In the Cards

Author's Note: To everyone who read and enjoyed The Man With No Shadow, thanks for coming back. The story that follows is my oldest unposted work. Special projects kept pushing it to the back of the Knight Bus, and perhaps it's just as well. This story was written before Order of the Phoenix was published, and certain things revealed in that novel effectively shot this story down in flames. A re-write was necessary to keep the whole concept from collapsing. Everything should be in order now, and I am, at least, spared the humiliation of the story having been rendered obsolete (and even foolish) had it appeared before the release of OotP. Now, it will stand or fall on its merits -- such as they may be.

This is a short tale, only four chapters, none of them overlong. As I'm still paranoid about the changes, I'll stick with weekly posts to allow for close scrutiny of every chapter. When it's all done, I hope no one feels let down after the impact of The Man With No Shadow. All I can say is, it seemed like a good idea when I wrote it. I hope the same can be said when it's finished.

And now, on to Chapter 1.

"Come on!" Ginny pleaded for the tenth time as she tugged energetically on Hermione's arm. "It'll be fun!"

"Oh, alright, then!" Hermione said, her deep brown eyes rolling upwards in resignation. "Anything to end this Spanish Inquisition!"

"Excellent!" Ginny chimed, clapping her hands together. "You won't be sorry!"

"I'm already sorry," Hermione murmured as Ginny set off at a brisk pace, beckoning Hermione to follow.

The late July sun was warm on Hermione's face as it reflected in a dozen directions from the windows and signs lining Diagon Alley. Living in a Muggle household as she did, Hermione was unable to visit Diagon Alley regularly, unlike wizarding families, who shopped here as a matter of course. Her only opportunity came during the Summer holidays when she and her family came to buy her school supplies. Spell books and potion ingredients and wizards' robes were not to be found in Muggle shopping malls, after all.

This would be Hermione's last visit to Diagon Alley for that purpose. Her seventh and final year at Hogwarts would begin in just over a month. By pre-arrangement, the Grangers had met in Diagon Alley with Hermione's two best friends from school, Ron Weasley and Harry Potter. As he had so often in the past, Harry was spending the last month of the Summer at the Burrow. Had he been given a choice, he would have spent the entire holiday with the Weasleys and never set foot within a mile of Privet Drive. He understood fully now why he had to return to the Dursleys for at least a brief stay every year, but that did not make the experience any less repugnant to him. If anything, Dudley's endless taunts and Uncle Vernon's disgusted scowls made him appreciate his annual return to the Burrow even more.

The transformation that came over Harry upon seeing his friends after a month's separation was beyond measuring. Hermione understood this better than most. She had been experiencing a transformation of her own in recent months. Lying awake night after night in her old, familiar room in her parents' house (at some point she had ceased to regard it as "home" -- over the past six years, Hogwarts had become her real home), she would stare into the darkness and smile at the vision of a face with black, unruly hair and hypnotic emerald eyes that held her spellbound with a magic not found in any textbook. And when at last she beheld those eyes in the flesh, her reserved, studious facade crumbled away, and it was all she could do not to break into a run like a four-year-old racing downstairs on Christmas morning. And though she did her best to disguise the light in her eyes and the flutter in her stomach, the fierce hug with which Hermione greeted Harry in front of Gringotts Bank did not go unnoticed by her parents.

"You're very fond of Harry, aren't you, dear?" her mother had asked in a very delicate manner as she watched the goblins exchanging British banknotes for gold Galleons, silver Sickles and bronze Knuts.

"Yes," Hermione replied quietly. She said nothing more, but her mother's smile revealed clearly that she had detected a bond much deeper than friendship between her daughter and the most famous boy in the wizarding world.

In fact, Hermione had hoped to spend some time alone with Harry before day's end. They would have little enough time to themselves when school began. Harry, however, seemed to be spending an uncommon amount of time with Mr. Weasley. Their discussions seemed rather on the serious side. More than once, Hermione saw a look in Harry's eyes which she recognized all too well. It was the unmistakable look of grim determination he always got when his mind turned to the subject of Lord Voldemort.

The Dark Lord's power had been rising steadily since his return to full strength two years ago. Harry's nightmares had inceased of late, to be joined in recent months by Hermione's. She had begun to fear ever more strongly that Harry's courage and nobility might lead him to some act of foolish sacrifice on behalf of the wizarding world. Her fears had increased exponentially when Harry revealed at the end of last term that Dumbledore had, after much deliberation, amended his rule that no one be allowed to join the Order of the Phoenix prior to graduation. It was a one-time-only exemption, Harry told her -- and there was no need for him to elaborate on the identity of that lone exception to Dumbledore's edict.

As Harry was already the focus of Lord Voldemort's venomous scrutiny, it was reasoned that, once he came of age, nothing could be gained by delaying his active participation in the organization. Past events had demonstrated that his safety would be in question regardless. Better that he take an active part in his own defense than remain insulated and risk a blindside attack with no hope of defending himself.

To Hermione's relief, he assured her that he would not be included in any out-of-school missions prior to graduation; but he would be an active participant in all meetings conducted at Hogwarts between Professors Dumbledore, McGonagall and Snape. He would also be included in weekend strategy sessions held in the Order's London Headquarters at number 12 Grimmauld Place. The more information Harry possessed, he assured her, the better he would be able to protect himself. In addition, he would be taking special classes wherein to learn the rudiments of attack and defense in preparation for his chosen career as an Auror.

"It's for the best," he assured her and Ron as the trio sat beside the lake the day before they were to leave for home on the Hogwarts Express. "Like it or not, I'm a target. But if Voldemort thinks I'm going to sit back and be a passive target, he's got his head shoved straight up his arse. When the time comes -- as we all know it will -- I intend to be ready."

But though Hermione's pragmatism accepted the wisdom of this, her heart took a completely different view. More than once her cries in the night had awakened her in the grip of a cold, damp chill of dread. Although Hermione was too sensible to put any stock in dreams and death omens, a tiny spark of apprehension yet remained in the back of her mind.

These thoughts had been swept away by Arthur Weasley's announcement that Hermione was welcome to spend the remaining Summer holiday at the Burrow, to which invitation her parents unhesitatingly gave their blessing. This was the tonic Hermione's troubled soul craved. She would thus be able to keep a close eye on Harry up until the very moment they returned to Hogwarts. Once there, Harry would surely be safe under the protection of Professor Dumbledore.

Once their school supplies were secured, Harry, Ron, Ginny and Hermione all dumped their overstuffed bags in the boot of Arthur's new car. Molly had initially opposed any suggestion of replacing their previous car, which was now running wild in the Forbidden Forest outside Hogwarts. She had finally relented when her husband solemnly promised not to enchant the new car to fly, as he had the old Ford Anglia. However, that did not preclude his enchanting the interior to the expanded proportions of a stretch limo, including the boot.

A debate then ensued as to whether the four teens were old enough to be permitted some "down time" in Diagon Alley without the supervision (read: interference) of the adults. Hermione argued reasonably that, as she and Harry had been named Head Girl and Head Boy, and Ginny would be a sixth-year prefect, the three of them would be up to the task of keeping Ron from making a total prat of himself. Ron looked a bit surly at this argument, but his smile quickly returned when his mother gave her consent with a stiff nod.

Arthur wasted no time in hustling Mr. Granger off to the Leaky Cauldron for a pint of bitters, while their wives went off in search of a high-class fashion shop which Mrs. Granger had seen in an advert in a copy of Witch Weekly which Hermione had brought home from school. The Grangers had been introduced to the comforts of wizards' robes the Summer before, during a weekend visit to the Burrow, and Mrs. Granger had confided (in an audible whisper) to Molly that her husband had become a veritable tiger in the bedroom whenever she wore her new robes around the house. When Ron began to tease Hermione that the Granger house might soon have another little Gryffindor in the near future, she had promptly sealed his lips with a Silencing Charm. She removed it a minute later, her point having been made, after which Ron wisely said nothing more on the subject (though he continually rolled his eyes and smiled in a suggestive manner whenever the opportunity arose). Hermione was glad when Harry dragged Ron off to Quality Quidditch Supplies, leaving her and Ginny free to explore some of the more quaint shops in the less frequented corners of Diagon Alley.

"You know," Ginny said after they had spent a carefree hour peering through windows and gaping at the unusual magical folk passing all around them, "I think that place my cousin told me about is right around here."

"What place?" Hermione asked idly as she peered through a very dusty window in an effort to see what was in the display.

"You know," Ginny said. "The fortune teller. I was telling you all about her this morning."

"Not that rubbish again!" Hermione said with a dismissive cluck of her tongue.

"It's not rubbish!" Ginny insisted. "My cousin told me about it, two years ago. She said she went in and had a reading, and the cards told her who she was going to marry! And a year later, she did get married! I was a bridesmaid, and she told me all about it during the rehearsal."

"Load of balls," Hermione said in a low grunt.

"I know it's around here someplace," Ginny said thoughtfully. "She said there was a little shop just around the corner selling cursed antiques. And this shop here looks just like that sort of place. What does the sign say?"

They both looked up. A shabby sign was swinging in a light breeze. The painted letters were chipped and difficult to read, but the word "Antiques" was plainly discernible.

"I'm positive it's not far from here," Ginny said, her eyes darting this way and that.

"So, go find it," Hermione said indifferently. "I'll be here when you get back."

"But don't you want to know?" Ginny said, her light brown eyes wide and imploring.

"Like I'm going to believe some simpering charlatan telling me who I'm going to marry?" Hermione laughed derisively. "If they're all like Trelawney, I wouldn't give you two Knuts for the lot of them!"

"Well, if you don't want to know," Ginny said emphatically, "I do!"

"Then go!" Hermione said, waving her arm in concert with a toss of her head.

"I will," Ginny said pleasantly. "But I'll be back! And I'll fetch you back with me!"

"Good luck to that," Hermione mouthed silently as Ginny set off on her quest.

But Hermione had reckoned without Ginny's inborn Weasley stubbornness.

"It's tenacity," Ginny corrected Hermione proudly as she steered the two of them through the clusters of shoppers in a more or less straight line toward their destination. "A Weasley never gives up!"

So it was that a resigned Hermione found herself being dragged into a narrow shop that was scarcely wider than the door through which they entered. Hermione instantly cringed. The air was heavy with incense, and the oil lamps set into the far corners were shaded so that everything was no more than an indistinct blur to her eyes. It was Trelawney's classroom all over again. She blinked against the stinging of the perfumed air, coughing lightly. Ginny must have sensed her reluctance, for she suddenly found herself being jerked all the way inside with a firm tug of slender fingers catching her wrist in a vice-like grip.

"Welcome," came a throaty, feather-light voice from out of nowhere. "I have been expecting you."

A beaded curtain, all but hidden in the shadows, parted. The witch who entered was, indeed, reminiscent of Professor Trelawney, though not nearly so spare and gaunt. She was clad in purple and scarlet, with a flowing sash that circled her waist loosely and hung low on a supple hip which her robes could in no wise conceal. Gold hoops swung from her ears and clattered on her wrists. Jewelled rings glittered dully on red-nailed fingers. It was all Hermione could do not to laugh.

"Yeah, right," she muttered under her breath. "I bet you say that to all the pigeons just before you pluck them."

But Ginny had apparently taken the witch's words to heart. "Were you really?" she said breathlessly.

"Indeed, yes," the witch replied. "I saw you in the crystal. You were standing in front of Flourish and Blotts."

"Of course we were," Hermione grunted in a low voice laced with impatience. "It's obvious we're students. Where in the bloody hell else would we be the week after our Hogwarts letters were sent out?"

But once again, Ginny was delighted. "Yes! We were there just this morning! I was telling Hermione all about you! And you saw us?"

"I have that gift. Or rather, it works through me, as it wills, not as I will. I am Madam Cybele, your obedient servant."

Madam Cybele motioned with a rounded arm, her bracelets clanging musically with the gesture. A small, round table seemed to have appeared from nowhere. Three cushioned chairs stood at an angle, as if inviting the three witches to sit. This Madam Cybele did, followed immediately by Ginny and, resignedly, Hermione.

"And now, if you will please tell me your names."

"You don't know?" Hermione said in a cold voice. But Madam Cybele's pleasant expression did not change.

"That is not one of my gifts. As it is with wands, so with the Sight. The choice is not mine."

"I'm Ginny Weasley," Ginny said excitedly. "Ginevra, that is. And this is Hermione Granger."

"Which of you wishes to go first?" Madam Cybele asked.

"Don't you want to know why we're here?" Hermione asked in a challenging sort of voice.

"You are here to find your mates," Madam Cybele said smoothly. "Do you wish to go first?"

"I want to go first," Ginny said quickly, fearing that Hermione was about to say something unpleasant, as the older girl's eyes had gone very narrow.

Madam Cybele passed her hand over the table. Two decks of cards appeared. Both decks rose, hovered, and proceeded to shuffle themselves thoroughly.

"Touch both decks, Ginevra," Madam Cybele instructed. Ginny touched a finger to the first deck, which hummed under her touch so that she gasped softly. She repeated the action with the other deck, with similar results. Madam Cybele then touched the first deck with a red-nailed finger. It instantly fanned out into a perfect half-circle, suspended in mid-air directly before a hushed Ginny. "If you would be so good as to select a card," Madam Cybele said with a nod.

Ginny hesitantly pulled a card from the fan and looked at it. Her face fell.

"What is it?" Hermione said, her curiosity getting the better of her.

Ginny turned the card over. It was blank.

Madam Cybele passed her hand over both fans of cards, which instantly reassembled into neat decks. Ginny's card leaped from her hand and slid back into its deck. The cards remained motionless in mid-air as if resting on an invisible shelf a foot above the table.

"The name you seek has not yet been written in the book of Fate," Madam Cybele said with a slight lowering of her head. She then turned to Hermione, who flinched.

"Um...no," Hermione said slowly. "I...just came in with Ginny..."

"Do it, Hermione," Ginny urged. "What have you got to lose?"

Only my parents' hard-earned money, Hermione thought, feeling the weight of the gold Galleons in her pocket which had been converted at Gringotts from the pounds in her father's wallet.

But another fear tugged at her gut. There was only one name in her mind, and in her heart, which she wanted to find on that card. What if it wasn't there? What if her card, like Ginny's, was blank? Her fear for Harry's life had plagued her all through the Summer. She reminded herself again that fortune telling was bollocks. But what if...

Professor McGonagall had told her on numerous occasions that Divination was an imprecise field of magic. But did that automatically preclude those rare persons who truly had the Sight? And who was to say that Madam Cybele was not one of those few?

Ginny was still urging Hermione on. Madam Cybele sat placidly, her eyes wide and unblinking (no mean feat in the dense, perfumed air), waiting for Hermione's decision.

Swallowing hard, Hermione nodded once. Madam Cybele waved her hand, and the two decks shuffled themselves again. At Madam Cybele's prompting nod, Hermione touched the first deck, feeling the same tingle as had Ginny. She touched the second deck, her eyes falling as she withdrew her hand. Madam Cybele caused the two decks to fan out once more. Hermione swallowed again. She reached out a trembling hand and took a card. She hesitated before turning it over. She gasped, the card falling through her fingers. Ginny quickly picked it up off the floor, her eyes widening as she read what was on it. She turned it over for all to see, her gaze fastening on Hermione's eyes, which were clouded and unreadable.

A single letter was printed on the card, in bright red ink. A letter W.

A light was growing in Ginny's eyes. "W," she said thoughtfully. "W. Well, it can't be Ron," she chuckled. "One of you'd be in a cell in Azkaban on a murder rap before your first anniversary." A mischievous light, reminiscent of Fred and George, sprang into her eyes. "I know! Warrington! That bloke from Slytherin! You'd make the perfect couple, you would!" She laughed as Hermione essayed a lukewarm smile. Ginny's brow furrowed as her thoughts deepened, and a different sort of light began to illuminate her freckled face. "Wood? Oliver Wood? My gosh, Hermione! You know him, don't you? Through Harry! Maybe Harry will become a Quidditch player, and you'll all get together, and Oliver will see that you're not the little girl you were when he graduated -- oh, wow!"

Hermione's mind was screaming denial. No! It should be a P! I'm going to marry Harry!

This thought startled Hermione momentarily. Though she and Harry had been an "item" at school for the better part of a year, neither had pursued their budding romance past simple dating ritual. What had prompted Hermione to conceive such a notion just now? Marry Harry? Did her feelings for him run that deep?

The answer to that question resounded in her chest like rolling thunder. Yes!

Hermione felt as if she had been smothered in a warm, comforting embrace. Somewhere inside her, a door had silently opened, through which brilliant golden sunlight was streaming, its heat and light seeming to envelop her soul. The realization of these unsuspected feelings sent a quiet strength flowing through her. How could she have been so blind for so long? Had she been alone in her room and not in a public place, she would have laughed out loud. Looking at the card again, Hermione heard the silent voice inside her repeat emphatically: I'm going to marry Harry!

But, unexpectedly, another voice spoke, in a whisper that quietly drowned her inner scream. Are you? the voice mocked. Are you certain?

Yes! Hermione's silent scream resounded, more forcefully than before. I love Harry! I'm going to marry him and only him!

But the whisper countered with three words that stabbed her like a knife through the ribs: If he lives.

All this time, Madam Cybele had waited patiently, her placid smile never wavering. "You have another card to select, Hermione."

"What does the other card reveal?" Ginny asked.

"The first deck consists of letters," Madam Cybele said knowledgeably. "The second, of numbers. We now know the first letter of the man whom Hermione will marry. The second card will reveal the number of letters in that man's name."

"Pick the card," Ginny said urgently. Hermione listlessly drew a card from the second fan and turned it over. It did, indeed, bear a number, in the same red ink. A number 7. Ginny took the card from Hermione, whose fingers had gone numb. The younger girl's eyes grew wide as those of a house-elf. Hermione's filled with the beginnings of tears.

W. Seven letters.

Weasley.

Author's Note: What is the meaning of the prediction? Is Hermione really destined to marry Ron? (Given the parameters of this site, not bloody likely!) Then what is the answer? Sorry, no answers next week. But the mystery deepens, as does Hermione's anxiety. Come back for another taste, won't you? Thanks for reading.

Author's Note: After the unexpected response to the first chapter, I'm at a loss for words. My chief emotion is fear. I'm afraid that the simplicity of this story will prove to be a letdown when all is said and done. I should have known that this site boasted a sharper variety of reader than the site where I used to post (and for which this story was originally intended). I could have played it safe and left this story on the shelf; I may yet wish I had. Alas, it's too late now, isn't it? Well, I suppose there's nothing to do but press on and hope that the ending doesn't prove too disappointing. In my own defense, I was still feeling my way in semi-darkness back when I wrote this, and I had yet to discover how many truly gifted writers were out there, raising fanfic standards by leaps and bounds. I demand more of myself now than I did then, as is all too plain here. Still, maybe it'll be worth a smile or two. At least it'll be over quickly. Anyway, here's Chapter 2.

Hermione was very busy throughout the month of August, for which she was grateful, in that it allowed her no time to waste dwelling on the events that had taken place in Madam Cybele's shop in Diagon Alley.

Hermione's Hogwarts letter had been accompanied by a large pouch of documents pertaining to her duties as Head Girl, which were far more extensive than those she had shouldered as a prefect the previous two years. The pouch had been so heavy that, rather than trust its transport to an owl, or even two, Dumbledore had dispatched Fawkes, his pet phoenix, with not only Hermione's, but Harry's as well.

Harry's pouch was currently lying on his bed in Ron's room, still unopened. Whenever Hermione delicately pointed out that the interval separating them from the start of term was growing increasingly shorter, Harry merely shrugged it off and promised, "I'll get to it, Hermione! I'll get to it!"

The contents of Hermione's pouch was currently spread out all over her bed in Ginny's room, as well as covering much of Ginny's writing desk and most of the floor. Scroll upon scroll of parchment was stretched out, various heavy objects weighing down the curling ends so that they didn't snap back into the tight cylinders from which they had sprung. Hermione had arranged everything according to various categories, ranging from the minutae of her daily duties to the greater responsibility attendant to the regularly scheduled events which were the heart and soul of life at Hogwarts. There were class schedules, Quidditch matches, feasts, Hogsmeade weekends -- even two dress balls, one at Halloween and another in the Spring.

Hermione scowled down at the sea of parchment in the midst of which she stood like an island (an island with a very bushy palm tree at its center). So deep was her concentration that she almost didn't hear the light rap on the frame of the open bedroom door.

"Can I come in?" Ginny asked.

"It's your room," Hermione laughed, her sour mood broken in an instant.

"Yes," Ginny said, "but I know you're busy. I was afraid I'd -- "

Ginny paused, staring at the seemingly endless expanse of parchment spreading out in every direction. Hermione laughed again, though with measurably less humor than before.

"Bill and Percy were both Head Boy," Ginny said as she stared around her in something like horror. "But I never knew...I was too young when Bill graduated, and Percy was always so secretive -- always kept his door sealed with a Locking Charm when he was working. My gosh. If Errol had tried carrying this, he'd have snuffed it over Aberdeen."

"Ginny," Hermione said slowly, her eyes narrowing shrewdly, "I know there's a restriction against underage wizards practicing magic during the holidays. But how do they really know? I mean, your mum and dad must do magic all the time. How does the Ministry know if a spell is being done by an adult or a student?"

Ginny thought a moment before giving Hermione a helpless look.

"And Harry told me," Hermione continued, "that when Dobby used a Hover Charm at the Dursleys' the Summer before our second year, the Ministry sent him a warning, believing he'd done the magic."

Ginny nodded as Hermione paced the room, careful to walk only in the narrow aisles she had allowed between the parchment which covered the floor like a fresh snowfall.

"Is your mum making lunch now?" Hermione asked suddenly. Ginny nodded, not understanding where Hermione was going. "She typically uses magic in preparing meals, doesn't she?" Another nod. Hermione tapped her lips thoughtfully before drawing her wand. She nodded smilingly at Ginny, rolling her eyes toward the door. Catching on, Ginny closed the door and locked it.

With a swish of her wand, Hermione opened her school bag. Her new school supplies were all there, as well as some things she had bought earlier in a Muggle store near her home. A dozen fresh quills emerged from her bag (as Head Girl, she would not permit herself to be found without a sharp quill at a moment's need), along with a shiny new bottle of ink. As these hovered before her, Hermione directed her wand at the rolls of parchment straining at their weights all around her. She made a full sweep of the room with her arm, and the parchment, from first to last, stiffened as if they had been transformed into sheet steel. She used a Levitating Charm to remove the now-unnecessary weights, which were promptly returned to their original places throughout the room via a Banishing Charm.

"Now comes the tricky part," Hermione said. "I worked on this spell near the end of last term. I intended to use it when I got back to school, to simplify my studies. Now's as good a time as any to test it out."

Hermione pointed her wand at the various groupings of parchment, which were already arranged in pre-sorted categories. In less than a minute the floor was completely parchment-free. All that remained were a half-dozen neat piles sitting on Hermione's bed and on Ginny's desk. Hermione pointed her wand at her bag again, and a small rectangular block, roughly the size of a small brick, emerged and flew directly into her waiting hand.

"Index cards," Hermione explained as she peeled away the wrapping to free the stack of five hundred lined cards. "Muggle students use them all the time, to keep notes. They're much easier to store and reference than rolls of parchment."

This said, Hermione tapped the cards in her open palm with the tip of her wand. The cards rose, divided themselves into smaller stacks, and hovered obediently as they awaited Hermione's next command. With a wave of her wand, she directed each small stack onto one of the sheafs of parchment until her hand lay empty before her. With a wink and a smile at Ginny, Hermione used her wand to dispatch the hovering quills so that one was suspended, quivering eagerly, over each individual grouping of parchment and cards. She paused before pointing her wand at her bag again. A second bottle of ink rose into view. Both bottles then made a soft popping sound as their stoppers came free and rose into the air.

"I don't think one bottle will be enough," Hermione told Ginny. "Better prepared than wanting, I always say. Now, watch."

As Hermione wove a complicated pattern in the air with her wand, the quills dipped themselves into whichever bottle of ink was nearer, waiting in line like patrons queuing up at the cinema. Each quill then darted back to its stack of index cards and began to write. Hermione leaned in toward the nearest pile and nodded with satisfaction.

"If we're lucky," she said with a twinkle in her eye, "every bit of information on those scrolls of parchment will have been transferred onto the index cards by the time your mum calls us for lunch."

Ginny's face was positively glowing with appreciation. "No wonder they made you Head Girl. Bloody brilliant! Can you teach me that spell, in case I make Head Girl next year?"

"Of course," Hermione beamed. "And now that I have a spot of time to kill, let's go over your duties as prefect, shall we?" Ginny's face glowed brighter still.

As the lowering sun began to lengthen the shadows in the Weasleys' back garden, Hermione and Ginny sat on their beds with looks of concentration on their faces. Ginny was reading her Advanced Transfiguration textbook, while Hermione flipped through her index cards as she familiarized herself with some of the details of her upcoming Head Girl duties.

"Have you seen Harry today?" Ginny asked idly as she peered over the edge of her textbook.

"What?" Hermione said absently as she shuffled a handful of cards rapidly. "Oh. No, I haven't."

"He was up early again today," Ginny said. "Off with Dad again, I think. I sure would like to know what they do all day."

Hermione stiffened. She had been concentrating so deeply on honing her Head Girl duties the last two weeks that she had given little thought to Harry. But something about Ginny's question brought an unwanted lurch to Hermione's stomach -- no doubt because she had asked herself that same question a hundred times or more since she had come to the Burrow. It usually haunted her thoughts in the quiet dark before she drifted off to sleep, or in the mornings when a trace of drowsiness still lingered in her sluggish mind following the ringing of the alarm clock. Where did Harry go with Arthur nearly every day?

And the more she thought about it, the more Hermione was sure that she knew the answer, at least in a general sense.

Harry had turned seventeen on July 31st. Though he still had another year to go at Hogwarts, he was nevertheless an adult in the eyes of the wizarding world. And while Harry had assured Hermione that Dumbledore would not pull him out of school to participate in missions for the Order of the Phoenix (of which Arthur was likewise a member), did that guarantee that he would not serve in some capacity before school began?

And what if, heaven forbid, some crisis arose before September first that would prevent Harry from returning to school altogether? Once a student turned seventeen, schooling was no longer compulsory. If Harry chose to forego his final year of school, he would receive no Ministry owl warning him of pending legal consequences, as he had when Dobby the house-elf had levitated a pudding at the Dursleys' five years ago. Would Harry do such a thing? Now that he had been admitted to the Order of the Phoenix, would he turn his back on Hogwarts and go off to join the fight against Voldemort?

It was along such lines that Hermione's worst fears were played out night after night, in chilling nightmares that always ended the same: with herself weeping bitter tears onto Harry's face as she cradled his cold, dead body in her arms.

"If Harry doesn't stop traipsing off with Dad all the time," Ginny was saying, "he won't be able to prepare himself for his Head Boy duties. And it's important that he does so. Bill told us that these appointments aren't engraved in stone. It's not like prefect, where you can just muddle through like Ron did two years ago. The Head Boy and Girl are only a step removed from McGonagall, you know. If they don't do their jobs properly, the whole school suffers."

"They wouldn't...take Harry's badge away, would they?" Hermione asked in mild alarm.

"It's been done before," Ginny said. "According to Bill, if one of the Heads isn't up to scratch, the seventh year prefect is promoted as a replacement. The demoted student usually takes over as prefect; but in some cases, he's washed out completely, goes back to being just another student. I don't want to see that happen with Harry. But the way he's been these last few weeks, it's like he doesn't care. He acts for all the world like he won't even be Head Boy this year, and doesn't care two shakes of a dragon's tail about it."

Hermione's stomach gave another, more violent, lurch. What if -- what if Harry didn't care if he were Head Boy or not? What if he knew, or suspected, that he would be unable to fulfill his duties during the coming year? What if Harry was ignoring his pouch from Hogwarts not out of carelessness, but because he did not expect to be filling the post to which he had been appointed when September first rolled around?

In fact, Hermione realized with a sudden chill, how did she even know that the pouch delivered to Harry by Fawkes was filled with Head Boy paraphernalia at all? It could be anything! It could be something having to do with the Order, a battle plan to use against Voldemort, or even weapons -- spells and magical objects to be used against the Dark Forces.

Suddenly Hermione had to know. She had to know for certain that Harry was Head Boy. He had told her so the day their pouches arrived, both of them laughing as they recalled Fawkes swooping down with the heavy bags clutched in his talons and narrowly missing Ron (who'd leaped aside just in time, only to fall directly into the frog pond). But did he tell her that merely to allay her fears? All she knew for certain was that the pouch Harry had brought with him to the Burrow bore the Hogwarts crest. It was still on his bed, unopened, its contents unrevealed.

Hermione felt her body make an involuntary movement in the direction of the bedroom door. She stopped herself almost immediately. Harry's pouch would be sealed by magic, as hers had been. The bag would be Charmed to open only at the touch of Harry's wand. She could probably break through the spell, but not without setting off some sort of alarm; she was a clever witch in her own right, but not clever enough to outfox the likes of Albus Dumbledore. There was no way she could think of to open Harry's pouch to see if it contained Head Boy material, or...something else...

But Hermione's face suddenly brightened. She did not need to look in Harry's bag to see if he were Head Boy. She had all the information she needed at her very fingertips.

Hermione began to sift frantically through her carefully sorted index cards, which she had bundled up with ordinary rubber bands. One such grouping contained the entire student body of Hogwarts. There was, in fact, more than one list. There was the general enrollment parchment, bearing the name of every student at Hogwarts. Then there were smaller parchments denoting each individual House. Each name was followed by one or more abbreviated designations.

Falling prey to a small twinge of vanity, Hermione had Charmed her own enrollment cards so that she could call them forth from their alphabetical decks with a wave of her wand and return them in similar fashion. There was ample space beneath each name for personal information to be added. She intended to keep a record of certain students, noting offenses and points taken away, as well as positive comments which might be used in consideration of a student's possible appointment as prefect the following year. She had been practicing on her own card, scribbling down reminders which she hoped would enable her to slide smoothly into her duties once term commenced.

Her card was in front of her now. Her name appeared as Granger, Hermione, and it was followed by three abbreviated marks: A number 7, indicating that she was a seventh year; a letter G, denoting her as being in Gryffindor house; and a letter H, signifying that she was Head Girl. Harry's card should bear that same letter H -- if he were Head Boy.

Hermione found the enrollment cards and began to flip through them hurriedly. She found the P's quickly and jerked them rapidly across her eyes: Parkinson, Pansy, 7, S; Patil, Padma, 7, R, P; Patil, Parvati, 7, G; Pemberton, Sylvester, 2, G; Piggot-Smith, Timothy, 6, R; Pritchard, Graham, 4, S.

Hermione's heart leaped into her throat. Where was "Potter, Harry"? She flipped through the cards again, thinking that she had mis-ordered them. She checked to either side of the P's, sorting through dozens of cards. In desperation, she checked three letters in either direction, without success. The truth was manifest and inescapable. There was no "Potter."

Hermione felt an icy hand clutch at her heart. She was certain that she had cast a spell over the cards so as to cause them to assemble themselves in alphabetical order. She had used that spell any number of times; it had never failed her.

Hermione tossed the general enrollment cards aside and caught up the smaller stack containing only Gryffindors. There was Pemberton, Sylvester, second year. He was followed by Patil, Parvati, and she by Sandhurst, Brighton, a third year.

On the verge of panic, Hermione tossed the index cards aside and pulled out the original enrollment parchments she had taken from her Hogwarts pouch. The names written thereon would be final proof, one way or the other. Slowly and carefully she scanned the P's, first on the general roll, then on the Gryffindor roll. When at last she released the scroll and sank down on her bed, her face was paler than the parchment lying across her lap.

"He's not here," Hermione squeaked, her hands quivering as the scroll slipped away and fell softly to the floor.

"What's that?" Ginny said absently, still thumbing through her Transfiguration textbook. "Did you say something, Hermione?" Ginny looked up, and she was startled to see that Hermione was crying silently, tears streaming down her cheeks. She leaped up and fell onto the bed, her hands cupping Hermione's shoulders as she stared questioningly into the older girl's reddening eyes.

"H-Harry's -- not here," Hermione said in a faint, trembling sob. "He -- he's not enrolled at Hogwarts -- "

Hermione fell into Ginny's arms and wept openly. Ginny held her comfortingly, and though she did not yet understand the implication of Hermione's words, she felt a cold lump of dread form in her stomach which made her shudder in spite of the August heat.

Disclaimer: Harry and his friends don't belong to anyone but J.K Rowling herself, and if Stoneheart was making any money off of this story, he would be giving it to me. Right, buddy? ~Fae Princess (Posting girl).

Author's Note: Dreadfully sorry for the delay. My boss keeps messing with my schedule, changing off-days to work days with little or no advance warning. Next week looks to be equally skewed, but I'll do my best, I promise. Your patience (not to mention your generous feedback) is greatly appreciated.

Hermione slept very little that night. Every time she closed her eyes, the same horrible scene kept reappearing. Try as she might, she could not shut it out.

As often as Harry had described his dreams of his parents' deaths at the hands of Voldemort, Hermione had been able to offer sympathy, but nothing more. But that sympathy had become empathy. The cold beads of perspiration clinging to her face as she shot upright in the pregnant darkness, the mournful wail on her lips, the feeling of helplessness...yes, now Hermione knew what Harry had endured in his own troubled dreams for so long.

The night was warm as only August nights can be, but Hermione shivered as she sat hugging her knees to her chest. She was grateful that her outcry had been muted and brief. Ginny stirred in the darkness with a soft muttering, but did not awaken. How Hermione wished she could sleep so peacefully.

A single shaft of moonlight, penetrating the leafy branches of the tree outside Ginny's window, fell on Hermione's bedside table. The pale beam flickered off and on as the leaves danced in the light breeze, alternately illuminating and obscuring the objects resting on the table. As if acting on its own, Hermione's hand reached out and fell upon a milky rectangle lying upon the dark wooden surface. It was her enrollment card. She held it in front of her, reading the words and symbols which her enchanted quill had written thereon: Granger, Hermione 7 G H.

Hermione's eyes lingered on the number 7. Her hand began to shake. She was remembering another number 7, on another card. A number printed in blood-red ink.

Holding the index card to her bosom, Hermione rose and approached the open window, her feather-light nightgown drifting above her knees. A small, padded bench seat stood beneath the window. Hermione pulled the seat out and sat, leaning forward to rest her elbows on the window sill, her hands cupping her face. The tiny shaft of moonlight just brushed her left shoulder as it winked off and on like the beam from a pocket torch. She stared alternately at the lawn, bright in the moonlight; at the hypnotic waving of the tree branches; at the millions of stars which fought a valiant but losing battle for supremacy in a sky dominated by the brilliant moon.

Tears clouded Hermione's eyes as she damned herself for all her years of reading, for the expanded vocabulary which had resulted in the metaphor which had sprung unbidden to her mind. A valiant but losing battle...

"Harry..." she whispered. "Are you ever coming back to me...?"

Blinking away tears, Hermione's eyes fell on the index card, which lay on the window sill between her arms. She moved to take it up, but her hand drew back suddenly, as from a poisonous spider. As she stared down between her hands, her breath trapped in her lungs, the number 7 after her name seemed to burn into her soul with an intensity to equal that of the basilisk from the Chamber of Secrets, whose terrible gaze had nearly ended her life more than four years ago.

With a defiant exhalation of breath, Hermione reminded herself again that she did not believe in fortune telling. It was unscientific claptrap...a shell game to ensnare the feeble-minded.

But, a tiny voice in the back of her mind countered, would not Muggle scientists say the same thing about magic? Hermione herself had not believed, not until the day her Hogwarts letter arrived. Even then, her logical, ordered mind refused to accept it. She, Hermione Granger, a witch? Rubbish! Ultimately, it took a visit from Professor McGonagall to convince her that it was not all some elaborate prank being played on her by a schoolmate. It was standard procedure for a Hogwarts representative to visit a Muggle-born, who would likely have no knowledge of Hogwarts or, indeed, of the very existence of magic. Had not Hermione seen Professor McGonagall change herself into a cat before her very eyes, removing her last vestige of doubt, she might never have boarded the Hogwarts Express on that fateful day nearly six years ago. She would never have become a witch. She would never have met Harry Potter.

And, not having met him, she would never have fallen in love with him.

And now, having done so, was she to lose him?

The dark confines of Ginny's bedroom began to close in on Hermione, its walls shrinking in dimension until they formed a narrow space thick with equal portions of Stygian shadow and heavy, perfumed air. The pale moonlight without the window hemorrhaged, becoming the baleful eye of a lurid red lamp. Illuminated in that crimson halo, the window sill before her expanded to the proportions of a small, round table, and the index card lying between her hands shrank to half its former size. As her eyes fixed on the card, Hermione's name blurred, the ink swimming and swirling until the letters faded away to nothingness, leaving only the number 7 -- no longer black, but red. In the time it took Hermione to blink, the card had expanded once more to its previous proportions. But no -- it was not one card, but two. Nor were they identical; where the accusatory number shone upon the first card, its fraternal twin bore a letter: a bright red W. Hermione blinked hard in an effort to dispel the images before her, but though they blurred through the mist of her gathering tears, they did not fade away. If anything, the red ink intensified, the letter and number quivering like freshly spilled blood upon the pale bosoms of their pasteboard canvases.

It simply couldn't be, Hermione told herself again. It couldn't. And yet, how else explain it all?

A pragmatist from her bushy brown hair down to the soles of her feet, Hermione trusted to facts. But facts had a disconcerting way of asserting themselves insolicitously in situations where fancy was clearly the more desirable option.

Fact: Voldemort was back -- "greater and more terrible than ever he was," to quote Professor Trelawney's prophesy -- nor could all of Hermione's wishing unmake that verity. Harry was a member of the Order of the Phoenix, whose sole reason for existence was the elimination of Voldemort. That also was incontrovertible fact, though Hermione would have given fully half the years of her life to erase those words from Reality's slate. Having been disbanded upon the destruction of the Dark Lord sixteen years ago, that clandestine society, like Voldemort himself, had been resurrected, its purpose unaltered. Now, as then, it was dedicated to the downfall of the Dark Forces, no matter the cost. Those last four words rang in Hermione's mind like a claxon. No matter the cost. She had heard that grim qualifier so many times in the last two years. From Professor Dumbledore. From Arthur Weasley. From Harry. She had always shrugged it off as hyperbole. But now those words were cold steel, piercing her heart like a rapier.

In the deepest recesses of her logical, rigidly-ordered mind, she had always known what those words implied. Since that day at Grimmauld Place when Molly Weasley had seen the dead bodies of her family (and Harry), as represented by a boggart, Hermione had known that what those false images represented was all too possible. When Harry had described the incident to her, she had coolly pushed it away, locked it behind the stout door of reason. Harry was not dead. He was too young to go off and face Voldemort. That he someday would be old enough was tomorrow's worry, not today's.

But ultimately, with every tick of the clockwork universe that was humanity's cradle, even the most distant tomorrows awoke to discover that they had become today. And suddenly, the images Hermione had so systematically locked away were become more than possible -- they were probable.

And the prediction in Diagon Alley? Was that not also just as probable -- even plausible?

As Hermione stood poised to begin her seventh and final year at Hogwarts, she found that denial was a luxury she could no longer afford to entertain. The signs were too manifest for her to ignore them any longer. The battle which she and everyone else had dreaded for so long would come; whether soon or late, it would come. Nor could she any more pretend that Harry would not be at the very center of that terrible maelstrom. When the battle lines were drawn for the final skirmish, Harry would not cower in the shadows with the likes of Malfoy; he would be no paper mascot for the Order of the Phoenix -- he would stand with his companions as an equal, his eyes forward, his wand held resolutely before him. He would fight bravely, with purpose of heart, employing all the skill and power at his command. He would fight for his parents. He would fight for Sirius, and for Cedric, and for everyone whose spirit cried out for justice -- and for vengeance. All this Hermione knew as surely as she knew the sun would rise over the English Channel on the morrow.

Yes, Harry would fight. But -- again Hermione shivered in spite of the viscous breath of night caressing her shoulders through the open window -- would he win? Could he win? Could a 17-year-old wizard -- even Harry Potter, the Boy of Prophesy -- prevail against the most terrible Dark wizard in history? And either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives. And as those words reverberated in the corridors of her soul, Hermione came to the inescapable realization that Harry could not win.

And with that realization came a succession of images, playing out in Hermione's mind like scenes from a Muggle movie, speeded up so that everything shifted in rapid bursts. As Hermione stared unblinkingly into the eye of the blood-red moon, her nightmare burst before her waking eyes, stark and terrible, nor could all her force of will turn them aside from the Grand Guignol of her mind.

Upon the ruined grounds of Hogwarts, amidst a litter of dead and dying wizards, two figures faced each other. One was tall and spare, his eyes red and unwinking as those of a serpent. The other stood defiantly on shaking legs, his wand held loosely before him in quivering, palsied fingers. Eyes of emerald green glared defiance even as they blinked through the haze of blood matting his raven hair to the jagged outline of his thin lightning scar. The tall wizard laughed, a sound to chill the marrow of the dead. He raised his wand, pointing it at the heart of his defeated foe. Harry Potter did not look away. As had his father before him, he faced death without fear. Voldemort opened his fleshless mouth and hissed, Avada Kedavra!

Hermione acreamed as a flash of green light enveloped Harry. He crumpled to the ground, his eyes staring sightlessly toward the sky. Amidst the triumphant laughter of the Dark Lord, Hermione rushed forward, heedless of her own life. She gathered Harry in her arms and cradled his lifeless form to her bosom, rocking back and forth as her tears spilled out of her in an unchecked river.

It was at this point where Hermione would awaken in the night, a scream of horror in the back of her throat and an icy chill playing along her spine. But this waking dream did not end as those before. As she sobbed mournfully, clinging to Harry's lifeless body, she felt strong hands on her shoulders. Those hands gently but firmly drew her upright. A pair of arms wrapped themselves around her, and she clung to her comforter with desperate, trembling hands.

Ron Weasley held her gently but unrelentingly, his voice soothing in her ear, as she wept onto his chest. She could feel his own tears stream down his cheeks and onto her face. He was the the only one who understood, the only one who loved Harry as deeply as she. Their grief mingled in concert with their tears. Hermione clung harder, her arms a vice around Ron's waist. As waves of heart-rending agony washed over her in a smothering tide, she knew in her soul that there was none save Ron in whom she could find the comfort without which she would surely curl up and die herself. They had shared too much over the years, she, Harry and Ron. The hordes of humanity could live an entire lifetime never knowing the depths of the bond the three of them had forged in six brief, tempestuous years. With Harry torn inexorably from her, who but Ron could fill the gaping chasm that had once been her heart? Who but Ron?

To the accompanying note of a trembling sob, all strength flowed from Hermione's body. Her elbows slid apart, her arms forming a pillow on the window sill onto which her face sank. Tears flowed in a torrents, spilling over her arms to blur the ink on the index card underneath.

"Don't go, Harry," Hermione sobbed quietly, hopelessly. "Don't leave me. I love you so much. Please, Harry...please don't die..."

The late morning sun glinted off the vanity mirror and into Hermione's eyes. Awareness came slowly. Her face was pressed against her pillow, which was cool with dampness. She lifted her head, stared at the window through which the sunlight was streaming in a hundred dancing beams. The wind rustled the leaves of the branches tickling the window glass, causing the sunbeams to cavort across the wall like fairies at a bacchanalia.

Squinting at the brightness, Hermione lowered her eyes. Sight of the bench beneath the window brought a flash of recollection. The last thing she rememered, she was sitting at the window, her head on the sill. A smile crossed her lips. Ginny must have found her and carried her to her bed, even tucked her in. It would be like Ginny to do something like that.

Though a lingering memory of her night-fears remained, Hermione found them less monstrous in the clear light of day. Stretching like a panther until her joints popped, she cast a glance at the alarm clock -- had she slept through its clamor, or had Ginny thoughtfully shut off the alarm? -- and nearly fell out of bed.

"Eleven-thirty? Bleedin' Merlin on a hang-glider! Half the day is gone!"

Throwing on her robe, Hermione burst out of Ginny's room and made straight for the bathroom. To her great relief, it was empty.

One advantage to being a sodding layabout, Hermione thought as she dived under the shower, the warm water making her moan in ecstasy. No queue for the bathroom this late.

Fifteen minutes later, Hermione raced down the many flights of stairs, her still-damp hair flying about her shoulders. As she landed with a thud on the ground floor, she caught a whiff of the most delicious aroma she had ever encountered coming from the kitchen.

"You should have woken me, Mrs. Weasley," she said, sprinting into the kitchen and kissing the plump little witch on the cheek.

"Ginny was of the opinion that you needed the sleep, dear," Molly said. "Enjoy it while you can. Your days of sleeping late will be over when school starts. According to Bill and Percy, the Head Boy and Head Girl have it even worse on weekends than on class days."

"At least let me help -- " Hermione began. But a quick glance around the modest kitchen revealed that all was going smoothly as only a wizarding kitchen could. Every burner on the small stove was occupied. One large skillet was filled with succulent sausages, which were being turned by a pair of tongs which darted about as if held by an invisible hand. Another skillet was bursting with eggs, some of them sunny-side up, staring with wide yellow eyes like a house-elf, others scrambled, portions of them leaping up like the surface of a boiling cauldron. A large pan of fried potatoes was hissing softly on a back burner as a floating spatula prodded them gently, while a fourth skillet was sizzling loudly as a dozen strips of bacon curled in every direction, leaping up like tadpoles before landing with a wet smack.

"Isn't it a bit late for breakfast, Mrs. Weasley?" Hermione asked as she opened a drawer and took out a spare apron. "I would have thought lunch would be coming up."

But Molly, who was magically directing oranges to squeeze themselves into a large pitcher of juice, jerked the apron out of Hermione's hand with a sharp, "Accio." She gave Hermione a look that said, "You are a guest in this house, and guests don't work," as distinctly as if she had spoken the words aloud. Banishing the apron to the drawer whence it had come, she turned back to her juicing chore before addressing Hermione's question.

"You'd think so, wouldn't you? But on our last trip to London, Arthur found one of those Muggle restaurants that serve 'breakfast 24 hours a day,' and he's been after me ever since to have a go. And I reasoned that, as today is a -- ahem -- special day, I'd have a treat waiting for Arthur when he got home."

"Mr. Weasley is home?" Hermione said, her heart leaping in her chest. "Does that mean..."

"Why not go outside and see?" Molly prompted, a very pleased look on her round face.

Exploding like an uncoiled spring, Hermione burst through the screen door and into the Weasleys' back garden. In an instant her eyes took in the familiar surroundings -- the vegetable garden, the pond, the dilapidated garage -- and she froze. The picnic table where they had all dined under the stars the Summer of the Quidditch World Cup was sitting in its usual place. The benches on either side of the table bore three occupants: Arthur Weasley, Percy Weasley, and --

"HARRY!"

Charging like a runaway Patronus, Hermione slammed into Harry with a force that sent his glasses flying through the air and nearly sent the two of them tumblng to the ground.

"Whoa," Harry gasped, trying to smile through the pain in his ribs as Hermione crushed them in a vice-like hug. "I'll have to go away more often if I can expect a welcome like this every time I come back!"

But Harry's smile quickly faded when he realized that Hermione was crying softly onto his shoulder. Even without his glasses (which Percy was now handing back to him), Harry could see that these were not tears of happiness. Harry had seen Hermione weep for joy numerous times, as when she would unwrap a Christmas or birthday present, or when he and Ron made up after a particularly virulent row. If he was not mistaken, these were the same sort of tears she had cried the day they they had received the news of Buckbeak's impending execution. What was this all about? Looking back over his shoulder as he pulled his glasses on one-handed, Harry cast a searching glance at Arthur and Percy. But they seemed quite as bewildered as he.

"What is it, Hermione?" Harry asked, his hands gently rubbing her shoulders and back. "What's wrong? You act as if -- as if you thought you'd never see me again."

"I -- " Hermione choked out, her face still buried in Harry's shoulder, " -- I thought -- Oh, don't go away, Harry! Please, don't go!"

Giving Hermione a reassuring squeeze, Harry said, "Not bloody likely. School starts next week, and I still haven't opened my pouch from Hogwarts. Uh -- do you think you can give me some help there? I haven't got a flippin' clue about my duties, and I don't want Dumbledore to regret making me Head Boy."

"H-Head..." Hermione gasped, her head jerking up so that her eyes fixed Harry's piercingly. "Head...Boy?"

"Of course!" Harry laughed. "What, did I forget to tell you in Diagon Alley? I admit I wasn't focusing much that day, what with the new brooms coming in and all. I think some days I'd forget my bum if it wasn't attached to the end of my spine. But even so, who else were they going to give it to? Malfoy?"

"B-but..." Hermione stammered, "...the -- the roster -- Hogwarts -- y-your name -- not -- "

Harry's eyes went wide, the color draining from his face. He jerked his eyes at Arthur for a split-second before returning his attention to Hermione.

"Bloody hell," Harry rasped, self-reproach in his voice. "The Hogwarts roster. Dumbledore must have -- we never thought -- "

"You mean," Arthur said, a pained look spreading across his face, "Hermione thought you were -- "

"Seems so," Harry said, regarding Hermione with eyes suddenly tender. "I mean, what would anyone think, given the circumstances?"

A very confused and distraught Hermione was now looking back and forth between Arthur and Harry. "Wh-what's going on?" she said in a trembling voice. "Where were you all this time, Harry? Mr. Weasley?"

"We can tell her now -- can't we, Arthur?" Harry asked hopefully.

"Yes," Arthur smiled. "It's a done deal now. No need to keep the lid on the cauldron any longer."

"Will someone please tell me what in the bloody hell is going on?" Hermione demanded, her face reddening from more than tears.

"Let's go inside and have a sit-down, shall we?" Harry said, his right arm encircling Hermione's shoulder in a guiding manner. "It's a long story."

Author's Note: Well, by now nearly everyone in fanfic-land knows what Harry's news is (I knew you were all too bloody clever for me). But, in a last desperate attempt to snatch back the reins, I leave you with this to ponder until next time: What Harry has been up to is not nearly as important as WHY he is doing it. If everyone figures that out as well, there's nothing left for me but to be nibbled to death by a horde of rabid nifflers. Not the worst way to go, I suppose -- the fur tickles, so I'm told. Always go out with a laugh, as Fred and George would surely agree. See you soon, and thanks for reading.

Author's Note: I honestly didn't expect this final chapter to be so late. Obstacles? I feel like I just escaped from the maze during the Triwizard Tournament. I still have scorch marks on my backside from outrunning the Blast-Ended Skrewt. Thanksgiving weekend, power outages, dead phone lines, and a cut finger all contributed to the mayhem. I hope it was worth the wait. But that's not for me to say, is it?

As compensation, this chapter is more than twice as long as any of the others. A good bit of re-writing was involved, some of which will be addressed at the bottom of the page. For better or worse, here it is. I hope it does not disappoint.

Note from Fae Princess: Actually, I'm the reason the chapter is so late -- I've had this chapter in my inbox for days now, and I just haven't had the time or the energy to post it. I haven't even been on the computer -- unless I'm strictly doing homework. Hell, I haven't even had a chance to write in my lj all this weekend. So for the lateness of this lovely conclusion, I am DEEPLY sorry. You're gonna love it anyway, no matter how late it is. Enjoy!

The Weasleys' small living room always lent an atmosphere of intimacy to gatherings within its friendly confines. There was no door to separate it from the hallway and adjacent kitchen, but there was an unspoken agreement that whatever was said in this, the very heart and soul of the Burrow, was never repeated carelessly outside its walls. Therefore, it was with calm sureness that Harry looked into Hermione's eagerly petitioning eyes and began his tale.

"It all starts with the Dursleys," he said, his face taking on the slightly tortured look he invariably wore when speaking of his only living relatives. It always reminded Hermione of a patient in her parents' dental clinic describing a particularly excruciating toothache, the memory of which was as unpleasant as the pain itself.

"Has something happened to them?" Hermione asked with genuine concern.

Harry smiled inwardly. Who else but Hermione could find it in her heart to worry over the welfare of such horrid people as the Dursleys, even after all the suffering they had caused Harry for so many years? It was one of the reasons she was so precious to him.

"They're fine," Harry said through a light chuckle. "You know the old saying: The devil takes care of his own."

They were sitting in an antique loveseat at the very hub of the living room. Its wooden frame was scratched, its finish dull. The upholstery was worn thin in places, frayed and patched. It was easily their favorite piece of furniture in the entire house; its very presence emphasized that the Burrow was more than just a house -- it was a home.

Each of them sat at a slight angle, Hermione's legs arched over Harry's. His left arm rested on the back of the seat, his hand on Hermione's shoulder as they cuddled close. Harry sighed deeply, an indication that his story was about to begin in earnest.

"You know the truth came out only recently about why I had to live with the Dursleys all these years."

"Yes," Hermione nodded. "Your mother's sacrifice protected you against Voldemort when he tried to kill you." As always, she was careful to speak Voldemort's name very softly, lest she alarm Arthur and Percy. "Dumbledore was able to place a protective spell over you based on the fact that your aunt is your mother's -- and your -- last blood relative."

"There's nothing more powerful than blood magic," Harry nodded. "It's the cement that seals a magic spell, makes it virtually impregnable. By accepting me into her home, Aunt Petunia triggered the protective magic that my mum left in me when she died trying to save me. That catalyst is what makes Dumbledore's spell so powerful. And it doesn't matter that Aunt Petunia doesn't care two hoots about me, because Dumbledore told me a long time ago that the magic is in me. The blood-tie merely activates it. So, even though I spend ten months a year at Hogwarts, returning to Privet Drive for even a short time energizes the protective spell and keeps me safe."

"All because your mother loved you enough to die for you," Hermione said reverently. "I've heard Dumbledore say that love is the one thing that Voldemort can't understand, so he can't fathom how to break through the spell."

"The trouble is," Harry said flatly, "living with the Dursleys for even a few weeks a year is only marginally preferable to the prospect of being killed in my sleep by a Death Eater." The smile he flashed briefly at Hermione was decidedly humorless, further intensified by the grim hardness of his eyes. "For as long as I can remember," he said longingly, "I've wanted nothing in the world so much as to get away from Privet Drive and never look back. But Dumbledore was adamant. If I stay away from Aunt Petunia too long, the blood-bond that powers the spell will be severed. And with Voldemort getting stronger every day (like Hermione, he was careful to speak Voldemort's name in subdued tones in the presence of others), I can't honestly say that I don't appreciate feeling safe when I'm away from Hogwarts.

"But I'm damned if I intend to spend another sixteen years under the same roof with Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia -- and it might take that long, or longer, to break Voldemort. His first reign lasted for eleven years, despite everything the Aurors and the Order of the Phoenix threw at him. If he hadn't done himself in by attacking me as he did...well, we're not going to get that lucky again, are we? So it's anyone's guess how long it'll take to sort him out this time."

"But you still haven't told me what you were doing while you were away," Hermione said, controlling her anxiety with the greatest of efforts.

"It's a long story," Harry said with an indulgently solicitous smile. "I don't want to leave anything out. As I said, it all begins with Dumbledore's blood-spell. It protects me only so long as Number Four Privet Drive is officially my home. But what happens when I leave school next year? I'm damned if I'll go back to the Dursleys," he repeated with quiet vehemence. "I'll go live in the Hogwarts owlry before I set foot in that house again. But where will I go? That's the thousand-Galleon question, isn't it?

"I know where I wanted to go, of course. Ever since we saved Sirius from the dementors, I was determined that, as soon as could be, I'd go live with him. I wouldn't have cared if we set up housekeeping in that ruddy cave outside Hogsmeade -- it would still be a step up from Privet Drive. But," Harry said heavily, "that all went down the loo when Sirius was lost."

Hermione had noticed that Harry never spoke of his godfather in any manner that signified finality. No matter that none had ever returned from beyond the veiled archway in the Department of Mysteries, Harry would not abandon hope that Sirius was still alive, waiting somewhere beyond the veil to make his triumphant return to the world of the living.

"But even if Sirius was here," Hermione postulated, "you still couldn't have gone to live with him in safety. You said Dumbledore's spell only works with a blood-tie, and Sirius wasn't a blood relation."

If Harry resented Hermione referring to Sirius in the past tense, his expression did not show it.

"Well," he said mysteriously, "he wasn't, but he was." He smiled at the puzzled look that appeared on Hermione's face. "And that brings us back around to the original topic. You see, there are certain aspects of wizarding society that are valued far above such transients as wealth and power, and chief among these is family. Thus, any ritual ceremony pertaining to family is sealed with the most potent magicks.

"When Arthur and Molly got married," he said with a nod in Arthur's direction, "the ceremony involved more than simple vows. They were bonded together with a magical ceremony, unifying them in every respect. It was the same with my parents. So, when the time came to appoint Sirius my godfather and legal guardian, there was more to the process than having a solicitor file a document at the Ministry. In order for Sirius to become my surrogate parent, he joined with my mum and dad -- and me -- in a ceremony that literally made him a member of the Potter family."

"Blood-magic," Hermione said with sudden understanding.

"Exactly," Harry said. "A spell was cast wherein Sirius mingled his blood with that of my mum and dad and me. When it was done, Sirius literally became a blood relative. And when my parents died, he was entitled to take me and raise me as if I were his own son."

"Then why didn't Dumbledore want you to go with Sirius when your parents were killed?" Hermione asked. "Hagrid said he had strict instructions from Dumbledore to take you straight to the Dursleys, no matter what Sirius said."

"He had good reason," Harry said, a concession he likely would not have made only a year earlier. "When my parents were killed, everyone knew that the only way Voldemort could have found them was if their Secret Keeper had betrayed them. Everyone thought that Sirius was the Secret Keeper. When the switch was made at the last moment, Sirius let everyone go on believing that he was still the one, to draw attention away from Wormtail. Even Remus thought Sirius was guilty all those years, remember? It wasn't until all the facts came out that night in the Shrieking Shack that the whole truth became known. Dumbledore himself was convinced that Sirius was guilty, until he talked with Sirius up in Professor Flitwick's office, and we backed up his story. So Dumbledore can be forgiven if he was hesitant to turn me over to the man whom everyone believed was responsible for my being an orphan in the first place."

The tragic note in Harry's voice was not lost on Hermione. Had Sirius lived, Dumbledore's protective spell could easily have been transferred to Grimmauld Place when Harry came of age and could legally choose with whom he would live. Sirius might be a fugitive, but Hermione knew that that small detail would not have given Harry a moment's pause. And she was equally certain that Dumbledore would have respected Harry's decision and complied with his wishes. But for that tragic encounter in the Ministry of Magic, who knew how differently things would have gone? But even as Hermione's face reflected Harry's sadness, it was mingled with a confusion now renewed to even greater proportions.

"But all this still doesn't explain what you've been doing these last couple of weeks," she said.

Harry was drawing breath to resume his story when Arthur Weasley spoke up.

"May I, Harry?" the balding wizard asked hopefully.

"Of course," Harry smiled. His emotions appeared to be getting the better of him, and he seemed relieved to hand the narrative over to Arthur.

"It's like this, Hermione," Arthur said pleasantly as he shifted in his seat (he, like Percy, was sitting in an armchair facing the loveseat) and crossed his long legs comfortably. "Once we learned about the special Charm Dumbledore placed on Harry, I began to think long and hard about how we could get Harry away from those wretched Muggles -- oh, sorry, luv -- I keep forgetting."

"Not a bit of it," Hermione smiled. "I know you weren't tarring Muggles as a whole. And I couldn't agree more -- the sooner we get Harry away from those vile Dursleys, the better I'll like it.

"But -- how can you? Dumbledore's spell can only activate Harry's protective magic with a family member acting as a catalyst, and Sirius was the only family Harry had. And so long as Voldemort is loose in the world, I don't want Harry taking any chances."

Harry squeezed Hermione's knee reassuringly as she gasped at having spoken Voldemort's name aloud. Arthur and Percy both flinched, though the father not nearly so violently as the son.

Arthur was, like Harry, a member of the Order of the Phoenix. Dumbledore had declared in no uncertain terms that no member of the Order would ever refer to Voldemort as "You-Know-Who," or "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named," in his presence. To his credit, Arthur had begun to speak the name more freely in the company of his fellow operatives. But it still gave him a feeling of dread to hear his own voice sounding the name, even in the secure venue of Grimmauld Place. He was wise enough never to use Voldemort's name in general company, and most certainly not in his own house. Percy had nearly leaped out of his chair upon hearing Hermione speak the name. Harry would have found it funny were the situation not so serious. As Dumbledore had told Harry following the incident with the Sorcerer's Stone, "Fear of a name increases fear of the thing." Such fear was a weapon for Voldemort, who had far too many weapons at his disposal already. The sooner that unreasoning fear was stamped out, the better.

Regaining his composure, Arthur continued: "As I said, I was tossing some ideas around in my head, and I saw that the time was coming when some sort of action would have to be taken. When Harry and I finally got together and started hashing things out, I knew we had to work quickly. I had to make a few inquiries before we could proceed in earnest. Didn't want to get his hopes up too soon, you know. I knew it would be a tricky business, especially with Harry having to return to school so soon. I began to wonder if I could pull it off at all.

"But seeing the two of you together in Diagon Alley last month made up my mind. I knew that, come what may, I had to give it my best shot. But I knew it wouldn't be easy. There would be more than a few people involved. So many things could go askew in so many ways. Secrecy was paramount, of course. Dumbledore made us promise never to speak about it, even amongst ourselves. Too many ruddy spies about. After Rita Skeeter, even a fly on the wall could be an Animagus working for You-Know-Who."

Harry grinned, recognizing that Arthur had spared Percy the shock of hearing Voldemort's name spoken twice in the course of a single conversation.

"We had to see Dumbledore first," Harry told Hermione. "Without his consent, not to say his magical support, it would all be just a pipe dream."

"Right," Arthur said. "And once we got Dumbledore on our side, the next step was to go to the Ministry."

"And that's where I came in," Percy said importantly, breaking his polite silence at last. "Ruddy miles and miles of legal bollocks, don't you know. Mountains of forms to sign and notarize and file. Could have taken months. And normally, there's a standardized waiting period so the participants don't go off on a short fuse, so to speak. But I dug my heels in, didn't give an inch. I told them, 'If you can't bend the rules for Harry Potter, after all he's done for the wizarding world, and all he's yet to do, then what's the point of having a Ministry of Magic at all? Might as well just hand the key to You-Know-Who and have done with it.' Well, that put the fear of Merlin in them, let me tell you." Percy puffed out his chest like a rooster displaying his majesty to a yardful of chickens. Harry turned his head toward Hermione so Percy could not see his smile.

Hermione felt as if she were dancing on razor wire. She looked to Harry, to Arthur, to Percy, back to Harry. "Well?" she said sharply. "Is someone going to let me in on the bloody secret?"

"Should we tell her, Arthur?" Harry said with an overemphasized weariness in his voice.

"Reckon so," Arthur said lightly. "You want to do the honors, Harry?"

"Not if you'd rather," Harry said. "You're entitled."

"No, no, I insist," Arthur returned.

"You're sure?" Harry said.

Hermione shrieked, sending spiders scurrying in their dark corners, and startling the ghoul, five floors above, into dropping a heavy object with a dull thud.

His compassionate eyes belying his laughter, Harry looped his left arm around Hermione's neck and pulled her face to his. He pressed his lips against her bushy hair until he could feel her ear underneath the cascades of chestnut brown. As Harry mouthed words none but she could hear, Hermione's eyes exploded like twin flashbulbs. Arthur chuckled with satisfaction while Percy grinned proudly.

"NO!" Hermione said weakly. "You don't mean it!"

Suddenly energized, Hermione jerked this way and that, looking like Crookshanks trying to find the source of a hidden nest of giggling garden gnomes. She whipped her wand out of its cleverly-disguised pocket in her khaki shorts, pointed it at the staircase and shouted, "Accio Hogwarts pouch!"

Percy looked as if he were about to tell Hermione off for doing magic outside of school (he knew that she, unlike Harry, was still underage and thus bound by the Ministry's Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery), but indecision was his undoing. In his moment of vacillation, Hermione's pouch sailed down the stairs and flew into her waiting hands, nearly knocking Percy's glasses off as it zoomed past his head. She tore open the flap and began to toss objects frantically in every direction. Arthur barely caught her ink bottle before it smashed on the floor. One of her new quills barely missed stabbing a picture of Uncle Bilius squarely between the eyes; he was able to duck aside with barely an inch to spare.

With a cry of triumph, Hermione pulled out the object of her frenzied search: a roll of parchment bearing the Hogwarts seal, abetted by a crimson-and-gold Gryffindor lion. She unrolled it madly until she reached the very end. Holding the parchment open with trembling hands, Hermione read upwards from the bottom. And her breath caught in her throat.

Her eyes were fixed on three names in the W column. The first read 'Weasley, Ginevra 6 G P.' The third name was 'Weasley, Ronald 7 G.' And sandwiched in between them in what in Hermione's eyes could only be interpreted as a loving, familial embrace:

Weasley, Harry 7 G H

"It's all legal," Harry said as Hermione looked up to see the broadest grin Harry had ever worn in her presence. "The papers are filed at the Ministry, with duplicate sets in both our Gringotts vaults. I'm now officially the adopted son of Molly and Arthur Weasley."

"And that means," Arthur concluded, "that Harry can now live here at the Burrow and be just as safe as he ever was on Privet Drive -- once Dumbledore transfers the spell, that is, which he should be doing directly now that everything is final."

"B-but," Hermione stammered, "I don't understand -- Dumbledore's spell works only with family -- and if Harry is only adopted -- "

Hermione's voice choked off, and both Arthur and Harry nodded with satisfaction.

"It took you long enough to figure it out, Miss Head Girl," Harry laughed.

"Well, now, Harry," Arthur said gently, "in all fairness, this isn't something they teach in Muggle primary school, is it?" He chuckled, and Hermione turned from Arthur back to Harry, her eyes wide with understanding.

Blood-magic! Harry had said that the wizarding world revered family over all else, and all ceremonies pertaining thereto were sealed in blood: the marriage ceremony...the godparent ceremony...and...adoption! Hermione sprang forward and embraced Harry before turning her face toward Arthur, her eyes almost adoring.

"When Molly and I first discussed the possibilities with Harry," Arthur said, "we asked him if we could become his godparents. That would have been enough to empower the Charm, and we didn't want to presume too much. We never dreamed -- "

Arthur's voice choked off, and he removed his glasses on the pretense of wiping them on his robes. But Hermione saw the tears forming in the elder wizard's eyes, of the type she had seen in her own father's eyes many times.

"There was never any doubt in my mind," Harry said with a warm smile directed at Arthur. "I already felt like I was a member of the family. All I did was make it official.

"The adoption ceremony is far more complex than the one for godparents," Harry told Hermione knowledgably. "It's not something to be entered into lightly, and the Ministry doesn't tolerate any mucking about. The ritual is very stringent. They reckon that anyone who can't be bothered to go through it isn't fit to adopt in the first place. The whole thing took nearly a week, not even counting the legal aspects. It was an ordeal, I'll tell you. Made our O.W.L. exams look like a holiday at Brighton Beach. Try to imagine a month of Potions classes with Snape jammed into a few days and you'll get the idea."

"You went through all that," Hermione said in a trembling voice, her misty eyes on Arthur, "for Harry?"

"It wasn't entirely selfless," Arthur said soberly. "The protective magic in Harry's blood covers more than himself, you know. It covers all of us now, every Weasley right down to Ginny. Remember, You-Know-Who knows about the Order of the Phoenix, and of my part in it. Even if he doesn't suspect that most of the family are in with me, they could still be targeted as a means of influencing my actions. As Harry said, this could be a long, hard war, and nothing is more important to me than my family. I knew that by helping Harry, I would also be helping myself -- all of us. Altruism had very little to do with it, luv."

"And after I nearly killed Arthur at the Ministry two years ago," Harry said, recalling the vivid experience of the snake's fangs -- his fangs -- sinking repeatedly into Arthur's body as he guarded the entrance to the Department of Mysteries, "I reckoned it was the least I could do." The smile he wore now was very thin, and Hermione knew Harry was maintaining it only by sheer force of will.

"And as an added security measure," Arthur said, "we're going to tack on a Fidelius Charm, like the one on Grimmauld Place. When we're done, the Burrow will be the safest house in Britain. Molly and I will be able to sleep peacefully again for the first time in ages."

"The Fidelius was never an option with the Dursleys," Harry told Hermione. "Muggle house, you know -- Statute of Secrecy and all that. Can you imagine the chaos if everyone in Little Whinging suddenly forgot where the Dursleys lived? And how would Ron and the twins have rescued me that time if they didn't know where to fly the car?" Harry winked at Arthur, who chuckled silently; Percy frowned slightly but said nothing.

"I can't tell you what it means to me to know that my family has a place where they can come at need and be completely safe from You-Know-Who," Arthur said earnestly. "No matter how far they may scatter, they'll always know that they have a haven waiting for them here at the Burrow when things start getting dodgy. So whatever you do, Hermione, don't thank Molly and me. After today, we owe Harry far more than we can ever repay."

Harry looked ready to rebuke Arthur's declaration, but instead he turned and caressed Hermione with his eyes, their warmth surging through her like an Incendio spell. He drew her to him, and they hugged with a tenderness mingled with unbreakable steel. When they drew apart, Hermione's hands slid along Harry's arms to take his hands in hers. But her left hand paused to trace along the surface of Harry's right forearm. Her eyes rose questioningly, and Harry nodded.

"A lot has happened with that arm," he chuckled. "First, that git Lockhart removed my bones. Then the basilisk drove his fang through it only a few months later. And let's not forget Wormtail taking my blood to bring back Voldemort." He shuddered mildly before stretching his smile to its widest point. "It's about time something good happened to it, don't you think?"

Hermione's fingers traced almost lovingly along the thin white line marking the place where she knew Harry had given his blood, not forcibly this time, but willingly, to become the adopted son of Arthur and Molly, and brother to the seven Weasley children. Harry placed his hand atop Hermione's, and his index finger followed hers along the line of his newest scar.

"I could have had the Healer remove the scar," he said. "But I didn't want it removed." He sighed softly, his eyes taking on a slightly haunted look for a moment. "For the longest time, I couldn't look at my arm without remembering...that night. But now, this mark will always remind me of today -- the day I finally got what I always wanted more than anything in the world -- a family." His smile returned, brighter than ever, and Hermione responded in kind.

Snuggling close once more, Hermione followed Harry's eyes as they came to rest on Arthur, who was now holding out his own arm to show a mark like unto his newly adopted son's. Hermione had the idea that Arthur was more proud of that mark than he would have been of the Order of Merlin, First Class.

Without warning, Arthur's expression flickered, like a shadow passing across the face of the moon. Though she was pressed too closely to Harry to see his eyes, Hermione strongly suspected that he had just given Arthur some sort of silent signal.

"Blimey!" Arthur rumbled, bolting up from his chair. "I haven't eaten since yesterday! And that breakfast smells absolutely ripping! Come on, Percy! Let's go fill our plates before Ron eats the lot out from under us!"

In two shakes of a centaur's tail, Harry and Hermione found themselves alone in the living room. Hermione wrapped her arms tightly around Harry, not wanting to let him go.

"I was so scared, Harry," she said, her relief still stained with a trace of her earlier fear. "When I didn't see your name on the school roster, I thought..."

"You thought I'd gone off with the Order of the Phoenix to fight Voldemort," Harry said, his arms tightening around her in a sort of wordless apology. "I'm so sorry. It never occurred to me that the Hogwarts roster would be changed so quickly. Arthur and I only started working on the details two weeks ago. With all the Ministry red tape to wade through, we weren't even sure we could pull it off before September first, and that would have meant a delay of months, until the Christmas holidays.

"But Dumbledore must have had more faith in us than we had in ourselves. Either that," he smiled wisely, "or he pulled some strings at the Ministry to hurry things along. I suppose being Chairman of the International Confederation of Wizards, not to mention Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, has its advantages. He probably ordered the roster changed the moment we left his office."

"I'm so glad you're not going away," Hermione breathed into Harry's robes as her face pressed against his chest.

"But..." Harry said hesitantly, his voice straining as if the words did not want to be given voice, "...you do know that I'm still a member of the Order. And when the time comes, I will have to go and do my part."

"I know," Hermione mouthed so softly that Harry heard more by heart than by ear. Aloud, she said, "But now, thanks to Arthur and Molly, you'll have a safe place to live where Voldemort can't touch you."

"Yes, well," Harry said slowly, and Hermione felt a delicate tremor pass through Harry and thence through her. "That's only part of it, actually."

Hermione lifted her head, and she saw that Harry was looking at her strangely. She knew him well enough by now to recognize the signs of a great conflict going on behind the emerald windows of his eyes, beside which the coming clash with Voldemort paled.

"What is it, Harry?" she asked, instantly appropriating his concern and making it her own. "Is there something you haven't told me?" In reply, Harry locked his arm even more securely around Hermione's shoulder and cast his eyes out, his vision reaching far beyond the walls of the Burrow. Though her curiosity was bursting within her, she patiently waited for Harry to speak, encouraging him silently by placing her hand atop his and gently massaging it with her thumb.

"This all started," Harry said at last, "when Arthur and I were leaving a meeting with Dumbledore at Grimmauld Place. The subject of the meeting was security."

"Is Dumbledore worried that Grimmauld Place isn't safe?" Hermione asked. "I wouldn't blame him, after Kreacher went and betrayed Sirius to Narcissa." But Harry brushed away her concern with a shake of his head.

"Dumbledore assures us that, even though Narcissa knows we're using the old Black manor, she still can't find us. Oh, she knows the manor is out there somewhere, but thanks to the Fidelius, she doesn't remember where it is or even what it looks like. That was the essence of the meeting, actually. There are other key spots in the resistance that aren't as well protected as Grimmauld Place. If we could make those places as safe as the main headquarters, everyone would sleep better at night. And that's what got Arthur to worrying, see. After the attack that sent Arthur to St. Mungo's, there's no doubt that Voldemort knows he's a member of the Order. Arthur said he can't stop himself from imagining what it would be like to come home and find the Burrow a smoking ruin, with the Dark Mark blazing in the sky overhead. It happened to my mum and dad," Harry said grimly, "and there's no reason to think it can't happen again. And he kept saying that there was nothing he wouldn't do to protect the people he loves. And every time he said it, he got more and more worried. I started to feel this sort of heaviness growing inside me, and it got bigger every time. Finally it got so big that I knew I had to do something."

"And that's when you suggested transferring your mum's protection from Privet Drive to the Burrow," Hermione said.

"Yes," Harry said. "But not for the reason you think." When Hermione looked at Harry curiously, he said quickly, "It's not that I wasn't glad to do what I could for the Weasleys. I'll never forget the look on Molly's face when she saw her family lying dead that time -- you know, when she was trying to sort out that boggart at Grimmauld Place. I never want to see that look on her face again, because the next time it won't be a bloody shape-shifter. It'll be real."

Hermione trembled slightly, and Harry applied a gentle, reassuring pressure with the hand encircling her shoulders.

"Anyway," he went on, "when the meeting broke up, Arthur surprised me by asking where I was planning on living after I left school. Well, I hardly need to tell you it's been on my mind for a long time. I'd originally intended on moving in with Sirius, of course. But when that went down the plug hole -- " Harry paused to draw a short, pained breath, " -- I wasn't sure if I wanted to live at Grimmauld Place. It'd be safe enough, according to Dumbledore, but, well..."

Hermione gave Harry's hand an understanding squeeze, and he smiled down on her gratefully for a moment before turning away again.

"So," he went on, "I was lying awake on my camp bed in Ron's room that night, and I kept thinking about everything Arthur and I had talked about. And every time I remembered how he said he'd do anything to protect the people he loves, the fear in his voice kept getting sharper and stronger. And I knew exactly how he felt, because...because I feel the same way."

"Harry?" Hermione said, her voice trembling slightly. "What are you saying?"

His eyes still staring fixedly at the far corner of the room, Harry said in a voice tinged with something close to anguish, "I'm saying that I didn't do all this for the Weasleys, or for myself. I did it -- " He turned now and fixed her eyes with his, which look embraced her more fervently than the arm encircling her shoulders. "I did it for you."

"For me?" Hermione said weakly.

With a deft reversal, Harry took Hermione's hand in his and said, "You've been a part of my life for six years now. But it's only in the last few weeks that I've come to realize that, somewhere along the way, you became the most important part. And I knew that, whatever happens from now on, I couldn't go on if something happened to you. I knew that I had to keep you safe -- because if I ever -- " Harry's voice thickened until he could no longer speak. Summoning a calm he did not wholly feel, he said, "Arthur wondered what he'd do if he found the Dark Mark hovering over the place where he'd last seen Molly. In his place -- if it were you -- I -- don't think I could go on. I wouldn't want to go on."

Suddenly, as if a cloud blocking the sun had been blown aside, Harry's face began to glow with a soft, warming radiance.

"So, the very next morning, I went to Arthur and told him what I wanted to do. I told him to go talk it over with Molly, and that I'd abide with their decision. And, well -- you know the rest."

Hermione felt as if an iron weight had settled at the bottom of her stomach. She stared at Harry with a mixture of fear and wonder.

"Harry," she said weakly, hardly daring to voice the words. "Are you saying...what I think you're saying..."

Some of the light faded from Harry's face. "I'm sorry," he said, lowering his eyes and turning his head slightly. "I never should have -- I mean, just because we -- " His hand fell away from her shoulders, dropping behind the loveseat. "I'm sorry," he said again, shaking his head. "I'm an idiot."

"If you are," Hermione said, her voice tightening, "then so am I."

Harry jerked his head around, his eyes going wide.

"Are you serious?"

"I've never been more serious about anything in my life," Hermione said, her eyes beginning to glow wetly.

Harry wrapped his arms around Hermione and held her as if he never wanted to let her go.

"I was so afraid," he said, his lips pressed against her bushy brown hair. "I was afraid that I was -- that you didn't -- "

"I thought the same thing," Hermione said. "I was sure that -- that I wasn't -- that you couldn't -- "

"That I couldn't what?" Harry asked, pulling back so that their faces were nearly nose-to-nose.

"That you couldn't possibly -- " she choked softly, " -- couldn't possibly love me the way that -- that I love you."

"If I hadn't been such a blind git," Harry said with a small, self-chastising laugh, "I'd have seen the truth ages ago. When I look back now, it seems that I'm the only one who didn't see it."

"I think Voldemort may have had something to do with that," Hermione smiled. "Bit of a distraction, he is. Someone should sort him out, don't you think?"

"What I think," Harry said in a calm, sober voice, "is that no wizard ever deserved to be loved by a witch as beautiful as you."

"I think you need new glasses," Hermione said with a slight downcast of her eyes.

"With my glasses or without," Harry said, "you're the most beautiful witch in the world. And...I love you."

"Will you say that again?" Hermione said imploringly, a faint, hopeful smile returning to her face. "I've imagined hearing those words for so long, I need to know this isn't just another dream."

"If this is a dream," Harry said, "then I hope I never wake up. I love you, Hermione Granger."

"And I love you," Hermione said, hesitating as she added with a smile, "Harry Weasley."

Hermione was surprised when Harry's face suddenly clouded over.

"What is it?" she asked in a startled voice.

After a long pause, Harry said, "That's...the first time anyone has ever called me that." He paused again. "I wonder...I wonder what my parents would think about all this...I mean, it was the only way -- without the adoption ceremony, the spell wouldn't -- but it still feels like I...I dunno...like I betrayed them."

"Rubbish," Hermione said gently. "From everything I've heard about them, they'd understand perfectly. They both died trying to save you. When they went into hiding, do you think they'd have hesitated for a moment to change their names if it would keep you safe from Voldemort? And that being so, if they'd succeeded in hiding from him long enough, you would have come to Hogwarts with a different name altogether. But that wouldn't matter, because you'd still know inside that you were the son of James and Lily Potter." Very slowly, Harry's face relaxed, and Hermione smiled and said, "I think Shakespeare said it best: 'That which we call a rose, by any other name, would smell as sweet.'"

"I'm a rose now, am I?" Harry grinned. "A bloke could take that as a swipe at his manhood."

"You're my rose," Hermione returned sincerely. "Thorns and all." She paused for a moment, her finger tapping her lips thoughtfully. "You know," she said at last, "when this business with Voldemort is all done, maybe the Ministry will let you change your name back -- if you still want to. I'm sure there must be some books on wizarding law that deal with this sort of thing. Quick as we get back to Hogwarts, I'll pop into the library first thing and see what I can turn up."

"Now that's the Hermione I fell in love with," Harry laughed, the words falling easily from his lips. Caught by a sudden inspiration, Harry drew his wand and, with a great flourish, conjured a single red rose from mid-air. He handed it to Hermione, who took it gleefully. As she twirled it about appreciatively, one of the thorns pricked her thumb. She let out a squeak of surprise and brought her thumb to her mouth.

"Sorry," Harry said sheepishly. "Don't reckon McGonagall would give me full marks on that, would she?"

"What's a rose without thorns?" Hermione smiled over her upraised hand. "The risk is part of the excitement, isn't it? It makes the outcome all the sweeter."

As Hermione withdrew her thumb, the taste of blood still on her tongue, her eyes fell on Harry's arm, coming to rest on the thin white line of his new scar. She reached out and ran her hand along it, lifting her eyes to meet Harry's. The meaning was plain, but she was surprised when Harry sank back heavily against the loveseat and let his head fall back until his eyes were looking up at the ceiling.

"What's wrong, Harry?" Hermione asked. "What is it?"

"I'm sorry," he said softly.

"For what?" Hermione said curiously as she carefully set her rose on the seat beside her before turning back around.

"This isn't right," he said darkly.

"What?" Hermione said, startled by Harry's unexpected remark.

"Damn Voldemort!" Harry hissed through clenched teeth. "Damn him!"

"Harry?" Hermione said, her worry increasing. Harry turned his head in her direction, and she could see the pain clouding his eyes.

"This isn't the way it should be," he said scornfully. "Some courtship, this is. I just pop in and announce that I've set things up so we can be safe from Voldemort without so much as a by your leave. Never mind that the only way to place you under the protection of my mum's magic is -- " Harry flung his arm out in a whip-like motion before letting it fall onto his lap.

"Harry -- " Hermione began in a placating voice, but he turned sharply and cut her off.

"You don't deserve this," Harry said, seemly on the verge of tears. "We don't deserve this. We should be having a proper courtship, like normal people. We should be walking hand-in-hand down garden paths...making chains of flowers and hanging them around each other's neck...having picnics under blue skies, with the sun in our faces and the birds singing in the trees.

"But because of Voldemort -- damn him to hell -- the sky isn't blue -- it's dark, and clouded, black as a Death Eater's mask. The sun isn't shining...and there's no guarantee it'll ever shine again. The last time around, Voldemort terrorized the wizarding world for eleven years. He fought the Aurors and the Order of the Phoenix to a standstill. He might have gone on forever, if not for this." Harry pointed meaningfully to his scar. "He won't make that mistake again. There's no telling how long it'll take to sort him out this time -- if we can do it at all." Catching up Hermione's hands, Harry said in a sort of tragic apology, "We can't count on tomorrow. The only thing we have is today. And you deserve so much more. How can I ask you to..." His voice trailed off as his head sank heavily onto his chest.

"In the first place," Hermione said calmly and forcefully, "your mum and dad got married straight out of school. They were members of the first Order of the Phoenix. Voldemort was at the height of his power then, just as he is now. They understood that tomorrow was guaranteed to neither of them -- just as it's guaranteed to neither of us. And speaking for myself, I don't care what tomorrow brings, just so we have today. That's all I want, all I'll ever ask for. Just so I can spend that today with the man I love."

"Why the hell couldn't Trelawney have kept her ruddy mouth shut that day in the Hog's Head?" Harry said with a tragic laugh. "I never wanted any of this rubbish. All I ever wanted was to be like everyone else."

"If you were like everyone else," Hermione smiled, "I never would have fallen in love with you."

"It's not fair," Harry said. "It's not fair to you. It's no wonder this ruddy scar on my head is shaped like a bolt of lightning. I'm a sodding lightning rod, and anyone near me is in danger of being caught in the storm. There ought to be a sign stamped across my face, Danger -- Mad wizard -- Approach at your own risk. I don't have the right -- "

"The right to what?" Hermione responded shortly. "The right to be happy? After everything you've been through, if anyone deserves to be happy, it's you."

"I wish it was that simple," Harry sighed.

"Love is never simple," Hermione returned. "It was meant to be complicated. We have to wade through bogs and climb mountains -- and fight mountain trolls," she said with a wry twist of her lips. Despite himself, Harry smiled. "Love is the most valuable thing there is," Hermione said. "But like anything of value, it has to be earned. It doesn't just fall from the sky. We have to work hard to prove we deserve it. So the harder we have to fight, the happier we'll be in the end. Q.E.D."

Clearly torn, Harry squeezed Hermione's hand, seeking reassurance from her touch. He could feel her heartbeat pulsing through her wrist, and in his fancy it was timed perfectly with his own.

"I want to do what's right," he said helplessly. "But how do I know what the right thing is?"

"Well," Hermione said thoughtfully, "I remember Dumbledore telling everyone at the Leaving Feast more than a year ago that we all have to choose between what is right and what is easy. So what we need to do here is apply basic Sherlockian logic."

Harry raised his eyebrows questioningly, and Hermione's knowing expression sharpened.

"Sherlock Holmes said that once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. So, applying that template, all you have to do is eliminate whatever is easy. Once you've done that, whatever remains must be right."

Looking thoughtful in his turn, Harry said slowly, "The easiest thing to do would be to pretend that this conversation never happened. We'll go back to school and go on as we always have, with no one the wiser. I'll tell everyone I went through the adoption so I could be safe from Voldemort. There's more than enough truth in that. No one would ever know that you were in any way involved. I'm sure we could trust Ron and Ginny to keep quiet. After that, we all go on like we planned, take our N.E.W.T.'s as if nothing was amiss. And when I leave school, I'll go off and have ruddy tea and cakes with Voldemort, just like Trelawney's prophesy says. Maybe I'll come back -- maybe I won't. I don't reckon you can get more easy and straightforward than that.

"There's only one problem with that," Harry said with a pained smile. "If I didn't know you were safe and sound here at the Burrow, I wouldn't want to come back. I'd -- I'd want to grab a handful of Voldemort's robes and drag the both of us through that ruddy veil and never look back."

"You're assuming quite a bit, aren't you?" Hermione said, her lips pursed even as her eyes twinkled with amusement. "Just because I'm not a member of the Order of the Phoenix now doesn't mean I won't be later. Your mum and dad were both members of the original Order, remember. I expect when my final marks come in, Dumbledore will be asking me to join so fast that it'll set Peeves' bow tie spinning like a propeller. He knows by now that, one way or another, I'll do everything in my power to help bring about Voldemort's downfall. Better I should do it under the auspices of the Order, don't you think? So if you fancy that I'm going to sit here swapping recipes with Molly while you go off and play 'Dodge the Cruciatus' with a pack of Death Eaters, you can ruddy well think again, Harry James Potter Weasley."

"I love you," Harry said softly.

Hermione's heart leaped at hearing again the words she had waited to hear for so long, and secretly feared she never would. They seemed to imbue her with a powerful resolve, sweeping away the cobwebs of her last lingering doubts. Very slowly she turned her arm over and, as she had done with Harry, traced an invisible line across her forearm with her index finger.

"It took a blood ceremony to transfer the protective magic of your mum's sacrifice to the Burrow," she said slowly. "And it will take another, different blood ceremony to place me under that umbrella." She reached out and took Harry's hand, turning his arm over so she could press the imaginary line on her forearm against the very real line on his. The radiant smile she conferred on Harry was warm as the sunbeams peeking through the living room curtains. But instead of returning her smile, as she expected, Harry frowned slightly.

"I want you to be safe more than anything," he said as he stared at the point where their arms crossed. "But is that enough reason for us to..."

"No," Hermione said, placing her hand emphatically under Harry's arm and pressing down meaningfully with her own. "It isn't. Whatever the circumstances, there's really only one reason for two people to share that ceremony. I said I love you. I meant those words with all my heart. Did you mean them when you said them?"

"Yes," Harry said, his voice thick with emotion. "So much that I can't put it into words."

"Then we don't need words," Hermione said.

Their lips drawing each other's like magnets, Harry and Hermione came together in a slow, timorous kiss that sent waves of comforting warmth flowing through them. It was a kiss such as neither of them had ever experienced. Over the course of numerous Hogsmeade dates and lakeside walks, of quiet nights spent snuggling before the fire in the Gryffindor common room or stolen moments in the pumpkin patch behind Hagrid's cabin, they had shared kisses beyond number; kisses of youthful exuberance, of hormonal passion and playful indescretion. But now, as a rising tide of volcanic heat surged through them like an intoxicating draught, it was as if they were kissing for the first time -- indeed, as if they had never known how to kiss until this moment. Borne on invisible wings, the love so long tethered within them was loosed, bearing them to heights immeasurable in earthly terms. They became for the first time a single song, their individual notes blending like a chorus. It was eternity captured in a moment, and neither wanted that moment to end.

Panting softly, his brain turning light, Harry pulled his lips from Hermione's and stared into the soft deeps of her eyes. Having scarcely the strength to remain seated, he slipped down and sank to his knees at Hermione's feet. He took her hand and drew it to him, holding it close to his lips, which were curving into an imploring smile.

"Hermione," he said in a choked voice, "will you do me the great honor of becoming Mrs. Harry Weasley?"

"Nothing in the world," Hermione said breathlessly, her free hand caressing Harry's face, "would make me happier."

Harry swung Hermione down, spinning so that his legs swung out in front of him. He cradled her in his lap, hugging her until she gasped for breath. It took a sharp jab of her finger in his ribs to effect her release.

"I wonder if Hogwarts has a rule about students being engaged?" Harry wondered as his fingers danced playfully along his new fiancee's back.

"Since when do you worry about rules, Mr. Harry James Potter Weasley?" Hermione laughed. "What would the Marauders say?"

Looking over the top of Hermione's head (even sitting down, he was noticably taller than she), Harry spied the rose lying on the cushion near where Hermione had been sitting. Reaching behind Hermione to catch up the rose, he drew his wand and tapped the stem repeatedly. At each tap, one of the thorns vanished.

"You know," he said softly (and somewhat embarrassedly) as the thorns melted away one by one, "I kind of like the name Rose. We might keep it mind for when we...you know..."

"Yes," Hermione said, blushing in her turn as she allowed Harry to tuck the now thornless rose into her hair above her left ear. "But what if our firstborn turns out to be a girl?"

Harry stared at Hermione blankly for a moment before he burst out laughing.

"I love you," he said softly as his fingers traced along the petals of the rose glowing redly in its sea of bushy brown.

"And I love you," Hermione said, her finger tracing along the lightning scar on Harry's forehead. "Thorns and all."

They shared an exuberant kiss, which ended abruptly when Hermione pressed forward a bit too enthusiastically and caused both of them to tumble backward in an awkward tangle of arms and legs. Harry laughed again as he braced his hand to right himself, his laugh coming up short as he slipped on a piece of parchment that was part of the ejecta from Hermione's school bag. He righted himself again, giving Hermione an accusing stare as she sat back against the loveseat, making no effort to help him up. Surveying the room closely for the first time now, Harry grinned at the spectacle that met his eyes. An explosion from one of the Weasley twins' dangerous inventions could hardly have wrought more mayhem, in his opinion.

"Look at this mess," he scolded playfully, enjoying turning the tables on Hermione after hearing her go on endlessly on the subject of his (and Ron's) careless disregard for organization. "And what's this?" Harry had picked up a small card with a red number 7 on it. Hermione twitched nervously for a moment.

"Oh, that's...just something I picked up in a shop in Diagon Alley last month."

"What kind of shop?" Harry asked, turning the card over a couple of times as he regarded it curiously.

"A...fortune teller," Hermione admitted reluctantly. Harry laughed out loud.

"I thought Trelawney put you off that sort of rubbish," he said with a gleam in his eye.

"Oh, she's still an old fraud," Hermione declared, snatching the card from Harry's hand and smiling at it in a very curious manner. "But it really isn't fair to judge all seers by their worst example, is it?"

"But what does it mean?" Harry asked, his eyes on the card, which Hermione seemed to have no intention of relinquishing.

"It means," Hermione said dreamily, "that I'm going to be Mrs. Hermione Weasley. I don't know when -- maybe next September -- we have so many plans to make between now and then -- but it will happen -- just as I knew it would."

"Oh?" Harry said in an amused voice. "And just how did you know?"

"It was in the cards," Hermione said with a joyous twinkle in her eye, her finger tracing along the bright red number 7. "It was all...in the cards."

Author's Note: This story was written before Order of the Phoenix came out. In the original draft, Sirius was still alive and no one knew exactly why Harry had to return to the Dursleys every holiday. In retrospect, the changes I was forced to make elevated the story a few notches. I can't deny, Sirius' absence definitely sharpens the essence of the plot. But oh, the headaches! It might have been easier to chuck the whole story, but I couldn't bring myself to murder one of my "children" so callously. Plastic surgery was the only answer. I hope the new face was to everyone's liking. It was the best I could manage, so I'll try to console my flagging spirits with that thought.

Next up (after a suitable break to gear up for the Christmas season) is an angsty little one-shot called Visiting Day. Technically, it follows the prescribed ship, but...um...Harry doesn't exactly appear in the story (though he's definitely a part of it). He's there, but he isn't...Well, you'll understand when you read it.

Thanks for waiting so patiently, and for the kind words (deserved or not). I hope to return before year's end. Until then, happy holidays.