain for three.

Underneath that was the section called Ambitions for the Future. Hermione's sobs became even
louder when she read this; it was just so unfair that a boy this innocent and good didn't get
to have a future. Harry had also written this one himself: "I want to make a difference in the
world. I dont know how Ill do it, though. Maybe that can be my ambition, to find out how to make
the world better, and then to go out and do it."

"You did...you may not know it, but you did," Hermione whispered to the page, the
tears still flowing down her face. She kept them from spattering the page though; she didn't
want to disfigure the picture of Harry as she had the smaller picture of Neville. The last part of
his write-up was something she'd always been curious about, but had never had the heart to look
up. What was his quotation? What did Harry Potter, one of her best friends in the world, put down
that he felt summed him up as a person? She read it and then burst out laughing, despite the
tears.

"Courage is the art of being the only one that knows youre scared to death," by Harold
Wilson.

*Harry Potter may have been a wonderful person and a great friend to me, but right about now
I’d love to sock him, just once!* Hermione thought to herself bitterly. She was curled up in her
favorite armchair in the study, glaring into the dying embers of the fire she'd made for
herself an hour ago. Tears glistened in the corners of her eyes, but she didn't let them
fall.

James had left for the party a couple of hours ago, and things had not ended well. Hermione
thought back to the fight they'd had right before he'd stormed out of the front door.

"What do you mean you're not going?" he'd asked her incredulously when he
found her curled up in her armchair wearing pajamas.

"I mean that I am going to stay home. I hate those parties and right now I just don't
think I can deal with it."

"And why's that, Hermione?"

"James, I just want to stay in tonight. What is the big deal?" she'd asked,
wondering why he was getting so angry over a stupid little party.

"The big deal is that you told me you'd go, last night, remember?"

She had remembered. They'd talked about it over containers of Chinese food last night.
She'd said she would go, but then again she'd also made it perfectly clear that she didnt
want to. She thought he should be more understanding. He thought she should be more supportive of
his career. The couple had found themselves locked in a stalemate.

"I found the yearbook open on the bed," James had said, his voice softening. It was
open to...him. *Oh no* Hermione had thought. James had never understood about Harry, and now
he'd try to psychoanalyze her. He'd tell her that grief was fine, but not when it ruined
one's life.

"Honey, you can't sit at home every night. You can't shut yourself away from life
because of this kid," he'd continued, stepping closer to her as he took her into his arms.
Hermione'd rested her head on his shoulder, but her eyes had looked angry. *This kid*?
"Just forget about it, okay? Okay honey? Just go get dressed."

"Dressed? For the...party?" Hermione'd asked, hardly believing her ears.

"Well, yeah. We'll be fashionably late."

Hermione had then lifted her head and pulled away from him. "You don't care if I'm
upset, you only care if I look good for that damn party!" she'd snapped. "It is bad
enough that you don't even let me grieve for him, that you refer to the best friend I ever knew
as *this kid*. Now you dole out fake pity just to hurry me into getting ready for a party I
don't even want to go to? Well, I guess it sucks to be you then, because I'm not going
anywhere." With that she'd sat down on a kitchen stool and crossed her arms over her
chest, a childish gesture- but then again, she'd just made a very childish statement.

"But you have to go!" James had said, sounding slightly panicked.

"I see no reason to," Hermione'd responded, not looking him in the eye.

"You're my fiance!"

"I think that you've confused the term 'fiance' with the term 'female
escort'. I am the former, and therefore not paid to do your bidding. Harry would have
understood..." she'd mumbled the last part, trailing off into silence as she chewed on her
lower lip. She hadn't meant to say that, it had just slipped out.

"What?" James had asked, looking slightly hurt.

"Nothing," she'd replied, a little too quickly. She was already regretting her
words. Its just, well...I don’t know. Harry just always understood what I meant, and he never
forced me to do things I wasn't comfortable with. Like that summer when we were fifteen and he
taught me how to fly-" Hermione’d stopped short, seeing the look on James' face.

"Did you love him?" he had asked, suddenly sounding small and far away. It was an odd
question. Hermione'd never really thought of it....

"Yes, I think I did," she'd answered, sounding more sure of herself than she felt.
It was strange, but for all of the time she spent with Harry on her mind, she'd never
considered loving him or not loving him. He was just always there, always occupying some small
space in her thoughts, and she'd thought that had been enough.

James' voice had come again, sounding like a small and frightened child, interrupting
Hermione's thoughts. "More than you love me?" he'd asked, looking genuinely
scared to hear the answer.

"Oh, honestly. I am not going to compare you to Harry, that's ridiculous," she had
replied. She'd expected her answer to come as a relief to James. She'd even decided to
forfeit and go to the party, she felt so bad for bringing Harry up. What happened next came as a
complete shock.

James had looked at her, his eyes clouding over. "I thought as much," he'd said,
walking to the hall closet and grabbing his coat. "I'm going to the party. Dont wait
up."

"What? James-" Hermione had sputtered, but he was gone. He'd left.

Now Hermione sat alone in the rapidly darkening study, stroking Aurora, her calico cat. She
found herself thinking about friendship again, about how every relationship has its bumps in the
road. She was quickly discovering that her 'bump' was Harry. His memory was ruining her
relationship with James.

Hermione just couldn't accept the fact that he was gone and never coming back. James
apparently couldn't accept the fact that his fiance cared more for a dead person than for him.
For, now that she actually sat down and thought about it, she realized that Harry really was a more
integral part of her life than James, odd as it sounded even to her own ears. She also realized
that she had loved him when they were kids. Not like friendship love, either, not like the love she
had felt for Ron. No, she had been in love with him...and she didn't realize it until he'd
been dead for five years. Great timing.

But still, it wasn't as though this meant that Hermione didn't love James. She did, she
was sure of it. It was just...well, what their relationship had in sweetness and comfort, it lacked
in passion and depth. They were so comfortable with one another that it was like they'd already
been married for years, which wasn't really a bad thing, but it did mean that they hadn't
made love in two months. For an engaged couple living in the same house, like it or not, that was
abnormal. They did talk a lot, but their conversations were mundane and usually limited to books or
the next of James' articles.

Despite these few complaints, Hermione should have been happy. She lived in a great house, she
had a successful career, and she was getting married in less than three months.

The wedding was fast approaching. Her dress had already been ordered and paid for, a lovely
white silk gown with spaghetti straps and a low back. The caterers, the hall, the church-
they'd all been booked. James and Hermione were to be married in St. Roberts, the church where
James' parents had been married twenty-six years ago. James had already been measured for his
tuxedo. The invitations had gone out just last week. And Hermione had a lovely diamond engagement
ring encircling her finger. She should have been happy. But one thought lingered in her mind, all
the way at the back of her thoughts, all day long, every day.

*There's still time....*

Time for what she refused to even admit to herself. But the thought was always there, that there
was still enough time left for...for what? Hermione couldn't finish the sentence, couldn't
form the words, she was so scared of what they meant. But, when she looked into her heart, into the
very recesses of her soul, she found herself wondering, considering breaking off her engagement
with James. She didn't quite know what it was that she wanted out of life, but she did know
that this wasnt it.

And so on that night, while James was at his party, Hermione decided to leave. She knew it
wasn't fair to stay, it wasn't fair to James and it certainly wasn't fair to her. So,
she packed up all her clothes and books, put Aurora into her cat carrier...and it wasn't until
she was all ready to go that she realized she had nowhere *to* go. She couldn't call her
parents; they loved James, and would never understand why she had to leave him. She didn't
really have any friends of her own; the only ones she'd made since school were friends of
James'. One name did enter her mind, but she couldn't call him. It would be ridiculous, she
couldn't.... Nevertheless, she found herself scanning a phone book ten minutes later for the
familiar name. She hoped that he would even have a phone; it wasn't that common for wizards to
use the Muggle devices. Her prayers were answered when she found the name at the back of the
book.

The phone rang and rang; Hermione had almost given up hope when a familiar voice answered.

"Hello?"

"Hi Ron. It's me, Hermione," she said, her heart pounding inexplicably. This was
*Ron*; why was she so nervous he'd turn her away?

"Oh! Um, what's up?" he asked. It was such a simple question, and yet Hermione
found herself at a loss for an answer. Instead, she burst into tears and just blurted it out.

"I'm breaking off my engagement with James!" she sobbed. There was silence on the
other end for a few minutes before Ron's voice filled her ear again.

"You're engaged?" he asked, sounding dumbfounded. Then Hermione remembered that
Ron hadn't been invited to the wedding; James had thought it best, since he would only remind
Hermione of Harry. So Ron had never even known.

"Yes, I'm engaged-or, I was. Listen, I'll tell you all about it, I promise. But I
need-oh God, I feel awful asking you for anything-" she trailed off, crying even harder.

"Whatever it is Hermione, just ask. m grateful you thought to call me, of all people. What
is it you need?" Ron's voice was soothing, and it worked to calm Hermione down. She
hiccupped a few times, wiped her cheeks dry of tears, and spoke.

"I need a place to stay, just until I can find a place of my own," she said.

"That's fine," Ron replied." I was getting worried; thought that with the way
you were carrying on you needed a lung transplant or something."

Hermione laughed; it was good to hear him joking again. The last time she'd seen Ron had
been at Harry's funeral, and he had been just destroyed.

"When would you get here?" he asked.

"I want to leave as soon as possible, before I change my mind," she replied. Ron gave
her directions to his London apartment and said he'd see her soon. After she hung up with Ron,
Hermione had one more thing to do before she could leave.

She sat down at the kitchen table, pen in hand, and wrote James a letter. It was one of the
hardest things she'd ever done, mainly because she didn't know what she could say. The
sheer craziness of what she was doing had struck her full force. She was leaving a successful man
who loved her in the middle of the night, without so much as a goodbye- and she was actually
*happy* about it. That was why she had sat down to write the letter; she couldn't wait
until he got home to be free from the house that wasn't hers and the engagement that should
never have happened. Plus, she didn't think she could stand the look in his eyes when he found
out.

The letter was long, explaining what she was doing and why she was doing it. She said a lot of
other things, too, but it was all the same message: goodbye.

Hermione took one last look around the house before she left. She paused in the all beige and
cream bedroom, thinking that she'd never really liked that color scheme. In the bathroom, she
thought about how James had always chided her for leaving wet towels on the floor. In the living
room, it was memories of long, boring talks about books. And so it went until she reached the
study, the only room in the entire house that she had truly felt at home in. One more time she
wished she could take her armchair, all patched and frayed, with her. But, enough was enough.

Hermione left James letter on the kitchen table, placing her ring in the envelope before she
sealed it. She picked up her two suitcases and Aurora's cage, turned on her heel, and left the
house without a backward glance.

She arrived at Ron's apartment an hour later, still wearing the flannels and James' old
t-shirt underneath her coat. By then she had composed herself, and was ready for the onslaught of
questions, which she was sure would come from her old friend. But when Ron opened the door and saw
her standing there, he just smiled and took one of her suitcases.

After Hermione had gotten settled, tossing her suitcases next to the couch where she would be
sleeping, she had one more thing to get out of the way before she could relax. She called Ron to
her, gave him a quick hug, and thanked him for giving her a place to stay.

"No problem, Hermione," Ron replied, smiling like a little boy.

"There's just one more thing," Hermione said.

"What's that?" he asked.

"I hope you don't mind, but I brought a friend." With that Hermione lifted the cat
carrier off of the floor and opened it. Aurora leapt out of the cage and onto the surprised
boy's lap, twitching her tail and purring in her happiness to be free." I remembered how
much you love cats," Hermione said, smiling at the baffled look on Ron's face.

The two friends burst out laughing, Ron stroking the cat's head. Then they sat back on the
comfortable couch and started to talk- not about Harry, and certainly not about James. They just
talked about stupid things, talking like the seventeen year-olds they had been before Ron enlisted
in the war and Hermione started off on her career. They just sat there talking until all hours of
the night. And the next thing they knew, the sun had risen, blowing away the clouds to reveal a
brilliant new day.



4. A Hard Day's Night
---------------------

Author's Note: Here it is everyone, chapter four! Now, when I first wrote this story (it was
almost two years ago for those of you keeping score), it was supposed to be strictly from
Hermione's point of view, but Draco, whom I hadn't even planned on mentioning, wouldn't
shut up. So this chapter will be told from his point of view. As always, enjoy the story and please
review!

Chapter Four: A Hard Day's Night

Draco Malfoy drew back his arm, harnessing all of his strength for the crushing blow he was
about to deliver. With one smooth, liquid motion he let go of the sharp flint rock he'd been
holding in his tightly clenched fist. It sailed through the air and right through a third floor
window, the cold air shattering with the piercing sound of breaking glass. Draco rubbed his hands
together, breathing heavily and watching as clouds formed from his exhaled breath. It really was
damn cold out here, and now thanks to that rock and about seven or eight others, it would be cold
inside too.

Draco jogged his way around Malfoy Manor to the front entrance, wondering why he felt the need
to make himself miserable. Granted, it had been quite a rush to hurl those rocks, to hear the glass
shatter...it was a sweet release. But still, now he'd be freezing. He opened the massive oak
doors, embossed with the Malfoy family coat of arms (two serpents entwined around a large letter M)
and stepped into the entrance hallway. He shrugged out of his cloak, hanging it up on a coat-rack
by the door. As he walked through the empty house to the living room, his footsteps echoed into the
darkness. Malfoy Manor was a joke, it was just so huge and ostentatious. The marble columns, the
burning torches that lined and lit the long, cavernous hallways...every time you turned a corner in
this house, you felt as though you were about to walk into a dungeon.

Entering the living room, Draco flopped down onto the old leather sofa, thinking that he really
should get a fire going if he didn't want to freeze to death during the night. Heaving a sigh,
as though it were some massive effort, he pulled his wand out of his pocket, murmured something
under his breath, and watched as cheerily dancing flames sprang up in the massive fireplace in
front of him. That done, he put down his wand, folded his hands behind his head, leaned back, and
closed his eyes, the light from the fire dancing across his eyelids and casting shadows into his
thoughts.

Draco lived alone now, which was part of the reason he found his house so ridiculous. It was an
immense mansion sitting atop a lonely hill, about fifteen minutes outside the town of Hogsmeade. Of
course, the house had been ridiculous back when there had been three people living in it- eleven
bedrooms for a family of three? Whenever Draco had asked his mother about the house when he was
younger, she'd laughed and said that the extra rooms were for the servants. Draco had never
thought it would be wise to point out that the only servant they had that actually lived in the
Manor was Dobby the house elf, and he slept in a drawer full of ripped sheets on the laundry room
floor. Draco had always thought of his mother as being lovably clueless.

Narcissa was a beautiful a beautiful woman when she was married. Draco knew; he'd seen
pictures. But she was always somewhat...not dumb, but just a little dim. She'd smile and play
hostess, offering Lucius' friends tea cakes and cold lemonade whenever they'd come over to
"discuss business." She'd dress up and accompany her husband to the theater and to
parties for the top members of the Ministry of Magic. She just never seemed to realize what went on
behind the scenes, what Lucius and his cronies were really doing when they retired to the study.
That was another thing, the study. It was a room shrouded in mystery, always had been, from the
time Draco was a little boy. Even now, he didn’t go there.

Even now, with both of his parents dead, Draco still found himself living in their house. Even
now, when all of the servants were long gone and the whole place seemed about as likely to come
crashing down as it was to creep out any visitors. Even now that young Draco was just past his
twenty-third birthday, not knowing if he'd ever see his twenty-fourth, he still lived in Malfoy
Manor all alone at the top of a hill.

Draco paused for just an instant, wondering about his own safety as he did every night. Every
night when the moon had risen and the stars could be seen in the sky, he had just one fleeting
moment of fear; the rest of the time he didn't really care enough about his life to be afraid.
But for just that one instant every night, the creaking groans of the Manor multiplied tenfold,
every shadow cast upon the wall seemed an ominous figure clad all in black. Draco knew that one day
his fears would be justified, one day they would come for him.

Who "they," were was irrelevant; Draco had never cared about the true identities of
the Death Eaters, even when he had been one. That was one of the Dark Lord's most ingenious
ideas; only he knew the true name and face of all of his minions. Since they always wore masks, it
was easy to keep identities a secret. Draco had known more than most, because of his father and the
position he had commanded. Lucius Malfoy had clawed and scurried his way up to the top of the
ladder; before he died he was made Voldemort's second in command. Afterwards, that position had
landed squarely in the lap of young Draco himself.

Draco remembered that day, the day after the famous battle on the hillside. Dozens of Death
Eaters had been killed, and yet the battle was hailed as a conquering success. Why? The boy who
lived, Harry Potter, had finally died; the path had been cleared for Voldemort to seize power over
the entire magical world. Draco had been called into the Dark Lord's chambers, had been told
that his father was dead, that Lucius had been killed in battle. Then he had been ordered to assume
the position of second in command. He was told that he must carry on the Malfoy family legacy.
Draco had refused.

No one knew why, though countless had tried to get the reason out of him. Voldemort murdered
Draco's mother in cold blood as a punishment for his insubordination. Then, orphaned and alone,
Draco had barricaded himself in Malfoy Manor, refusing to comply with the Dark Lord's wishes.
Eventually, the Death Eaters had given up on him, reasoning that he would eventually see the light
and return, and besides, who needed some stupid stuck-up kid anyway? They had left him alone for
the past five years, but Draco knew that his peace was finite; sooner or later they would come for
him, and he would die. He would die because he would not join them, not with what he knew....

Shaking his head and heaving another sigh, Draco managed to put all thoughts of Lord Voldemort
and the other Death Eaters out of his mind. He slowly rose from the sofa with the vague idea of
getting something to eat. He meandered down the dimly-lit hallways of the Manor, passing by dingy
paintings of Malfoy family members long dead, all of whom stared malevolently down at him from
their silver frames grown dark with rust. Draco didn't care that several pairs of eyes followed
his movements down the hall, didn't care that every time he walked by them, his forefathers
whispered amongst themselves that he had ruined the family. *Sticks and stones may break my
bones, but what the hell do I care what a bunch of ugly old portraits of ugly old people think of
me?* thought Draco to himself, a small smirk playing on his lips as he continued on his way down
the long hall.

As his footsteps echoed off into the silence, he was overwhelmed by a sense of loneliness,
despite the fact that he could still hear the tut-tuting of his Great Aunt Helen a few yards behind
him. Draco had to admit that he really did need to get away from this house- away from the black
marble columns and away from the sterling silver door handles in the shape of snakes. This was the
kind of house that groaned at night, the kind you just knew was haunted. This was the kind of house
where every closet had its skeletons. There was just too much history here; even living completely
alone, Draco always found himself obeying his parents' old rules. He always made his bed before
doing anything else when he got up in the morning. He didn't ever go into his father's
study, from which he had been forbidden as a young boy. He never went into the dungeons either, not
because of a rule, but because they had always frightened him. Draco thought that a nice loft
apartment, in London maybe, would be perfect for him. And Lord knows he could afford it; the Malfoy
family may not have been as pristine as they seemed, but there was nothing pretend about the size
of their account at Gringotts. But he just couldn't seem to leave his old home.

Draco rounded the corner and entered the kitchen, flipping the light switch on his way in and
illuminating the only room in the entire Manor that didn't seem to emit pure evil from the
walls. He padded across the pale green tile floor to the cupboard, thinking of perhaps boiling some
water and having a late dinner of pasta before heading to bed- by now it was nearly midnight, and
he couldn't remember whether he'd eaten today or not. Upon opening the cabinet, however,
Draco discovered that there would be no pasta in his future- nor anything else edible. The entire
kitchen was found to be, upon further inspection, depressingly devoid of anything even resembling
food.

*That's what happens when you turn into a hermit,* thought Draco bitterly to himself as
he aimed a kick at the nearby trashcan. He left the kitchen, not bothering to shut off the lights
as he stomped into the hallway.

Malfoy Manor was designed almost like a Las Vegas casino: it was meant to be something of a
labyrinth, where it was hard for someone unaccustomed to the layout to find his or her way out.
There were countless hallways that wound their way through the house, some of which didn't
really lead to anywhere in particular. It also resembled Hogwarts in that there were literally
dozens of secret rooms and passages, one of which was Draco's private playroom when he was very
young. The small room appeared between the living room and his father's study when you tapped
out "shave and a haircut- two bits," on the right spot on the wall with a wand. Passing
by that spot, Draco thought of all the information he'd gotten as a boy by listening through a
small hole in between two of the large granite slabs that made up the wall between his father's
study and his playroom. He'd been a silent witness to many of the sordid bargains made between
his father and certain depraved Ministry officials.

Draco continued up the hallway till he reached the main entranceway, which, surprisingly enough,
lay before the back door to the mansion rather than the front. This was yet another clue as to just
how many shady characters had visited the house to speak with Lucius. There was a rear driveway
that led up the other side of the hill to the Manor, and a path lined with lanterns leading up to
the backdoor. The main entrance had black marble floors and black marble columns supporting the
high, vaulted ceilings. There was a generous closet for guests to hang their cloaks in to one side
of the back door. The windows facing the backyard were tall, adorned by long red velvet hangings
that draped to the floor. There was also a massive spiral staircase in the very center of the room,
leading to the upper levels of the Manor. Draco headed up the black marble steps now, his hand
sliding up the ornately carved banister (made to look like a long, vicious python, with its tail at
the bottom of the staircase and its head at the very top) as he made his way to the third floor,
where his bedroom was located.

The third level of the mansion was only slightly less intimidating than the first, with the
hallways carpeted in a rich burgundy. The walls were still made of large slabs of granite, but on
either side of the halls were wide oak doors that looked almost homey. Draco stopped at the fifth
door on the left of the hall, having taken a left at the top of the stairs, and entered his bedroom
to find a nasty surprise.

"Bloody hell!" he cursed under his breath, seeing the shards of broken glass and the
gaping hole in the window directly above his bed. He hadn't meant to pitch that rock into this
room out of the thirty-seven rooms in the whole house, but he couldn't deny that that was what
he'd done when he saw the flint rock lying innocently on his bed amidst a pile of glass shards.
To make the situation worse, it had started to storm outside; fat raindrops blew in through the
broken window, spattering his black satin sheets, and the sound of thunder in the distance reached
Draco's ears, seeming to mock him for his own stupidity. "Bloody hell!" he swore
again, thinking that there was no way he could fix the window at night, in the middle of a
thunderstorm. He thought to just use a simple spell to repair the glass, reaching into his back
pocket for his wand, only to find that he'd left it in the living room.

Rolling his eyes in exasperation, Draco turned on his heel and left his bedroom, bounding down
the hallway to the staircase. He took the steps two at a time down to the first floor, then quickly
made his way back in the direction of the living room. He was just passing by the sleeping portrait
of his Great Aunt Helen, the one who would have shook her head at him and went "tut tut,"
had she been awake, when he heard a strange noise coming from behind him. Now, odd noises were a
normal part of life in Malfoy Manor; there was the creak that the fifth stair leading up to the
attic always made, the whistling noise that came whenever you first turned on the water in any
bathroom sink, and the groans that almost every door emitted when it was opened due to rusty
hinges. But this, this had sounded more like...footsteps.

Draco stopped to listen, pausing in mid-stride just outside his father's study. There it was
again- definitely footsteps, coming from the back of the house. He wheeled around, silently making
his way back down the hall. The sounds of footsteps grew louder as he approached the main
entranceway. It sounded like only one person, and he must have just entered. Otherwise, Draco would
have passed right by him when he came down the stairs. He rationalized that it was probably some
lost Muggle who went out for a hike, got caught in the rain, and needed to use a telephone- not
that Malfoy Manor had one.

*Still, just to be safe...*Draco thought, trailing off as he pressed himself against the
wall, turning his head ever so slightly around the corner to look into the main entranceway. The
room was almost entirely dark, the flickering light from the torches in the hallway not reaching
far enough to illuminate the entranceway. The only light came from sporadic flashes of lightning
that flooded the room with stark white light every few minutes. During one such flash, Draco saw a
rather short, hunched over man wearing a ratty old cloak and galoshes. The man was muttering to
himself, though Draco couldn't make out the words. A few minutes ticked slowly by, in which
Draco heard more shuffled footsteps and managed to catch a few words from the old man.

"Bloody house...gives me the creepers," the intruder muttered, shuffling towards the
staircase in the middle of the room. "Just find the boy."

Draco tensed immediately upon hearing this, wishing hard that he had his wand with him. After a
few panicked minutes of trying to figure out what to do, his decision was made for him when yet
another flash of lightning illuminated the room and gave Draco a good look at the intruder's
face. *Pettigrew?* he thought to himself, shocked to see the bumbling old man again.
Unfortunately, that flash of lightning had revealed more than just the wrinkled face of Peter
Pettigrew; Draco had been spotted.

"Young Mr. Malfoy, just the boy I wanted to see," said Wormtail, his voice positively
dripping with self-satisfaction. As he stepped closer, Draco could see a look of pride on his face.
*How wonderful for you. You managed to find me in my own house. Bloody brilliant,* he thought,
stepping away from the wall into the hallway.

"What do you want, Wormtail?" he asked, spitting out the old Marauder's name as
one would an insult.

"To invite you back to our side," replied the old man, who had only cringed slightly
at being reminded of his old alias. Draco caught a glimpse of his gleaming silver hand, softly
reflecting the light cast upon it by the torches lining the hallway.

"I politely refuse your invitation. You may exit the way you entered," he said, hoping
his sarcastic tone would be lost on the man standing before him. So far the conversation had
remained almost comically civil; Draco held out little hope that this little visit would stay quite
so polite.

"I'm afraid that is not an option. Your choices are to rejoin the circle of Death
Eaters...or to die," said Pettigrew. He then drew his wand from a pocket in his robes, aiming
it directly at Draco's chest while smiling malevolently.

"That's it? Those are my only choices?" Draco asked, sounding scandalized as he
tried desperately to think of a plan. "I think I'll sleep on it, give you my decision in
the morning. Goodnight, then!" he said, striding past Pettigrew in a vain attempt to reach the
backdoor. It wasn't the best of all plans, but what else could he do without a wand?

"I dont think so," came the voice of Pettigrew, now from behind Draco, as he stood
motionless in the hallway. "Crucio!"

Draco fell to the floor, caught up in a torrent of pain that he hadn't experienced since his
father died. He writhed on the marble floor, waves of pain seemingly visible as his vision flooded
with red agony. This was torture beyond torture...his breathing came in short, shallow gasps as his
body twisted and contorted, moving of its own accord. Just when he had moved into a state of
semi-consciousness, when the rim of his vision was going black and his thoughts were receding into
the background, just that suddenly...the pain stopped.

Draco looked up at his tormentor from his position on the floor. Pettigrew's face had gone
ash white, his eyes wide with what one could only call terror. He slowly lifted his hand to point
at one of the windows to the left of the back door, growing paler by the second.

"It-it can't be," he stammered, taking a few hurried steps backward in a gesture
of pure fear. Draco whipped his head around to see what it was that had Pettigrew in such a state
of shock, only to see nothing. By the time his eyes had registered that there was nothing out of
the ordinary to be seen outside the window and he had turned to face his attacker once more,
Pettigrew had vanished. He'd Apparated.

Draco slowly rose to his feet, grimacing. The Cruciatus curse was brutal, and it left the victim
with echoes of the pain for hours afterwards. Normally Draco would have found the echoes
unbearable, but after the actual pain itself they seemed like welcome caresses. Limping slightly,
he made his way over to the window, pulling back the heavy velvet curtains to peer into the
backyard. Nothing. He saw the neatly trimmed grass, the lanterns lining the path to the
door...nothing unusual. He even went so far as to open the backdoor and call out.

"Anyone out there?" he shouted into the darkness. No answer came. Closing the door, he
muttered to himself, "Screw this. I'm checking into a hotel."

He locked the backdoor, something he'd never done before; the house's remote location
and forbidding appearance were usually enough to keep away any burglars or the like. Then he went
to the living room to grab his wand and put out the last few flames of the fire he'd made
earlier, which had remained burning in the grate. The last thing he did before locking the front
door was to grab his shabbiest cloak and put the hood up. Then he journeyed outside into the
torrential rain, his wand in his back pocket along with his stuffed wallet.

He walked the mile and a half down to Hogsmeade, where he checked into the Three Broomsticks, a
pub which occasionally let out a small room above the main area on slow nights. Madame Rosemerta
had tried to engage him in a friendly chat, even offering him a glass of mead on the house, but
Draco just wanted to sleep...just sleep and forget the weird happenings of the past few hours.

*Meanwhile....*

Peter Pettigrew meekly made his way to the Dark Lord's chamber, shuffling down the stone
hallway lined with lanterns that barely gave off enough light to see your hand in front of your
face. He passed guards on either side of the passage, all of whom eyed him with a certain loathing
particular to people looking at a ruined man on his way to certain death. As he approached the
massive stone doors, his steps slowed. The truth was, he was terrified to tell his master what he
had seen.

Two especially burly guards stood before the door, armed with only their wands and yet still
looking like an impassable barrier. "The password?" they asked Pettigrew.

"Divinitas," he answered, looking down at his feet. The guards parted, allowing the
timid little man, who really did resemble a rat, to push through the doors and step into the
chamber.

It was a circular room, with stone floors and a high, domed ceiling. Torches gave off flickering
light that never really lifted the darkness, darkness that had seemingly settled like a blanket
over the chamber. This was a room designed to bring your entire attention to the tall figure
sitting in the high-backed stone throne, set in the very center of everything. It was also a room
where the floor was littered with the bones of various animals, and probably more than a few humans
as well. Nagini the giant snake dwelled here, now laying somewhat peacefully on the floor beside
the throne in the middle of the room. Her head lifted when Pettigrew entered, swaying slightly
higher when the door slammed shut behind him.

"You have news for me, Wormtail," came the high-pitched, cold voice of Lord
Voldemort.

"Y-yes, my lord," Pettigrew stammered, not daring to come any closer to the throne and
the giant snake.

"You went to the Malfoy house."

"Y-yes, my lord," he said again, starting to shake.

"And?" the Dark Lord asked, now sounding slightly impatient. He waved his hand,
motioning for Pettigrew to come closer. Peter shuffled forward, eyes still on the ground, until he
was only a few precious feet away from the figure sitting in the throne.

"The boy will not join us," he said, cringing slightly as he awaited his master's
response. "And-" he started to say.

"So you have failed me," the Dark Lord interrupted, his eyes glistening a malevolent
red in the semi-darkness of the chamber. "Crucio!"

Pettigrew fell to the floor, twisting and writhing in pain. His screams echoed off the walls,
bouncing back to his own ears as he clenched his eyes shut. The pain ceased after a few minutes,
and Pettigrew was not heartened to find Nagini looking at him with a sudden new interest. The great
snake hissed slightly as he rose to his feet.

"You may leave now. Consider yourself blessed that I have decided to spare your life,"
said the Dark Lord, knowing that death was far too good a fate for a man so pathetic as this.

"Sir, I-" Pettigrew began, backing away from the throne as he spoke, and never taking
his eyes off of the giant snake.

"What? What is it?" snapped Lord Voldemort, his voice becoming colder as his anger
flared.

Pettigrew swallowed once, working up the nerve to say what he had to say. He took one more step
away from the throne toward the door, still treading softly backwards. Finally, his mouth dry and
his hands shaking, he spoke.

"He-he lives, Sir."



5. Dramatic Irony
-----------------

A/N: Sorry this chapter took so long; things just have a way of getting crazy. I want to thank
everyone who reviewed the first four chapters. Hugs and chocolate kisses to all of you! I also want
to give a big thanks to my lovely new beta reader, Babygrrl, for her help and encouragement- not to
mention all of the corruption.

**Dramatic irony** occurs when the audience or the reader knows something important that a
character in a play or a story does not know.

Chapter 5: Dramatic Irony

Hermione woke to find her head on Ron's shoulder, her neck bent at an impossible angle. As
she slowly lifted her arms above her head in a luxurious stretch, jerking her head from side to
side to relieve the tension in her neck, she took a look around the room in which she found
herself. Her feet were propped up on a low coffee table, considerably scuffed and with deep
scratches embedded in the wood. Hermione reached down and ran her fingers lightly over the dark
gashes that ran across the surface of the table, wondering vaguely where they could have come from.
Shrugging her shoulders in a gesture of puzzlement, she lifted her head to scan the rest of the
room. Across from the faded red couch on which she sat there was an immense picture window facing
out into the heart of Muggle London, devoid of any curtains. Four stories below, she could hear the
vague noises of what few cars there were on the road this early in the morning. The only other
sound came from Ron, who was snoring slightly to Hermiones left. She wrinkled her nose in silent
laughter as she watched her old friend bat his hand absentmindedly at a fly that had landed on his
nose. Shaking her head, Hermione rose from her seated position and began to pace around the living
room. The hard wood floor felt cool to her bare feet. She walked over to the window and leaned her
forehead up against the glass, looking straight downward into the city below.

"Great view, isnt it?" asked a sleepy-sounding Ron from behind her. Hermione turned
around and gave him a small smile, making her way back to the couch.

"Sure is," she said, plopping herself down next to him, slowly sinking into the soft
red cushions. She leaned her head back and let her eyes fall shut, feeling sleepy yet at the same
time exhilarated. Hermione thought back to where she could have been waking up this morning, in the
completely beige bedroom of James' house, and a smile unconsciously found its way onto her
lips. That smile was quickly replaced by a grimace when she thought of James all alone. Ron must
have spotted it, because his next words were,

"What are you thinking about?" He reached over and placed a hand on her shoulder,
causing Hermione to lift her head.

"James. And my parents. I wonder what they're going to do to me once they realize
I've called off the wedding," she answered, shuddering at the thought of telling her
father his money had been wasted. Worse would be her mother, who had held high hopes for a
grandchild in the near future. Hermione's parents had married very late on in life, a fact
which left them with just the one daughter- they placed all of their hopes and dreams squarely on
Hermione's shoulders. She didn't mind this normally, recognizing that her mother and father
wanted the best for her, but a marriage was quite different from being a good student. It
wasn't so cut and dry, black and white. This was really the first time in her life Hermione had
found herself going against their wishes, and the thought frankly terrified her. Her concern showed
plainly on her face; her eyes clouded over and she began to chew on her lower lip methodically.

"Youll be fine," Ron said reassuringly, his hand now patting her arm in a friendly
way. "I'm sure they'll understand. They have to, right? You can't marry someone
you don't want to; there's no way it could work."

"Ron, maybe *your* parents would understand. Mine...mine want my life to be easier
than theirs. They think that marrying James will give me security, and...Ron?" she asked,
cutting her thoughts short when she saw the look on her old friend's face. He had gone slightly
pale, his eyes overly bright. "What's wrong?" she asked, anxiety in her voice.

"Hermione, you know that my-my parents...they're *dead*, Hermione," he said.
He had withdrawn his hand from her shoulder, had hung his head down so that he was looking into his
own lap.

"Ron-" Hermione began, reaching out a hand to her old friend, her concern showing
plainly in her face.

"I'm not Ron. I'm Harry," he said, raising his head to look her in the
eye.

Hermione sat, letting these words sink in. She thought that her friend just may be losing his
mind in his obvious grief for his lost best friend...but that couldn't be right- Harry had been
dead for years, and Ron had seemed to come through the grieving process relatively unscathed.
Hermione wondered for a brief moment whether this was some spell...then something amazing happened,
and all thoughts were wiped from her mind, having been replaced with pure awe. Ron's face had
begun to shift and contort, almost as if he were in terrible pain. The eyes squeezed shut, and the
mouth was drawn into a tight grimace. She was forcibly reminded of the effects of Polyjuice Potion
as she watched his features melt away entirely. For a second, there was just a blank lump of pale
flesh where his face should have been. Then the features started to fill themselves in; first a
pair of lively green eyes, big and glittering like emeralds. Then came a nose, not as sharp or long
as Ron's. The nose was followed by the hair, jet black and very messy, on top of the head. Last
came the scar, standing out lividly on the boy's forehead, shaped like a jagged bolt of
lightning, the scar that she remembered so well and that haunted her dreams.

"Hello Hermione," said Harry, his voice low and soft, almost tender.

"Oh my-" she stammered, instinctively reaching out a hand to this boy's face. She
wanted to touch him, needed to feel his skin underneath her fingers. She needed to know that this
was real, not an illusion, that Harry had in fact returned to her after so long. Her eyes glazed
over with tears as her fingers made contact with his cheek. Harry closed his eyes and raised his
hand to cover hers, their fingers interlacing. Tears fell freely from Hermiones eyes now, rolling
down her face and splashing onto the front of the t-shirt she'd slept in. She closed her own
eyes, bowing her head as she continued to weep with joy. She felt a pair of lips lightly graze her
forehead in a tender kiss, and sighed. Raising her free hand to wipe the tears from her cheeks, she
raised her head and opened her eyes, her face breaking out into a broad smile as she strived to
express everything she was feeling- her joy, her relief, her love- without saying a word.

Then, she noticed something about the face she was looking at, the face of her childhood love.
He didn't look as she remembered him; his face had changed somehow in the brief time she'd
closed her eyes. His skin had become deathly pale, with tinges of blue. His eyes lacked the sparkle
they had held back in the days of Hogwarts. His veins were showing clearly through his face, but
they looked...stagnant. The lips had turned pale purple. His hair was falling out in clumps, and
covered in moldy-smelling dust. This was not Harry Potter. This was some...some *thing*. Tears
of frustration now stung Hermione's eyes as she backed away from the thing that, moments
before, had assumed the shape of her childhood friend. How had a moment so perfect turned into this
nightmare? She had had Harry back, for just one fleeting second. Now all that was left was this
foul, monstrous corpse. Hermione's heart beat faster in her chest, adrenaline now coursing
through her veins as she remembered dreams from her early childhood of the most horrible,
disgusting things that hid in graveyards and old attics. Her stomach dropped, mimicking the feeling
she got the first time she saw a grub, lurking blindly in the soft earth. Then she screamed.

"Why are you screaming, honey?" it asked, its pale violet lips parting to reveal a
rotting, bloated tongue. Its voice was grainy and hoarse and monotonous. Harry had never called
Hermione "honey" in his entire life.

"Get-get away from me!" Hermione yelped as the monstrosity reached over, as if to hug
her. But the gesture was not one of tenderness; it suggested evil and harm to come.

"C'mon. Gimme a kiss!"

"Hermione! Hermione, wake up!" came Ron's voice, sounding slightly panicked.
Hermione became aware that he was shaking her, his hands gripping each of her upper arms. Her eyes
fluttered open to the site of a very flustered Ron, wearing a pair of boxer shorts and an anxious
expression. "Are you okay? You were screaming and-" he began, trailing off.

Hermione remembered the dream, remembered the feel of Harry's lips against her forehead,
remembered the grating voice of the corpse he had morphed into. Her eyes welled up and she
collapsed against Ron's chest, her head buried in his shoulder. Ron put his arms around her and
started patting her hair, which was even bushier than it had been the day they'd met aboard the
Hogwarts Express.

"It was so real," she said after a few minutes, her voice shaky as she raised her head
and began to wipe the tears from her face. "It was him."

"Who? Who was it, Hermione?" Ron asked, guiding her back to the couch and then sitting
down next to her.

"Harry."

"In your dream, right?" he asked.

"No, Ron. Harry just happened to come back from the dead and decided that his first order
of business was to scare me out of my wits," she snapped, all of a sudden angry. She shrugged
her shoulders free of his arm. "It was just a nightmare." With that she rose from the
couch and walked to the bathroom, shutting the door rather forcibly behind her. Ron just shook his
head and stumbled back to his bedroom to get dressed. Picking up his bedside clock, he shut his
eyes and groaned. It was only 5:30 and it looked like he was up for the day.

He opened his closet door to find a shirt and was nearly impaled by the sword. It had been
leaning precariously against the inside of the door, and it fell directly at his feet, missing him
by mere inches.

"Bloody sword wants me dead," he mumbled, picking up the offending weapon and tossing
it onto the bed. He'd moved it from the coffee table in the living room right after
Hermione'd asked to come stay with him; he didn't see any point in opening that can of
worms. Hermione didn't know much about the circumstances surrounding Harry's death- she
hadn't wanted to know, and Ron hadn't wanted to tell her.

He heard the sound of running water coming from the bathroom; Hermione must be taking a shower.
Trying hard not to think too long about his childhood friend in his shower, he hastily got dressed
and walked out to the kitchen with the vague idea of fixing the two of them a nice breakfast. Ten
minutes later, having discovered that his refrigerator was close to empty, containing half a carton
of milk and a brown head of lettuce, he was surprised to still hear the water running in the
bathroom. Hermione must have been showering for more than twenty minutes...what was she trying to
do, drown herself?

Hermione stood rigid under the hot spray of the shower, the water mingling with the salty tears
on her cheeks and washing them away. She slowly ran her hands through he hair, then raised them to
her face again in a fresh outburst of tears. She was more frustrated than anything else; she just
couldn't believe that she had let her guard down, had dared to believe that her wildest
fantasies had finally come to life. She was Hermione, the sensible one. How, then, did she convince
herself that something that was never going to happen, could never happen, just might be possible?
It was preposterous. Harry was dead; she'd watched his coffin as it was lowered into the damp
earth that day five years ago. With that thought, she shook her head and turned off the water.

As she pulled back the blue plastic curtain and stepped out onto the cool tile floor, she
thought of James. She grabbed a towel from the pile of clean linens that Ron had placed to one side
of the bathroom sink, no doubt on her behalf. As she wrapped it around herself, she had a very
frightening thought, perhaps one even more frightening than the idea of Harry stuck in a box
underground for all of eternity. *What if she had made a mistake?* Harry Potter was dead and
gone, but James Silverton was alive, alive and ready to marry her. Had she just made the biggest
mistake of her life?

Hermione shook her head once more, as if with that one motion she could dispel all of the
uncertainty and doubt that had somehow managed to creep up on her, and resolved herself to spend a
pleasant day with Ron.

"Morning," she said to Ron as she padded lightly into the kitchen, stopping to lean
against the counter as she ran a comb absentmindedly through her hair.

"Oh, so we're in a better mood now?" he asked, his voice heavy with sarcasm.
"I had been planning on cooking us a lovely Sunday breakfast, but if you're going to yell
and cry all day, you'll go hungry."

Hermione started to apologize, then recognized the familiar glint in her old friend's eyes
as he began to laugh at her penitent expression. "That wasn't nice, she said, giving his
shoulder a playful shove. He shoved her back, and all of a sudden Hermione had the painful
realization that she was wearing nothing but a white cotton towel, one which just might give in to
the forces of gravity if this horseplay went on much longer. She stepped backwards, her hand
gripping the towel tightly around herself.

"Don't worry, I wouldn't let my guest starve," Ron said.

"Great. What are we having?" she asked, her embarrassment of a moment ago forgotten at
the thought of breakfast; she hadn't realized just how hungry she was till now.

"We'll take whatever we can get at this hour. Quick, get dressed; we're going
out."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Harry stood up with difficulty, tentatively raising his arms above his head as he arched his
back in a vain attempt to get out all of the kinks and muscle aches that had come from spending the
night curled up on the floor of the entranceway to Malfoy Manor. He ran a hand through his hair and
picked up his glasses from where hed placed them on the floor last night. Putting them on, he
looked around at the room in which he found himself.

Green eyes trained to note and remember the slightest detail quickly took in the black marble,
the windows with the red hangings, and the staircase with the banister made to look like a serpent.
Harry sighed, thinking to himself that Draco really had been destined for Slytherin if he'd
grown up in this house.

Not wanting to stay long, fearing Draco's return, Harry headed for the backdoor. He paused
at the closet, however, thinking that a good cloak would be useful- and Draco probably had one to
match every outfit, so what did it matter if Harry just borrowed one? That's right, it
*wouldn't* matter. Opening the closet door, Harry was surprised to find a mirror attached
to the back of it- but what surprised him even more was the sight of his own reflection.

The boy who lived was hardly impressive to look at. His jet-black hair was flecked with gray in
places, and there were dark circles under his eyes that no amount of rest would get rid of.
He'd acquired muscle to go with his height over the past five years, making him seem less lanky
and disproportioned. His hair still stuck up at crazy angles no matter what de did to it, and that
bloody lightning bolt on his forehead still made its presence known, seeming to taunt him from the
glass of the mirror. Harry shook his head, turning away from his reflection to pick a cloak.

His first impulse was to take the most expensive one there, just to annoy Draco. Then he thought
better of it, thought that if one of Malfoy's fancy cloaks was stolen, the authorities were
likely to get involved. *Better not to risk it*, he thought, as he moved his hand from where
it had been resting on the hanger of a beautiful deep green velvet cloak with sterling silver
fastenings. Grabbing a plain black wool cloak from the very back of the closet and putting it on,
he headed for the backdoor.

He set off down the sloping lawn of Malfoy Manor, not quite sure where he was going but knowing
that he had to get there fast. The sky was a washed out gray color, with dark storm clouds
gathering in the distance. Harry figured he had two hours, maybe three, before he was tracked down.
That was okay; it was more time than he needed. Drawing the heavy black cloak tightly around
himself, he bent his head against the wind, which had picked up in the last few minutes, and
continued his way down the path. It was as he was leaving the Malfoy property and turning onto the
main road that lead down to Hogsmeade that he heard an all-too familiar squawk from behind him.

He turned and was greeted by the sight of Aurora, one of the Hogwarts school owls, flapping
towards him, a letter tied to her leg. Cursing, Harry stood and waited for her to descend. She
landed on his shoulder a moment later, her talons gripping his skin slightly harder than he felt
was really necessary. At the risk of being gored, he untied the letter as fast as he could and
shooed the bird off of his shoulder with a wave of his hand. She clucked her beak indignantly and
flapped down to the ground, where she sat eyeing him with a look of utmost superiority.

Harry opened the unmarked envelope with shaking hands, knowing very well what it would say.
There, written in the emerald green ink particular to Hogwarts teachers, was the message:

*H.- You will return to the school immediately. I'm sorry, but you know well the
consequences of your actions.*

*Prof. Dumbledore*

Harry's eyes shone with tears of frustration as he balled up the letter and pitched it as
hard as he could into the air. He even aimed a kick at poor Aurora, who fortunately saw the attack
coming and leapt into flight before being harmed, before he realized it was pointless to be angry.
"Besides," he said to himself, "it's wrong to kill the messenger."

With that he reached out a hand to pat Aurora, who had landed a few feet to his left, looking
very rumpled, on the head, scratching her beak in a way he knew she liked. She appeared to forgive
his outburst, nipping at his finger affectionately. Then she took flight, flapping off in the
direction of Hogwarts, Harry's home- but Harry didn't feel compelled to follow, despite the
contents of the letter. Instead, he drew the heavy black cloak even tighter around himself and
continued on his way down to Hogsmeade, determined to do what he'd come here to do.

Before entering town, Harry ducked behind a tree near the side of the road. Pulling his wand
from the pocket of his jeans, he murmured a few choice words under his breath. "*Caeruleus
oculi!*" he began, turning his bright green eyes to a dark, hazy blue. Next he aimed his
wand at his chin and muttered, "*Barbatus claresco!*" which gave him a thick, black
beard and mustache. Last came a spell of Harry's own invention, one which was extremely useful:
"*Cicatrix abeo!*" With that, the familiar lightning bolt on his forehead faded into
smooth, pale skin. Now, blue-eyed and bearded, he entered Hogsmeade, fully confident that no one
would recognize him.

Harry walked to the train station, the one where the Hogwarts Express came to a stop every year.
He sat down on a hard iron bench and looked about at his surroundings, silently taking in all of
the sights and sounds of the bustling wizard town. He was surprised to see a large group of
school-age children wearing the black robes of Hogwarts come out of Honeydukes, laughing as they
exchanged various candies and popped them into their mouths. Among them he recognized the red hair
and vibrant expression of Julia Weasley, Bill Weasley's oldest daughter. She'd just started
school this September, which meant that she would be in plenty of trouble when she returned to the
castle; first years weren't allowed in town on Hogsmeade weekends. Harry smiled to himself as
he watched the young Julia talking excitedly with her friends.

At that moment, a jet-black steam engine pulled into the station and ground to a halt, billowing
thick gray smoke in all directions. Harry stood up and sauntered onto the train, seating himself in
the very last car after handing his ticket to a bored-looking attendant.

A few hours passed by uneventfully; Harry dozed off a few times, but was too nervous to slip
into a deep sleep. However elaborate his disguise, and however brave the face he put on was, he was
terrified of being recognized, terrified of what Dumbledore would say to him when he returned to
Hogwarts. Harry'd run away before, on three separate occasions. Once he'd just gone to his
parents gravesite; he'd come back after a little over an hour. The other two times, he'd
simply disguised himself as he had done today and walked down to Hogsmeade, just to get out of the
castle and into the fresh air. But always before now, he'd gone home as soon as he'd
received the summons from Dumbledore.

Today Harry had a purpose; he was going to London, to Diagon Alley, specifically. He'd been
thinking about this day for five long years, and now that the event was upon him, it was almost
scary. Scary, it was horrifying. As he disembarked from the train at Platform 9 3/4 at King's
Cross, he gave a silent nod to the attendant who'd taken his ticket. The young man- he
couldn't have been more than twenty- waved back at him, flashing a rather toothy grin. Stepping
casually out from the barrier between platforms nine and ten, Harry checked hastily to make sure
that his wand was still lodged safely in his pocket. Giving a small sigh of relief when he found it
where he'd left it earlier, he sauntered out of the train station and into the bustle of Muggle
London.

Squinting up into the early-morning sunlight, he made his way to the entrance of the Leaky
Cauldron. A glance at his wristwatch told him that it was early- only about 8:30 in the morning. He
continued on his way through the London streets, keeping his eyes on the concrete sidewalk in front
of him as he navigated the crowded street, trying to keep from jostling his fellow pedestrians.

Passing by a florist's shop, Harry paused and ducked inside. The store was small, tucked in
between a grocers and a used bookstore. The walls were covered in signs that said things like,
"God made dirt, and dirt don't hurt." Harry quickly grabbed a bouquet of a dozen
white roses and walked up to the cashier, a short little old lady who could barely see over the
countertop. She had frizzy gray hair that stuck out in all directions, but a sprightly glint in her
deep brown eyes. Taking Harry's flowers, she carefully wrapped the stems in cellophane, then
pale pink tissue paper. As she performed these operations, she chatted with Harry.

"These are for your lady friend, no doubt," she said, grinning. She even gave him a
small wink from behind her thick, pink-framed glasses.

"No, not exactly," Harry replied, trying to smile back and finding it difficult. He
wished she'd just let him pay for the flowers and leave.

"Oh? So theyre for someone *else's* lady friend?" she asked, now positively
giggling.

"They're for my mother," Harry lied, feelings his palms grow slick with sweat.
*Please just get me out of here*, he thought to himself, glancing down at his watch again-
8:45.

"Well aren't you just a dear?" she said, handing him the roses and walking the few
feet to the cash register.

"How much will that be?" Harry asked, his voice impatient.

"Oh now dearie, I couldn't charge a nice young man like you. Not many boys nowadays
would buy flowers for their mothers. You just go ahead and take those," she said, smiling
almost as if she were proud of him.

"Well, er...thank you. Really, thank you very much," Harry replied, his impatience
melting away as he flashed the old lady a genuine smile of gratitude. "This is really very
nice of you."

"Don't you think anything of it, dear. Now you go on and bring those to your mother;
she must be very proud to have a son like you," she said, shooing him back outside with a wave
of her hand.

*I dont know about that...*Harry thought, wondering briefly what his mum would think of him
now as he left the flower shop. He didn't dwell on it, though. Instead, he picked up his pace
and, clutching the bouquet tightly in his hand, made his way to the Leaky Cauldron. He arrived
outside of the run-down pub a few minutes later. Before going in, he unfolded the cloak, which
he'd been carrying in the crook of his arm, and put it on, pulling the hood up to cover his
head. He also touched his chin gently to make sure that the beard had not disappeared. The course
bristles met his fingertips, and he was once again confident in his disguise- confident enough to
open the door to the Leaky Cauldron with a steady hand, even though his heart was beating faster
than he'd thought possible.

Harry meandered through the darkness of the pub, carefully avoiding the eyes of anyone who
looked his way. He walked to the brick wall that separated the Leaky Cauldron from the rest of
Diagon Alley and pulled out his wand. Tapping the bricks in that special order, he stood back and
watched as they shifted themselves to make an opening. When the opening was big enough, Harry
stepped through it and into the bustling row of shops that was Diagon Alley.

Ignoring the curious looks that came his way from more than a few shoppers and passersby, Harry
walked slowly and deliberately past Madame Malkin's, past Ollivander's wand shop, and past
Quality Quidditch Supplies. He continued in his determined stride until he reached Gringotts, at
which point he walked to the side of the immense white building and stopped abruptly.

He was facing an immense white marble wall, built into the side of the snow-white bank building,
into which hundreds upon hundreds of names had been carved; they were the names of those who had
lost their lives in the war. One name, however, was set apart from the rest, carved in large,
ornate letters in the very center of the memorial wall, *Harold James Potter: the boy who
lived.* Harry snorted upon seeing this, appreciating the irony of the phrase they'd chosen.
He didn't pause to wonder over why, even in death, he was granted special favor by the powers
that be.

Strewn about at the base of the memorial were ratty, weather-beaten stuffed animals, large
framed portraits of the lost, a multitude of small white candles, and of course flowers. Harry ran
his fingers lightly over the cool surface of the marble, absent-mindedly tracing a name he must
have recognized in some long-forgotten recess of his heart: *Colin Creevy*.

A sudden image of the eleven-year-old Colin, wide-eyed as he held up his camera, flashed in
Harry's mind. It was followed closely by an image of the same young man, now taller but with
the same innocent expression, falling to the ground amidst a fog of bright green light. Harry shook
his head, then slowly moved his finger down the list of names until he reached the ground. There,
at the very bottom of the first of three columns, was the name hed come to see, the name that had
haunted his thoughts and his dreams for the past five years. Placing the bunch of roses onto the
ground, Harry whispered something to the wall, almost as if the marble could somehow hear his words
and convey them to the owner of the name. Then, his task completed, he turned on his heel and left
the memorial, a single tear making its way slowly down his cheek as he disappeared once more into
the crowd, once again became invisible.

Not fifteen minutes later, a small woman wearing a deep violet cloak approached the memorial.
She wore wire-rimmed spectacles on a glittering silver chain around her neck. Her long hair, once a
deep honey brown, was now swept into a loose bun at the nape of her neck, the light gray catching
the sun's rays. Tears glinted in the corners of her deep blue eyes, but she hurriedly wiped
them away and put on her glasses. Stooping to clean away the litter and dead flower petals from in
front of her sons name, as she did every Sunday morning, she was surprised to find a fresh bunch of
lovely white roses. Mrs. Finnigan lifted the bouquet from the ground and, inhaling the sweet scent
of the flowers, wondered what friend of Seamus' had been there.