On Toward Morning by Menucha

Rating: PG13
Genres: Drama, Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 30/12/2004
Last Updated: 18/11/2005
Status: In Progress

It has begun. It won't be a short path, or an easy one, or one that will be kind to them.
But together, and along with clues and help from those alive and those long gone, they will slowly
begin the journey on toward morning. **Now an AU story.**




1. Prologue
-----------

It has begun. It won't be a short path, or an easy one, or one that will be kind to them.
But together, and along with clues and help from those alive and those long gone, they will slowly
begin the journey on toward morning.

Author's Note: This is a short chapter, solely because it is the prologue. They will be
longer. Chapter updates will not be as regular as they were with my last story, Devotion,
because this story is not completely prewritten. I'm currently working on Chapter 4. Please,
please review. I want to know what you think.

I don't own anything, and I'm not making any money from this. Please don't sue.

It had been a summer morning outside. The sun was shining, the sky a cheerful and
encouraging blue. But in his world, the doors were locked, the skies covered in clouds and
threatening storms. The demons haunted him, both of his own creation and of the creation of others.
He had refused to see the light of the awakening outside his window, and resided in his self-made
night. It was now evening, a summer evening of the type that painted colors across the
vast, unending sky. If he would look out the window, he would see the glorious sunset. He
instead shut it out, and locked himself firmly in his pitch-black midnight.

He sat there on his bed, or rather, on Dudley's old bed, staring into space. What else was
he supposed to do, when he was completely cut off from his world? This summer, merely two weeks
old, had been far longer than the rest. He knew the war was brewing, was hurting people close to
him, and here was nothing he could bloody well do about it, and that infuriated him. The letters he
received were few and far between, and those he did get were all the same. "'Take care of
yourself,' -Hermione", or "'Hang on, mate,' -Ron." Great, he
thought to himself. I can get people killed, but I can't do anything else.

That thought burdened his mind the most. He had been through many periods of grieving, from
denial to deep sadness to fury. He hated Sirius for leaving him. He hated Voldemort for doing this
to him, for cursing his existence. And most of all, he hated himself for being the way he was. For
hurting everyone who loved him. For running into a trap and getting his second father murdered.

He kicked his trunk open in a burst of fury. He didn't know why. It wasn't like he was
going to do homework, or write to anyone. No point in doing that. He reached in and pulled out
anything he could get his hands on, throwing it every which way. He closed his hand around the
mirror that Sirius had given him, and felt anger burn in his throat. Gripping it as tightly as his
hands would allow, he hurled it forcefully at the wall.

It shattered into a million tiny pieces.

Harry stared at it as it fell to the floor, tiny bits of glass falling into the carpet. He
wanted to find something else to throw... something to hurt... something that he could force to
feel the same pain that he was...

It shattered into a million tiny pieces.

He snapped his head up. He'd seen this scene playing in his mind before. He knew that his
mind wasn't being controlled. He could feel it. So why did this feel like deja vu?

Because it's happened before.

He forced his weary mind to think back to those painful days after the battle at the Department
of Mysteries. He remembered trying the mirror... not succeeding... hurling it back into his trunk.
It had shattered there.

He jumped off of his bed and knelt by the shattered bits of the mirror. He picked up the pieces
in his hands, turning them over and over. If he'd shattered the mirror at Hogwarts, then how
had it been whole just a few seconds ago? He was about to resign himself to insanity, when the
pieces of the mirror that he held leapt out of his hand and onto the floor.

As Harry sat wide-eyed, the pieces of broken glass glowed gold and lifted off of the floor. In a
tornado-like swirl, they danced around each other, settling into their former places slowly, until
a whole mirror dropped onto the floor with a soft thud.

He was completely still. He was used to magical objects by now, but this was a little bit odd.
He'd never seen something that put itself back together, completely on its own, without the use
of a reparo charm. He was almost afraid to touch it, but he reached out and lifted the
now-entire mirror off of the bedroom floor. He inspected it carefully, but saw no cracks or seams,
no evidence that it had ever been broken. He turned it over in his hand, running his fingers over
it carefully. His eyes fell to the message that Sirius had engraved in the back.

But it wasn't there.

He blinked, and opened his eyes again, as if to see if his eyes were betraying him. He touched
the inscription that was now there, as if trying to read it with his fingers. The letters were a
small, loopy, decorative script that he had never before seen. He didn't recognize the
handwriting.

Now, Harry was no master at languages, but he was sure he'd never seen this one before. It
didn't look to him like any of the modern languages, or even any of the ancient ones that Bill
had shown him. Whatever it was, it made no sense to him. He was fairly sure, though, that it had to
mean something. A mirror wouldn't go to all of the trouble to put itself back together and
change a message that has been engraved onto the back if it didn't have a purpose. He quickly
ran through his options as to what to do with the mirror, and finally landed on what he considered
to be a logical one.

Leaving the room silently, he looked around to make sure that the Dursleys had left. They had
gone to show Dudley off at some office party, which Harry was overwhelmingly thankful for at the
moment. He dashed to the kitchen, and did what any logical person with a question of this sort
would do. He rummaged through his trunk, in the pockets of his school robes. His hand closed around
a tiny slip of parchment.

He dialed the number silently. Once he began dialing, he froze, hoping that they would be
finished with supper. He didn't want to interrupt them. He'd never called them before, and
at this hour... he stopped thinking when he heard a woman's voice at the other end of the line.
Taking a deep breath, he said, "Hello, this is Harry, may I please speak with
Hermione?"

"HARRY?!?!" was the shocked, and obviously pleased response.

"Hermione?" he sighed, relieved.

"Harry, why haven't you written? I was so worried about you... how are you doing? Are
you alright? Are you being treated well?"

"Just fine, mum," he said, his spirits significantly higher than they'd been a
mere ten minutes before.

She laughed. "I am just so happy to hear from you, Harry... to hear that you're
alright... no one will tell Ron or I anything. We're so concerned. And you didn't
write!"

"Yeah," he said dryly. "Hasn't exactly been fun and games."

There was a moment of silence. "I'm sorry, Harry," she said, softly. Another
uncomfortable silence took hold of the moment, before she interrupted it. "Not that I'm
not happy to hear from you- because I am, and it's made me feel so much better to hear your
voice- but... did you have a specific reason for calling? You've never called me on the
telephone before. Not that I didn't want you to call, you can call anytime--"

"Hermione," he said, cutting her off. "I called because I need your
help."

"Anything," she said, without missing a beat.

He took a deep breath. "Last year," he paused, "he gave me a two way
mirror, so that I could talk to him if I needed to."

"Yes," she said.

"I... I threw it into my trunk last year and broke it."

"Do you need help putting it together again?" she asked.

"Not exactly," he said slowly. "I... I don't think we should discuss this
matter over the phone."

"Good idea, Harry," he heard her say, before the line cut out.

He took the phone away from his ear, staring at it, before he slammed it down onto the kitchen
counter. Damn Muggle lines. He threw a chair away from the table, and fell into it, head in his
hands.

Just then, he heard a loud crash above his head. He instantly jumped up, grabbing his
wand and holding it at chest-height in front of him. He snuck up the stairs, and instinctively knew
that the crash had come from his room. He took a battle stance, and threw open his bedroom door.
Eyes burning fierce green, and his entire body prepared to fight, he pointed his wand toward the
source of the sound.

Lying there, in a crumpled heap in the middle of his bedroom floor, was Hermione Jane
Granger.



2. Telephones and Owl Post
--------------------------

Thank you for all of the reviews, and for your interest in this story! Please, please review.
Reviews only serve to encourage the writer. This writer needs encouragement. :)

See Chapter 1 for Disclaimer.

He rushed over to the heap that was Hermione, and made to reach down to help her, but stopped
mere centimeters from where she lay. Pointing his wand directly at her as she began to sit up, he
muttered "Identifio Hermione." A blue aura formed around Hermione for several
seconds. Harry immediately dropped his wand onto his bedroom floor and bent down to help her.

"Can't be too careful, right, Harry?" she said, sitting up with his help and
rubbing her head.

"Yeah," he sighed. "Death Eaters popping into my bedroom Polyjuiced to look like
one of my best friends. It wouldn't surprise me." He looked directly at her, and, as if he
hadn't thought it was strange until now, he blurted, "How are you in my bedroom?"

She smiled, and then grimaced slightly as she tried to get to her feet.

"Are you OK?" he asked quickly, his eyes going wide. "I'm sorry, I should
have asked earlier--"

"I'm fine," she said. "Just your floor is pretty hard, and I'm... I'm
not very accurate with my Apparating yet. I aimed for the bed. Soft landing. I've never
actually seen this room, though, so it was pretty difficult. And it's more difficult in the
dark."

"I've never actually noticed the texture of my floor-- wait, did you just say you
Apparated?" he interrupted his own sarcastic remark to ask, amazed.

"Yes," she said, looking at the floor she'd just crash-landed on. "I have a
provisional license for Apparition--"

"You can't do that until you're of age."

She sighed and rolled her eyes at him. "I am of age. According to my birth
certificate, I'm not of age, but I spent a year using a Time-Turner, so technically I have
lived for just over a year longer than I've been alive." He gave her a confused look.
"I'm 17, according to the Ministry. I'm of age. But I just got my license last week,
and I've never gone quite this far before. And it's harder after dark."

"Are you sure you're OK?" he asked, helping her to finally get to her feet.

"I'm fine, Harry, but how about you? This bedroom... it's a wreck... have they been
feeding you? And your arm is bruised, they haven't beaten you, have they?" Her eyes
widened and she got a tone of concern and anger in her voice. "You look so run down---"
she reached out and pushed his abnormally long messy black hair off of his forehead "---and
why on Earth haven't you written?"

"You sound just like Mrs. Weasley," he said, almost bitterly. "All of them.
You look awful, Harry. You haven't written. Are they treating you like they should?
They're bloody well treating me the same way as they always have, and it's not
them that I'm upset with. Them I can deal with. It's being cut off from
our world that I can't deal with. I'm stuck in this room... this house... because
here I'm safe." He abruptly stopped, knowing that he'd said too
much.

Hermione looked toward him with tears in her eyes. "Harry... I..."

"I'm sorry, Hermione. It's not you, really," he said, in a voice that was
somewhat distant.

There was an uncomfortable silence. Hermione finally broke it, by saying, "You called me
about a mirror--"

Harry turned to face her. He strode over to the bed, where he'd left the mirror. "This
one," he said, showing it to her. She reached out to take it from him, to inspect it, but he
abruptly pulled it away and hurled it, hard, against the doorframe of his room.

"Harry!" she shrieked, half in surprise and half in fear.

"It's OK, Hermione. I told you I threw it in my trunk last year and broke it."

"Then what on Earth was that one? And why did you break this
mirror?" Her posture was stiff, and for the first time when facing Harry, she looked as if
she'd realized the type of power that he contained.

"Because the mirror that he gave me... it had a message from him on the back. Really short,
and it didn't say anything. Last year, I hurled it in my trunk and it shattered. This
is the same one."

She stood stiffly, not completely at ease. "How is the one you just broke the same one as
the one you broke last year?"

"I don't know," he said, "but it is. I found it today, and I was really
upset, and I threw it against my wall. I realized that I'd broken it before. I knew this was a
magic mirror, but I didn't know that, well, this would happen."

"If it's a magic mirror, why would you have broken it? It might be helpful
someday. Repar--"

"No!" he said, pushing her wand upwards so that the spell hit his ceiling, and
instantly repaired an old crack that had once divided his room. Seeing the fierce question in her
eyes, he coaxed her wand hand down. "Watch," he nodded toward the shards of glass on the
floor.

Looking between him and the floor, she slowly walked closer to the wall. Kneeling down next to
the splinters, she inspected them carefully, until they began to glow gold and lift off of the
floor. She let out a small gasp and scooted back a small distance as the shards spun and spun,
faster and higher, until they finally fell to the floor once again, but as a whole and unblemished
mirror.

"Amazing," she whispered, slowly reaching out to touch the mirror. She turned it over
and over in her hands, until her eyes came to rest on some very small script engraved on the back.
She couldn't easily read it in the semidark corner of Harry's bedroom. "Is this... is
this his message?"

"It was," he said. "It isn't anymore. It looked like some foreign language,
but I didn't recognize any of it. I can't read any of it. That's why I called
you." He paused. "I knew you'd be able to figure it out. You're the brightest
person I know. I figured that if you couldn't understand it, no one could."

She blushed a brilliant pink. "Do you think there's anywhere that we could go to look
at this where there's more light?"

"Yeah," he said. "Better go to the kitchen... oh, wait, you Apparated all the way
here and I didn't even ask you if you wanted anything to drink! Do you want anything?"

She smiled, getting up and taking her wand in one hand and the mirror in the other. "Maybe
some tea," she said. "I've heard stories, you know, that you can cook."

"Maybe I can," he said, grinning at her. "I've been the House-Elf here for as
long as I could remember."

"Speaking of here... where are the Dursleys?" she asked, looking around
quizzically.

"Don't know, don't really care."

She shot him a reprimanding look. "Is it... alright for me to be here?"

"Why wouldn't it be?" Harry asked, confused. "It's not like I have
friends over all the time, in fact, I don't think I've ever had a friend over. It's
never come up. Why wouldn't it be alright? After all, there's nothing much they can do to
us."

She gave him a look that said yes-I'm-of-age-but-I'm-not-going-to-do-magic-on-Muggles.
"I meant that they aren't here, and I'm alone here with you, and I'm a
girl."

He laughed. "Let them have a shock. Abnormal, freakish Harry bringing a girl home before
Diddykins."

Her eyes widened and she slapped him gently on the shoulder as they walked down to the kitchen.
"It's a very nice house," she said.

"Nicer than its inhabitants," he quipped.

She sighed and rolled her eyes. "Mind if I use your telephone?" she asked. "My
parents are probably very concerned. I hung up the phone with you, and told them that I was going
to help you."

"Right there," he said, pointing to the phone. "They just let you go?"

"They knew they couldn't stop me. I'm close to my mum. I tell her everything... she
knows about everything that happened last year. She knows the danger I put myself into, but she
knows all she can tell me to do is to be careful. She took me to get my license. My parents love
me, and they trust me to do what's right. Now, I think it's amusing that they let me
Apparate cross-country, but I can't walk down the block on my own..." she laughed as she
dialed.

Harry left her with the phone and went to put a pot of water on the stove. It was amazing how
much better he felt with her there. It gave him both a wonderful and a terrifying feeling to know
that she came running when she knew he needed help. She trusted him, cared for him enough to come
to him. But he knew the magnitude of danger that she was putting herself into because of that. How
dangerous it was to care about Harry Potter. The Dursleys' stove was slow, and just as the
water came to a boil, Hermione hung up the phone.

"How much sugar do--" he started.

"It kept ringing," he heard Hermione's distant, emotionless voice say. "They
aren't there."

Harry put the sugar down and came out to find Hermione staring out into space, with one hand on
the telephone receiver. "Hermione, what..."

"They're not there, Harry," she said, her voice sounding foreign even to her.
"The phone kept ringing, and ringing, and the answering machine's been disconnected,
and..." her voice broke. "They're not there! What's happened to them,
Harry?! What? They... they aren't there..."

"Maybe they... went to get the post."

"It's Sunday, Harry, there's no post on Sundays. I was just
there. They were going to wait by the phone, Harry. They were waiting for me. And
they're not... they're... they're not there." Her legs seemed to crumple under her
and she fell onto the floor, kneeling and with her eyes red. "Not there," she repeated
softly as the tears started to fall.

Had it been anyone else, Harry would have tried to talk logical sense into them. But he knew
Hermione. He knew her sixth sense. Her parents were Muggles, and with the war... he knew how she
felt. And the sick feeling that she was probably right swallowed him. Hermione was one of the most
logical people he'd ever met, and if there was any other explanation, she'd go with that
one instead of thinking the worst. His insides burned as he watched her, still kneeling and curled
up in a ball, her arms wrapped around herself. She lifted her red eyes to his and a rush of feeling
filled him. She fell onto his chest, and he instinctively wrapped his arms around her.

He held her close to him, kneeled next to her on the floor. Her arms still around her own
midsection, she buried her face in his chest. He pulled her closer, wrapping his long arms around
her back. His hands traced wide and unfamiliar patterns on her back, as though he was trying to
comfort all of her at once. He sat there with her for several minutes, until he felt something hit
him in the back of the head.

He turned around to see a small, rather ordinary-looking owl settling onto the railing of the
stairs. He reluctantly removed one of his hands from Hermione so that he could reach behind him and
retrieve the letter that had hit him. He read the address carefully.

Ms. Hermione Granger

The Kitchen/Hallway

You-know-where

"'Mione," he said softly. He'd said her full name, but the first part
hadn't come out as he tried to keep his voice from cracking. "You've a
letter."

Lifting her head slowly, she reached out with shaking hands to take the letter. It had only a
partial address. It didn't indicate anything but the Kitchen/Hallway of You-know-where, and had
no other location markings. She turned the envelope over, but found the seal to be plain. There was
no indication as to from whom the letter had come. She shakily pulled the fold of the envelope
apart and took out the scrap of parchment. Unfolding it, she began to read aloud in a very soft,
unsteady voice.

"They are fine. You are in danger. Stay where you are. Do not owl anyone. More to
follow," she finished quietly. She turned the parchment over and over, as if looking for
anything more. She raised her eyes to Harry's once again.

"Hermione, they're fine... your parents," he said softly. "That's
great!" He tried to make it sound as if he meant it completely, but found the attempt futile.
They both knew that all was not well.

"Yeah," she breathed, but was obviously not content with that. Tears still welled in
her eyes. "They might be fine... but we're not... and if they're fine, where
are they?"

The phone rang before Harry could find an answer. He stood and picked it up, saying
"Hello," in a voice that was as normal as he could manage. What he heard on the other
end, however, was as far from normal as it could be.

"I need to speak with Miss Otter."

He furrowed his brow. Miss Otter? And he knew that voice. Suddenly, the realization hit him.

"Professo--"

"Yes," she said quickly, cutting him off before he could say her name. "Would you
please give the telephone to her?"

Dazed, he pulled the reciever from his ear and covered the mouthpiece. "Hermione, it's
for you," he said. "It's... it's a tabby cat."

Her eyes went very wide and she rose quickly, taking the phone from him. "Yes?"

"Miss Otter," the stern voice on the other end began, "Your family is safe. There
was an attack. The Mark was found at your house. The target of their attack, however, appeared to
be you, and not your family. The enemy detected what you had done and came looking for you. We
detected it also and your family has been relocated. They are not seriously injured. They are being
taken care of and their injuries are being attended to. You are to remain where you are. You are
not to leave the house that you are in via magical methods. You may leave the house for short
periods of time during the day, but you must not leave Muggle Surrey and you must live entirely as
Muggles outside of the house. Do not go looking for your family, they were taken into a secret
location. Do not send letters to anyone using your name, and do not send any owls. Your
family is fine and healthy and safe, trust in our protection. When we are able to set up a method
for them to contact you, we will do so. You may do magic except for communication or
transportation. There are wards surrounding your location and your signature will not be detected.
There were several attacks. The ginger family has also been relocated. Do not look for anyone.
Stay in your current location."

She stared straight ahead at nothing in particular, her eyes shiny, but her resolve strong.
"I will," she said.

"Hang in there," the voice softened slightly and said. "Now, may I please speak
with Mr. Prongs?"

She handed Harry the phone before sliding down the wall to stay staring ahead.

"I'm here," he said.

"You are to take care of her. She'll be with you for a while. Don't worry about
your family. They're going to win a sweepstakes. Do you have a pen?"

He reached for the pen and little hummingbird pad of sticky notes that sat next to the
telephone, on the corner table. "I have a pen."

"And something to write on?"

"Yes, Professor," he rolled his eyes. She knew him too well.

"You must never use any... abnormal means of communication. If you need us, you will need
to call. The... the others do not even look at this type of communication, as it is below their
standard. Either myself or Mr. Phoenix will have this cellular phone on at all times."

As he took the number down, he laughed internally at the image of Professor McGonagall, or
worse, Dumbledore on a cell phone.

"Help her, please. Take good care of her. Take good care of yourself. I will speak with you
soon."

"Yes, Professor."

He heard the click on the other end of the line, and he hung up slowly, as if he must have
imagined the entire conversation. Professor McGonagall, calling Hermione at his house, on
the Dursley's telephone. He vaguely wondered when she'd learned to use a telephone. He took
the sticky note and folded it over once, sliding it into the pocket of his trousers.

Hermione was sitting on the floor, her back against the wall and her legs out straight in front
of her. She was staring into space silently. Harry knelt down on the floor next to her and took one
of her hands in his. He didn't know why he did it, he just knew it seemed like the right thing
to do. As he squeezed her small hand in both of his, she lightly squeezed back and turned to look
at him He could see the pain in her eyes, and he could see something else that he had very rarely
seen in her before. Fear. She was one of the bravest souls he'd ever met, and here she was, her
resolve strong but her heart hurting.



3. Translating Home
-------------------

Thank you very much for reviewing. Please, please review. I really do want to hear from you,
and, as I have said many times before, reviews only serve to encourage the writer.

See Chapter 1 for Disclaimer.

She closed her eyes slowly, then opened them and looked up toward the ceiling. Squeezing
Harry's hands once more, she took a deep breath and focused her eyes again. "They're
safe," she said, though not truly convinced.

"Yeah," Harry said. "They are. And you are too."

She managed a small smile, and got to her feet. Although she still had a bit of a spaced
expression in her deep eyes, she had returned to a hardened look that meant that she was ready for
work. "So... I'm not to leave," she began.

"Right," Harry said, standing up himself. "So... are you hungry?"

"Not really," she said.

"We have a guest room, but somehow, if the Dursleys do come home... I don't think it
would do to have a girl they don't know sleeping in it." He paused a second. "You can
have my room. I'll steal Dudley's, or sleep on the couch... don't want to touch
Dudley's room with a ten-metre pole."

"You will not sleep on the couch--" she began, then stopped abruptly and her
eyes lit up a little. "Do you have a bureau?"

"Yes..." he answered slowly, not sure what that had to do with anything.

"To your room, then," she said, outstretching her arm to allow him to pass. She threw
a quick spell to the kitchen. "Don't want that water to boil over."

He smiled, and began up the stairs, with her following closely on his heels. They arrived back
in his room, and Harry, still not knowing what his bureau had to do with anything, pointed to it.
Hermione opened it, and noticed the lack of clothing in it. "Where do you keep your clothes,
if not in your wardrobe?"

He pointed. "There, and there..."

She sighed.

"What does my wardrobe have to do with anything?"

"I can't very well live in the guest room, so I plan to--"

"You are not going to live in my bureau!"

"And why not?" she asked, bossily, as if people lived in bureaus routinely.

"Because... because it's a bureau!!!"

Hands on her hips, she looked at him. "It looks like a bureau. I'm a qualified
witch. I don't intend to live in it the way it is. Honestly."

His eyes went wide.

She turned away from him and waved her wand, swishing and flicking, at the open wardrobe. She
said incantations he'd never heard before, and gold sparks shot from her wand at random
intervals. She finally lowered her wand. The bureau looked exactly the same as it had before. She
closed the doors, and tapped them once with her wand. She then took both knobs and opened the doors
simultaneously. Where the wall had once been, there was now a whole other room.

Her room was cozy, with a sage green bed in the center. It was quietly feminine. It just looked
comfortable and warm. Bookshelves lined every wall, and there was, ironically, a wardrobe identical
to Harry's. The room seemed to embody both the intellectualism and the caring, the heart, that
was Hermione. Harry felt oddly welcome here, and he felt as though he could just stay for hours. It
was a strange feeling.

"Welcome to my room, Harry," she sighed. It hurt her to think that maybe her real
room, the one that looked identical to this one, was destroyed. Next to her bed was a nightstand,
and on it, along with an alarm clock, were two pictures. One Muggle picture, of her family. And one
Wizarding one, of she, Harry, and Ron. Her parents and Ron, both in hiding. She tore her eyes away
from the photos.

Harry wandered around her room. "This is what your room looks like?"

"Down to the last book," she said softly. "But I think I'll have to make one
modification."

"It's really nice," he said. "Really... comfortable."

"That it is," she said, making her way toward her own bureau. She said more spells,
and when she opened this one, she found herself in a white bathroom. Everything was clean and white
and shiny, except for the fluffy towels that matched her bedspreads. She found it to her
satisfaction, and left it to go inspect the rest of her conjured room. Harry, on the other hand,
stepped into the small bathroom. It seemed lived-in, from the toothpaste on the counter to the
bottle of strawberry shampoo in the shower.

"Harry, is there something wrong?"

He turned quickly. "No, nothing wrong," he said. "This is incredible! How did
you...?"

"Books," she said. "And... a few practical lessons."

"You really are talented," he said. "This is very advanced magic. And it's
wonderful. It's all so real."

She blushed. "Thank you. I hope it's real. I'll be living here." She opened a
nearby drawer, full of her clothes.

They stood in silence for a few minutes.

"Thank you so much for your hospitality," she said softly, sitting down on her new
bed. "I feel like I'm imposing. I'm sorry. I never even asked if it was all right to
come over in the first place. I just popped in... how rude I was. And now Professor McGonagall
wants me to stay here. I'm... I'm really sorry. I'll not be a bother."

"A bother? Are you kidding?" he asked. "You surely didn't ask to have your
house attacked. You didn't ask to help me, I called you to ask for your help. And the only
reason you don't have a home that you can go home to right now is because of me. You're my
friend, and that makes you a magnet for Death Eater attacks," he finished somewhat
bitterly.

"They would have gone after me regardless," she said. "I'm Muggle-born. It
has nothing to do with you."

"Damn it, Hermione, it does. Why do you think they go after you first? Why do they target
the Weasleys? They're pure-blooded. It's that you have ties to me."

"You need to stop blaming yourself for things that you have nothing to do with you,"
she said snappishly. She never got this tone with Harry.

Their eyes met, meeting fire with fire. Finally Hermione looked away, striding across her room
to close the doors to the wardrobe-bathroom.

Harry looked down at his hands. He couldn't stay mad at her, even with his proven talent for
holding grudges. "Are you sure you don't want anything?"

"I'm really not hungry, but thank you," she said gently. There was a bit of an
awkward silence, until Hermione spoke again. "What do you say we look at that message on the
mirror? That is, after all, why I'm here."

He looked at her. "Are you sure you're OK?"

"I'm fine," she said. "Where did you put the mirror?"

"Kitchen table," he said. "If you stay here, I'll get it."

She nodded, sitting back on her bed. He left the room through the door leading to his room, and
she turned back to her nightstand. Harry and Ron were looking back at her, a playful glint in their
eyes as they teased her. Ron leaned over to whisper something into her ear. In the next frame, she
sat, posed formally, with her parents. They were all in one of those Muggle photo shops, and her
parents smiled straight to the real her through the glass.

Tears formed in her eyes and she lifted both of the picture frames from the night table. Hastily
opening the drawer, she shoved them both in. Blinking her eyes to rid herself of the evidence of
her tears, she rearranged herself to sit cross-legged on the bed.

Harry opened the door, and walked through his bureau to where she sat, waiting for him.
"Would you please turn on the overhead light?" she asked him as he brought her the
mirror. He did as he was asked and then sat down beside her on the bed when she motioned him to.
She turned the mirror over in her hands and enunciated an enlargement spell to make it easier to
read.

A HUH CHIGED DIN HIT WHIT NTH TSO

THREEPENCE TREKS RETS MINT SO

A AD HELENE VHF SILT LO TO

BETECHI NGELY EN GO LORN LUNT SO

DEC FEE HI NO TRUSS SUS

A AD REST GUN PHERS NTH OPT A LUCIFER SILO MU

A PHTHALATE I MI YIN WYNN POSY

A AED FENSUGRELEK TRI IES POLL SUNN.

She silently read it several times. "You said this message just... appeared?"

He nodded. "I threw it against a wall... the second time, and I looked at it, but the
message that was on it was gone, and this engraving was there in its place."

"I don't recognize the language. I wish I could say that I did," she sighed.
"There are words, though... words I've seen before. But they aren't all from the same
language. Curious."

He looked at the words again, as if staring at them would make them make sense. She got up from
her bed, and went toward one of the many bookshelves. She returned with a book that seemed so wide
that it could hold the entire English language. Taking out a Muggle ballpoint pen and a sheet of
lined paper, she copied the entire inscription and underlined words that she knew she'd heard
before.

"Threepence," she said, half to herself and half to Harry. "We know what that
is... and treks are journeys. Mint is an herb with medicinal properties... I don't see how
these are related. Truss... that's a support for a bridge, and a gun, well, we know that also,
and a posy... a posy is a flower... maybe that's an old spelling of 'sun'... and
'tri' refers to the number three... Helene... Harry, would you look up Helene?"

Harry, thankfully, seemed to notice that she had spoken directly to him this time, and opened
the gigantic book to search for Helene. He flipped through the time-worn pages, finally finding
Helene. "It's a Greek name," he said. "It's the thirteenth moon of
Saturn..." he paused, reading. "In Greek mythology, Helene was an Amazon... she fought
with Achilles. That's all it says."

She quickly wrote down what he had told her, and her eyes went back to the message on the
mirror. "Lucifer... I've heard that before."

Harry didn't need to look that one up. "Lucifer means light-bearer," he said.
"Literally, that is. It's used to refer to the Devil. Ironic, isn't it. Lucius Malfoy.
Sounds a lot like Lucifer. The devil."

Her eyes darkened and she scribbled down the meaning. After several more seconds of writing, she
sighed. "I don't see this making any sense. Maybe we've got the words
confused..."

"I don't know, Hermione," Harry said. "It doesn't look much like that to
me. Half of those words just seem like the letters were just put in some random order."

"They wouldn't have put letters in some random order," she said flatly. She looked
at the mirror silently once again.

"Then there has to be a link between these words," he said. "Light-bearer...
Helene... threepence... mint..."

But Hermione had stopped listening. A strange gleam appeared in her eyes. "They
wouldn't put letters in a random order," she repeated to herself, but she didn't sound
at all like she believed it. "Maybe the words really do mean nothing..." She
took the paper quickly from where it lay on her bed, and pointed her wand directly at the text she
had just written.

Harry looked up from the mirror to see Hermione tap the paper with her wand.
"Arreglo," she declared clearly. Her letters lifted themselves from the page
and, in a majestic swirl of ink and paper, rearranged themselves in midair. Harry had a momentary
flashback to the last time that he'd seen letters in midair. He shook his head to clear it, and
watched, mystified, as Hermione's paper patched itself together. The edges were ragged and the
paper was no longer rectangular, but as the paper settled back onto the bed, Harry could see that
the letters had found themselves new places. Hermione took up the paper again, and an image of
complete elation crossed her face. "I knew it! You're a genius, Harry... the letters
were put in a random order!" She threw herself at him, giving him a huge hug, her
bushy hair flowing everywhere.

She pulled away, to see Harry's somewhat confused face. "It's an anagram, Harry...
the letters were rearranged to confuse anyone who tried to read it. It has nothing to do with
Helene or Lucifer or mint. It's a clue."

I know, a cliffhanger like that is mean. If you want to know, please review. It will expedite my
writing and get the answers to you faster!



4. Revealing Concealment
------------------------

Thank you to those who reviewed. Please, please review. I withheld posting this chapter because
I like to have at least one more chapter prewritten before posting. The more reviews that I get,
the more motivated I am to finish the chapters, and the sooner I get them to you. I write, you
review, I feel proud, I write some more. Special thank you goes out to Mike, who read this chapter
in its early stages and had me erase half of it and start over. It is much, much better thanks to
that.

Warning: Please note the rating of this story. This chapter earns the PG-13 rating.

See Chapter 1 for Disclaimer.

"A clue to what exactly?" Harry asked, utterly confused.

"Well, that's the thing. I don't know what it's for. But it's obviously a
clue." She turned the paper around, placing it in his waiting hands.

His eyes scanned the now pieced-together paper. He read it several times, each time with his
eyes a bit bigger than the last. Where the sheet used to have a useless array of letters, it now
had perfect English. He read it aloud.

That in which thought is hidden

Innermost secrets there kept

On leaves that hold life

Long gone but inherently close.

For there success is found

Through miraculous life, present and past.

Only in this way may it happen

Else plunge failure into darkness.

He paused and there was a moment of silence. "How did you get this?"

"The letters on your mirror were an anagram. I used the arranging spell to put the letters
back in their proper order. This seems to be the order that they were intended to be in. It's a
logic puzzle. And it's obviously a clue... but to what?" She took the paper again, looking
over it as if staring hard enough would force the answers to come greet her.

Harry's expression suddenly changed. His face became dark, his eyes losing their luster in a
matter of seconds. He looked down, to avoid incinerating the paper with a gaze. He'd had more
incidences of accidental magic in the past few weeks than ever before, a fact that scared him. He
shouldn't be having these uncontrollable bursts of magic. He should be able to control them
all. He hadn't touched his wand in weeks. If he couldn't control his magic now... he
didn't like to think of the consequences. He wasn't a scrawny ten-year old. He was a
trained wizard, and a very powerful one at that. He hadn't done unintentional magic since
he'd first gone to Hogwarts. Until, that is, this summer.

Unbeknownst to him, Hermione had looked up from the paper to see the smoulder in Harry's
eyes. "You know," she whispered. "You know what it's a clue to." It came
out quickly, and for one of the first times ever, she didn't care that it broke every grammar
rule in the book.

He looked up at her, his eyes meeting hers, but not with the connectedness that they normally
shared. His gaze was unfeeling and distant. "Yes," he said. It was obvious that he was
not going to elaborate further.

She looked at him, her eyes narrowing. "Do you know what it means?"

"I'm not a bloody codebreaker," he said coldly. He stared straight out ahead.
He'd lapsed into a time-tested facial emotion, the one that drove Hermione mad. That expression
that said I've shut the world out now, and you'd better not push me.

The phone suddenly rang. Hermione jumped up to answer it, but just then remembered that, if it
was the Dursleys, that would not be advisable. Throwing the portable telephone (she'd conjured
a telephone also?) to hit Harry in the head, she fiddled with her Muggle alarm clock.

Harry answered the phone. "Hello," he said monotonously.

Hermione fiddled with her alarm clock for several moments, thinking through how to react to
Harry. Once she'd set a radio station and corrected the time to the same as her magical watch,
he'd hung up the phone. With one last glance at her watch, which now read "8:37, It's
dark out, what time do YOU think it is," she looked back at Harry.

"My wonderful relatives have just won a sweepstakes. They'll be gone for three weeks.
And somehow, their luggage found its way to them. They don't have to come back and get
it," he said.

"That's just wonderful, Harry," she laughed.

He just eyed the paper.

Pausing a moment, she said flatly, "I'm going to take a shower. And then I'm going
to bed. It might do you well to do the same. You've not been getting enough sleep."

He looked up at her, and slowly stood. "You're welcome to anything here," he said.
"I know it's not home, but I hope you can be comfortable." He paused. "Good
night," he began, as if it was the beginning of a sentence he never intended to finish.

"Good night," she said. He nodded his head at her, and turned and went through the
door, closing it behind him.

She stepped into the shower and turned the water as hot as it would go, as if it would rinse
everything away. Breathing deeply in the steam, she lingered under the comforting spray. She dried
quickly and dressed for bed. Scooting down into the fluffy bed, she couldn't help but think of
her real room. Her home. Her life. Her family.

She closed her eyes against the painful visions and hoped for sleep to claim her quickly.

Harry rolled over, again. For the umpteenth time. He'd had his eyes closed for a very long
time, hoping he'd fall asleep. But it didn't work. It never did after he had these dreams.
He looked over at the clock. He wasn't sure why he did this, because he couldn't see it
anyway. The bright red numbers were unintelligible to him. Fumbling awkwardly, he found his glasses
and then looked back at the digital clock. It read 1:54. He dropped his head back down on the
pillow without bothering to take off his glasses. He knew he wasn't going to fall back asleep
this way. He never did.

He was no stranger to insomnia. But it had been much worse the past few weeks. He looked up at
the shadows on the ceiling, cast by the slats of the window shade. Taking a deep breath, he slowly
sat up. Feeling slightly dizzy, he ran his hand through his sleep-mussed hair. He resigned himself
to the knowledge that he was awake now, and he wasn't going to make it back to sleep anytime
soon. He leaned his head back against the wall. His eyes followed the ghostly shadows all around
the room, the bits of light that cast unholy visions around him.

It was then that he saw it. It was a shady figure crossing his room, obviously trying not to be
detected.

With a combination of Quidditch-honed reflexes and basic instinct, he reached for his wand from
under his pillow with one hand and sat bolt upright, reaching for his bedside lamp. "Show
yourself!" he bellowed, staring, focused, down his wand arm and over the smooth wood of the
wand. His eyes burned dangerously in the dark.

He heard the figure say "Lumos," just as he managed to flip the switch of the lamp.
The room was flooded with light, both magical and electrical, and he painfully tried to keep his
eyes open and see the intruder while both his eyes and those of the intruder adjusted to the
light.

His eyes focused first. He recognized her immediately, taking a deep breath and lowering his
wand. "Hermione," he sighed, relaxing somewhat. "Don't do that. I could
have cursed you."

"I'm sorry, Harry, I really am... I thought you'd be asleep at this hour... I set a
silencing charm so as not to wake you. I didn't wake you, did I?" she said sorrowfully as
her eyes finally began to adjust to the light. "I'd feel terrible if I'd woken you-
dear God, Harry!!!" she shrieked, interrupting herself and turning away from him, shielding
her eyes with her hand.

Replacing his wand while she spoke, he was startled at her half-scream. "What?" he
asked, confused.

"Harry," she embarrassedly half-laughed, "you're... you're..." she
stuttered, red-faced.

"I'm what?" he said, a bit annoyed.

She gestured wildly with the hand that wasn't over her eyes and obviously tried to explain,
but she wasn't finding the words. He was sitting upright in his bed. And he wasn't
wearing anything. At least, nothing that she could see. He was sitting, looking up at her,
confused and shirtless. The sheets were pulled up tightly around his waist. Hermione felt her
cheeks burn even hotter. It wasn't like she'd never seen a boy without a shirt before. She
even would bet that if she thought back well enough, she could probably think of a time that
she'd seen Harry without a shirt. But right now, she couldn't think of such a time. All
that she could think of was Harry sitting before her, half-naked. Hermione's ears twinged a
heated red. She didn't know why it made her blush so much. He was her best friend. She'd
seen him in pyjamas a few times, in the Common Room over the winter holiday. But the thoughts that
she was having at the moment... they made her feel like a scarlet woman. Her face grew even hotter
as an incredibly wicked little voice came into her head and wondered whether he was wearing
anything under that sheet. Desperately trying to fight that thought back, she lost as it
came forward and wound itself even tighter into her thoughts. She felt impossibly guilty, and yet
giddily excited. It made no sense. But he, with his hand rumpling his already-messy hair, with a
confused look on his face... he was... she couldn't bring herself to say it. Because she was
not having those thoughts. She just wasn't. She tried to flee, to go
somewhere, anywhere but here, but her legs refused to obey. She became more and more
flustered. And then Harry did the absolute worst thing that he could have possibly done.

He stood up.

Hermione heard him move and she clapped her other hand firmly over her eyes. She finally
mentally silenced that terrible part of her that told her to look, but not before she turned an
even more vibrant red.

"Hermione," he said, thoroughly confused, "what is it?" He crossed over to
where she stood, hands covering her eyes and a furious blush on her face.

She opened her eyes just enough to see his face and the tops of his shoulders. That little voice
emerged again and told her that they were very nice shoulders. It wickedly bade her to
open her eyes more, but she managed to override it and close them again. "Merlin, Harry,
you're naked!" she blurted out, embarrassed.

"No, I'm not," he said automatically, wondering why on Earth she'd say
that.

"Because you're... you... no shirt... and the sheet... and you dropped the
sheet..." she stuttered, losing any of the composure that typically characterized Hermione
Granger.

He blushed at her answer to his unasked question, suddenly understanding. It truly embarrassed
him that she'd thought that, and at the same time it brought out a raw hormonal thought that he
was glad she'd thought that, even though he really wasn't. Wonder what
you'd have thought if you saw just her bare shoulders under a sheet, he thought. He
blushed harder than he ever had as horrific and terrifying thoughts of exactly what he'd think
came unbidden. "I'm wearing shorts," he said, his voice cracking in a way it
hadn't since third year.

Steeling herself, she looked up at him to find him reaching for a robe to cover his shabby
boxers. She was half relieved and half disappointed. Mentally smashing down that terrible part of
her that was disappointed, she got her own voice under control. "I'm sorry that I
surprised you. I didn't mean to wake you. I just meant to go downstairs and read... don't
tell me that I woke you."

He sighed. "You didn't."

She looked up at him with sympathetic eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said, though he didn't tell her what he was sorry for.

"It's fine, Harry, you just surprised me. It's not like I haven't seen the male
torso before. And seeing as how I'm staying here... there were bound to be a few close
calls."

He gratefully smiled, but he was only smiling with his mouth and not with his eyes. There was
something bothering him.

"You're not having nightmares still, are you?" she asked softly.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, leaning his elbows on his thighs and resting his head in his
hands briefly. She sat down next to him gently, tucking her legs under her body and placing a small
hand on his shoulder.

He looked over his shoulder at her. She was sitting, curled up as a cat might be, next to him on
his bed. She was wearing loose-fitting, flowing navy blue pants, much like those that Harry had
seen on the television shows where women preached the benefits of yoga. A somewhat fitted burgundy
T-shirt hugged her upper body. She wore no socks or slippers, and from her position, though her
legs were folded under her, he could see her bare feet peeking out. Her eyes were big and brown and
open and kind. She reached up absentmindedly to tuck a single loose curl behind her ear. The rest
of her hair, quite a contrast from the bushiness of earlier, was loosely plaited in a single French
braid, with tendrils of individually defined curls peeking out to frame her face.

He didn't know what came over him, or what made him feel the way he did. Perhaps it was the
light. She was... breathtaking. And if he'd ever imagined a girl being breathtaking, this was
not the picture he'd conjured. The girls he'd thought of were dressed in gowns and
primped... and here was his best friend, in no makeup and in her pyjamas. Somehow, seeing her so
vulnerable and innocent was truly breathtaking. There was no other word. He could move no more now
than he could have if someone had cast a Full-Body Bind on him. He slowly let out a breath that he
didn't know he had been holding.

"I'm so sorry, Harry," she sighed, her hand traveling across his back to his other
shoulder, as she softly lay her head on the shoulder that her hand had just vacated.

He looked down and fumbled with the hem of his shirt. There was an uncomfortable silence, before
the rumbling of Harry's stomach interrupted them. He remembered then that he hadn't eaten
dinner. And she hadn't either. "Do you maybe want anything to eat? We didn't have
supper..."

"Actually, that sounds very good," she said quietly, sitting up. "Do you want me
to make anything?"

He stood up. "Depends. What do you want?"

Looking up at him, she said, "I don't know. I'm not in the mood for anything in
particular. Perhaps just some eggs and a cup of tea, if you don't mind."

He laughed. "If I don't mind? Eggs are my specialty, among a great many other things.
If you'd put up the water for the tea again, seeing as you turned off the water earlier, I can
make eggs. How do you like them?"

"It doesn't matter," she said. "Scrambled, perhaps. Breakfast at 2:00 in the
morning... this is a new experience for me."

He was silent. She stood and walked with him toward the kitchen. "Couldn't sleep?"
he asked her.

It was her turn to fall silent. "No, I couldn't."

For a rare moment in Harry's life, he sensed that another felt the same way he did. Alone,
even when he was surrounded by people. "They're really going to be fine," he said
softly. "They're fine."

She looked back up at him, her brown eyes meeting his green ones. "They're fine,"
she repeated halfheartedly.



5. Outward Appearances
----------------------

Thank you for the reviews. Please, please continue to review. This writer really needs the
encouragement! This chapter got out more quickly than I'd anticipated thanks to some time being
snowed in. Now, I'd just really appreciate seeing your reaction.

See Chapter 1 for Disclaimer.

"You do make good eggs," Hermione said, as she rose to wash her plate.

"I've had a bit of practice," Harry responded as he took the plate from her and
washed them both.

"Thanks," she said softly. "You don't have to do that for me."

He shrugged his shoulders.

Flipping on the light in the parlor, she took up the book that she'd brought downstairs with
her. Slipped in between the cover and the first page was the broken slip of paper on which
she'd written the inscription that had appeared on Harry's mirror. Curling up on a chair,
she took a pen on the end table and began to write on the paper. She recopied the words and
scribbled in little anecdotes as to what each one could mean. Harry settled onto the couch,
watching her.

She could feel his eyes on her, burning into her. She brought her eyes up to meet his, resting
her pen on the paper. She could see it again. He knew something.

"You know, Harry, this might be easier if you would just tell me what you know about the
meaning of this," she said in a tone that she knew he hated.

His eyes flared. "It might be easier if Sirius was just around to bloody ask."

"Does everything need to become a guilt session for you?" she said, far more sharply
than she'd intended. In fact, she hadn't intended to say it at all.

"Does everything need to be a guilt session? Is it my bloody fault that I
live to be guilty? My existence, Hermione, is to cause people pain. Is it my fault that he
died? Yes. Is it my fault that your parents were attacked? Yes." He was trembling
with the attempt to maintain control, and was quickly losing the battle. "Did I ask
for this life? No. But now I've got it and I've got to live it. I didn't ask to be
the one. And because I'm the one, all of them... all of you... you're all pulled
into this net, this horrible bloody trap that we didn't even set, but it's all
because of me. And if all of you are lost, it's my fault. If I lose to this bloody monster,
everything's lost. I didn't ask for this." He'd stopped speaking to
her minutes ago. He'd lost track.

She stared at him, eyes narrowed. She knew he hadn't intended to say any of what he'd
said in her presence. Somehow she knew that all of that was secret. "You didn't ask for
what, exactly, Harry?"

I didn't ask to be the one who can either defeat Voldemort, or hand him the wizarding
world on a silver platter, he thought. "I didn't ask for any of the attacks," he
said bitterly.

"Excuse me?!" she asked sharply.

"I didn't ask for the bloody attacks, Hermione."

"Not that. 'I didn't ask to be the one who can either defeat Voldemort or
hand him the wizarding world on a silver platter.' That. What are you talking about?!
And you had better not try to dodge the question."

He looked up at her, his green eyes searing forcefully into hers. All of his power seemed to
reside in those eyes. He silently cursed his new talent for thinking out loud. He'd never been
one to do it before, and he wasn't sure what brought it about. But recently, he'd noticed
that when he was around her, he tended to do it, and not notice until she commented after the fact.
"This isn't the time," he said, slowly and forcefully.

She laughed bitterly. Looking at her watch-less wrist, she declared, "Actually, Harry, this
is exactly the time." She looked back into his eyes with the same sheer force. She
might not have the same powers coursing through her veins, but she was just as strong as he.

"It doesn't concern you."

"Somehow, I think it does."

"Why are you making this so hard? It's about me, not you, and there's nothing you
can do, so why is it so important to you?!"

She got up quickly and crossed to him. "It's important to me because
you're important to me. I will not let you close yourself inside again and
push us out. Push me out." She paused. "Let me in, Harry," she said.

"There is no in, Hermione. Why can't all of you see that?" he shot,
frustrated.

"It's not all of us, Harry, it's me."

"You and the bloody rest of England!"

Her voice was strict but still soft. "There is no one here but me. As much as you might
think that you can, you can not fight this battle or this war alone."

His eyes flashed and he opened his mouth as if to say something, but he thought better of
it.

"You can't."

Harry sighed and put his head in his hands, elbows on his thighs. He looked back up at her. His
eyes were a vibrant green, possibly more vibrant than she'd ever seen them. It startled her,
but seemed to pull her in. She couldn't look away.

"Hermione, I've got to... there's something you've got to know."

"Yes?" she asked, picking up on the slight tremor in his voice.

He paused for a long time. "I'm not sure how to tell you this."

"Try," she said.

"In the Department of Mysteries..." he stopped again. "That prophecy that they
were trying to get from me."

"What about it?" her voice was growing quieter.

"They wanted it because it... it talks about the one thing that can bring Voldemort down.
They needed to know what that one thing was."

"You broke it, though," she said, questioning. "They can't find it
now."

"I broke it, yeah," he said, taking another deep breath. "But there's someone
else who knew what it said. It... It was Professor Trelawney's prediction--"

"That brings her total of real predictions up to two," she sighed, recalling what
Harry had told her Dumbledore had said after Trelawney had predicted the return of the servant to
his master years ago.

"Yeah. Two. This was the first. Dumbledore heard it... but Wormtail did too, but he only
heard part of it."

"What did it say, Harry?" she whispered.

He took a long pause, as if trying to gather his thoughts. Looking up at her, he began, scarcely
above a whisper himself. "There would be only one person who had the power to vanquish
Voldemort. Born as the seventh month dies, to parents who defied Voldemort three times..."

Hermione's eyes went still as she calculated in her head. "That's you and
Neville," she whispered even lower than before.

His eyes met hers and he tried again to compose his thoughts. It somewhat surprised him that
she'd known about Neville's birthday, but then again it didn't surprise him at all. She
always knew when everyone's birthday was. She just cared that way. "Yeah, me and
Neville... but then it also says that... that whoever it is, Voldemort would mark..."

Her eyes focused for what he believed was the first time on his scar.

"Right again," he said, defeated. "Mark him. I'm marked."

"So what does that mean?" she asked, not really wanting to hear the answer, afraid of
what he might say.

"I'm the one with the power to defeat the Dark Lord. I... I apparently have some power
that he knows not--"

Hermione's eyes went wide. "The message! That message... maybe it has something to do
with that power. Maybe it tells you what you have that he doesn't have. A way to defeat
him." She started to get up, but Harry's hand found her arm and firmly pulled her back
down.

"If I'm going to tell you this, I'm going to tell you all of it. It's not just
that I'm the one. It's... neither can live while the other survives."

She was trying to put two and two together in her head, but the pieces of the puzzle refused to
assemble themselves in her head. She was just beginning to see the picture, but her mind blocked it
out. "Neither can... no," she faded away as it finally clicked. "Neither can live
while the other survives. That can't be... no... it's not--"

"It is. It means that in the end, either he dies, or--"

"Don't you dare say it."

"He dies or I do."

There was an extremely long, painful silence as tears welled in Hermione's eyes.
"No," she said firmly.

Harry's eyes met hers once again. As she saw the honesty and pain there, she fell apart.
"You can't die. I won't let you."

"I don't think it's really up to you," he said softly.

"It is," she said, her eyes shining now with determination. "I am not letting you
die. And I am not letting you draw back up into yourself. Like I said, you can't fight this
battle alone. I'm here alongside you. You are not going to push me away." With that, she
stood up and walked, standing taller than Harry had ever seen her stand, over to where she'd
left the book. Wordlessly, she took the broken sheet out of the book. Looking over it silently, she
reached over Harry to retrieve her wand. "Engorgio," she said clearly, without
the least hint of a shake in her voice. The sheet grew and unfolded, finally becoming as large as
the coffee table before she stopped it. "Sutura entiro." The Standard Book of
Spells, Chapter 9's Seamless Spell took effect and the cracks and torn lines disappeared. She
was left with a large, whole, and perfect sheet of paper, with the inscription written in big, neat
letters.

"Hermione--"

"Wait, this won't do," Hermione interrupted him, thinking out loud.
"Accio mirror." The mirror came hurling down the stairwell, hitting several
walls as it came. It finally settled onto the coffee table next to Hermione's paper. Bending
over it, she frowned. She waved her wand broadly over the mirror, slowly repeating an incantation
that Harry hadn't heard before. The inscription on the mirror glowed a bright orange and the
letters on Hermione's sheet began to morph, as if they were mere liquid. "Handwriting
transfer charm," she said to herself. "There might be some meaning in the
handwriting." True to form, the letters on the paper soon became exact copies of the strange
script that occupied the back of the mirror.

"Hermione?"

She wasn't paying attention. She was entirely focused on the oversize words on the paper in
front of her.

"Hermione!" Harry half-yelled, turning her to face him with a quick hand on her
shoulder.

Her eyes went wide in fear for a split second, but focused so quickly that Harry couldn't
even be sure that he'd seen the terror in them. "What?"

"You were ignoring me."

"I was trying to interpret this."

His eyes narrowed. "I just told you that my chances of being killed in a painful and
violent way, very soon, are very high. And you're ignoring me."

"What would you rather I do, cry? Fall apart?" she shot back tersely.

"I don't know, Hermione, but either of those options seemed more like what I was
expecting from you."

Eyes narrow and fierce, she demanded, "What you were expecting from me? Why?
Because I'm the delicate little girl? Because that's what girls do?"

"I didn't say anything about being a girl, Hermione."

"Why then? Because I'm weak? That's just what I do? Fall to pieces? I've got
news for you. I've been there with you in every battle, every single one. I've put up at
least the fight you have in every single one."

"I know you have," he said, trying again to control his temper.

"And I know there's no logical good in just sitting and crying over spilt
milk--"

"My life is not spilt milk, and you've cried over it more than once."

"I realize that. But it's not exactly new... your life has always been in
danger--"

"It's slightly different this time!" he fumed.

"No, it's not," she shot. Her voice grew more and more tense and louder until she
was nearly yelling. "You're in danger, there's a chance of you dying, same as it
always has been. And, unlike you, I am actually doing something to try to prevent you from dying.
I'm not sitting around pitying you. I'm trying to decode this and maybe it would help you.
If you'd rather have me sit here and cry, let me know." With that, she stormed out of the
room, up the stairs and toward what Harry assumed was her makeshift room.

His fury finally boiling over, he grabbed once again for the closest thing to him-- the mirror--
and threw it, with as much force as he had within his young, powerful body. As he watched it
shatter once again before his eyes, he fell backward onto the sofa, some foreign emotion within him
pulling painfully.



6. Opening Her Eyes
-------------------

Thank you very much for the reviews. I apologize for the long wait. Please, please read and
review. Reviews only serve to encourage the writer, and this writer needs encouragement.

Note: The definition that appears in this chapter is from www.hyperdictionary.com.

See Chapter 1 for Disclaimer.

He sat there for quite a while, crumpled down into the sofa and with that ache inside him. He
didn't have the impulse to throw anything anymore. He no longer had any impulse. He just felt
the heaviness. He wasn't sure what made him pull himself up the stairs. He left the mirror,
once again whole, laying on the floor where it had settled. He fully intended to go to Hermione in
her room, and, well, say something. He wasn't sure what he was planning to say.

Weariness in his body caught up to him as he climbed the stairs. It was still an ungodly hour of
the night, and he hadn't been able to sleep. His body was exhausted, his very soul tired, but
something had been keeping him awake.

He entered his room silently. Seeing his wardrobe door closed, he sighed. He'd never known
what he was going to say to her anyway. It was better if tonight he didn't say anything. He
turned to face his bed, once again resigning himself to a sleepless night.

She was there. Lying in a half-curled position on top of his sheets, with the book laying beside
her, was Hermione. She was sleeping, angelic, peaceful. He was taken. He wasn't sure what took
him, but he knew it was something.

She had obviously gone upstairs and sat on his bed, reading, waiting for him. But he hadn't
come, and she'd fallen asleep there. Some instinct deep within Harry made him put the book on
his night-stand and pull the blankets up over Hermione. His hand grazed her shoulder as he arranged
the sheets. He tensed. Her eyes opened, just slightly.

"Don't worry, I'm going downstairs," he whispered.

"Stay," she whispered in a barely audible tone.

He paused. He felt her small hand reach out from under the comforter and wrap around his wrist.
He sat down on the side of the bed beside her. "Don't leave," she whispered again,
before closing her eyes and fading back into slumber.

He looked down at her sleeping form. She appeared so tranquil laying there. He could feel the
heat of her delicate hand, still clinging gently, but firmly, to his wrist. His mind told him to
leave, but something else in him told him not to. She'd told him not to leave. She didn't
want to be alone. In a way, a strange, foreign way, he didn't want to be alone either.
I'll just stay until she's really asleep, he thought. He sat on the corner of her
bed softly, her hand right over his pulse point.

"Don't leave me," he heard once more, even more softly than before.

I won't.

His eyes were slow to open, but the insistent brightness coaxed them to come out of their haven.
The feeling of calm that washed over his body was truly blissful. He hadn't felt like this in
so long. His every muscle was relaxed. The sunlight streamed into his room, and it seemed like, for
the first time in months, he could see and feel its rays. It was an odd feeling to be so relaxed,
so at peace. His mind was blissfully free of thought. The sun warmed him, along with the soft
blankets and the soft warmth pressed against the full length of his back. The gentle weight of
something around his waist comforted him and he stroked his thumb slowly across the smooth hand
that he held tightly in his.

Wait.

Almost before he could fully evaluate the situation that he was most obviously in, that warm,
soft mass sat bolt upright, nearly toppling him off the bed as she did so.

Oh my God, her mind screamed. She was trying to logically assess the situation, but had
to calm down her racing mind.

Harry turned to face her, rising up onto one elbow and looking at her, a smile crossing his
face. It was one of his old smiles, that lopsided smile that he hardly ever had anymore. The kind
of smile that lit his eyes and turned her insides to jelly, though she hadn't remembered that
ever happening to her before. Maybe that's one of the things that happens after you sleep with
someone. Not a good choice of words, she mentally slapped herself. Terrible choice of
words.

"Good morning," he said cheerily, more so than he'd sounded in months. His glasses
weren't on yet and his eyes were bright, vibrant green. His hair, though never organized, had
ruffled itself into a mess. Attractive mess, that horrific voice in her head said. She
shoved it out of the way. He fumbled for his glasses, and after putting them on, looked at the
clock. "Or, actually, I should say good afternoon."

She stared at him for several seconds. "I'm sorry," she said quickly, rising out
of bed. "I didn't mean to fall asleep here... this is your bed... I wasn't thinking.
And then I asked you to stay... I'm sorry." She tried to get up completely, but found that
she couldn't. Her hand, the one that she must have snaked around his waist in her sleep, was
still firmly held in his hand. She forced her eyes back to meet his questioningly. She felt him
tugging gently on her arm, and by some impulse, gave in and sat back down on the edge of the
bed.

"Don't apologize," he said. "I haven't slept like this in
months."

She turned even more crimson than before. "I'm sorry, Harry, I didn't know that
you... slept this way before," she finished quickly.

He raised one eyebrow. "I meant that I haven't slept this deeply in months. You're
really the innocent, are you," he quipped playfully.

Her eyes shot wide open. "Harry!!!"

"I wasn't the one suggesting that I'd slept with girls before this." He
paused. "That really doesn't sound right, does it," he said with another lopsided
grin that simply screamed hormonal teenaged boy.

She blushed brilliantly again. "No," she said softly.

"It is funny, though," he said in a tone of voice that she'd hardly ever heard him
use. It was a tone that she would bet a thousand Galleons on being his father's tone, the words
coming from that renowned prankster, James Potter. Something in that tone gave her an incredible
feeling of emotional release. Freedom.

I've never even been kissed and now I've slept with someone, the laughable
thought came to her and turned her even redder.

"Well, my goodness, pure Hermione saying such things," he quipped.

She reddened even further, her blush now rivaling that of a Weasley. She had not just
said that out loud. She couldn't believe that she had. "I'm sorry," she said very
quietly.

"Really, don't be. Do you know how long it's been since I've slept? It's
something about you. I slept last night. And I didn't have a nightmare. You shouldn't be
apologizing. I should be thanking you." His long body arched and stretched gracefully, more so
than she would have ever assumed that he could. Not that she'd assumed anything about how he
would stretch, of course, not that she'd thought about it, just that his limbs were lithe and
graceful. Not that she'd paid any attention to his limbs before now-

"Alright, Hermione?" he asked her, a tone of worry in his voice.

Shaking the abnormal thoughts out of her head, she turned back to look at him. "Yeah,"
she said. Not wanting the look in her eyes to betray her thoughts, she averted her eyes. They came
to rest on the clock. "Two fifty-eight?!" she said, her jaw dropping.

"Looks like we both slept well."

"But... it's already two fifty eight?"

"Good observation, Miss Granger. Ten points to Gryffindor."

"Harry," she rolled her eyes and finally looked back at him, a smile breaking through
her thoughts. She squeezed the hand that she hadn't realized that she'd still been holding.
She didn't know why she did it, it just felt right. It gave her a feeling of safety. It was
just then that all of the events of the previous day slammed back into her with blinding clarity.
She'd Apparated there, seconds before a Death Eater attack on her home. Her parents were in
hiding somewhere. The Weasleys too. And she was here. Alive and well. And filled with a happiness
that held her heart lightly. That thought alone made her sick. Fighting it back into the recesses
of her heart, she slipped her hand out of his and went back into her makeshift room, leaving him
watching after her. Closing her door behind her, she leaned backwards against the firm wooden door
and took a deep breath, pushing back the waves of pain and emotion. Finally opening her eyes, she
focused her eyes once again. She would not show her weakness now. She wouldn't. She
quickly dressed and pulled her bushy brown curls into a ponytail at the nape of her neck. She
washed her face and went toward the door, pausing just seconds before turning the doorknob.
Realizing at the last possible second that this door opened not onto her home hallway, but into
Harry's bedroom, she knocked briefly on the door. Hearing no answer, she slowly turned the
doorknob, and seeing that Harry wasn't in his room, she made her way out of his room and down
the stairs toward the kitchen. She paused, though, seeing the pristine parlor, her own large piece
of paper laid out across the table. The paper catching her eye, she slowly began walking toward it
but paused after her bare foot felt something cold beneath it. She looked down and, trembling,
picked up Sirius's mirror from the carpet. She laid it respectfully on a bare spot on the
mantle.

Settling down onto the couch, she looked over the huge paper. Her trustworthy eyes scanned the
page as they always had, seeing the script and the words. She'd always been good at intuitively
reading between the lines. Her elementary school teachers never knew what to do with her. Gifted
and intuitive, always drawn to a challenge.

That in which thought is hidden. Innermost secrets there kept.

Her heart beat faithfully. Innermost secrets there kept.

On leaves that hold life...

She thought painfully of the tree that stood steadfast in her yard back at her home. Her father
had planted it the day that she was born. It had grown with her slowly. It had once been tiny,
pale, weak. It had strengthened into a sapling; it was gangly and awkward and always craning toward
the sun. Though it had now blossomed, it still reached eternally to the heavens.

Long gone yet inherently close.

She forced her mind away from the thoughts that that particular phrase invoked deep
within her.

For there success is found, through miraculous life, present and past.

Miraculous. She had never been a terribly religious person, but she had felt miracles many
times. She often felt that both her life and Harry's were miracles and curses at the same time.
Codependent.

Only in this way may it happen.

There wasn't just one solution to any problem. Her mother had taught her that. There is
always more than one approach to a problem. Always a way to solve it. Though the solution might be
difficult and long in coming, it's always possible. Nothing is ever impossible.

Else plunge failure into darkness.

Failure. Not an option that she was used to facing. It was a deep-seated fear of hers, one that
she had always kept within her. All the Gryffindor courage in Godric's soul couldn't fill
the deep abyss within her. Failure was simply not an option for Hermione Granger. In school, even
since the beginning, she could avoid failure for the most part. But really, her obsession on her
schoolwork was simply a flimsy cover. School was the only place in which she could control her
success or failure. The world... this new place in which good and evil lurked around at every
corner, was filled with pitfalls and places for her to stumble. And now, failure could spell
something much greater than just a poor grade or a few House points. Failure would cost everything.
One misstep and it was all over. Everything.

But Hermione had never been one to hesitate. She knew that she needed to tread gently, but she
had, luckily, never resorted to simply being frozen in fear of moving. Her eyes passed over the
paper again, trying to take it all in. She again saw the image of her tree in her head. Blossoming.
Leaves that hold life.

She got up slowly and picked up a dictionary from a nearby shelf. The book fell open in her
hands. Glancing quickly at the heading at the top of the page, her eyes fell on the word on the top
corner of the thin, parchment-like page.

Leaf (n): 1. The main organ of photosynthesis and transpiration in higher plants. 2. A sheet
of written or printed material.

For some reason, she was compelled to read it over again.

A sheet of written or printed material.

A book.

Leaves that hold life.

She shifted on the couch, tucking one leg under her. She felt her wand poke into her stomach
from its place in her pocket.

Magic.

A book that holds life... a book with magic... life long gone yet inherently close.

"Want anything, Hermione?" Harry appeared, poking his head out of the kitchen. Though
he'd combed it, his unruly black hair still looked mussed. Despite the distance between Harry
and Hermione, she could see the glint in his green eyes.

Comprehension suddenly hit her in a blinding flash of brilliance.








7. Inexplicably Disoriented
---------------------------

Thank you for all of the reviews! I am really thrilled with the reviews that I receive. It
brightens the days that calculus and AP classes tend to dim. Please, please continue to review. The
more reviews that I get, the more motivated I am to move on with the story, thereby avoiding
terribly long waits like the one that you had for this chapter. Please review.

See Chapter 1 for Disclaimer.

"Hermione, are you alri--"

"Do you have any of your parents' books? Diaries, photo albums, anything?"

He came out of the kitchen. "I have a wizard photo album that Hagrid gave me--"

"Would you get it, please?"

"Umm, sure," he said, somewhat confused. He turned and went upstairs. He gently picked
up the album and carried it back down to her. He trusted her with it. He didn't even have to
think twice about handing it over to her waiting hands.

She gingerly, but quickly, flipped the book open to the first page that opened to her. She saw
Lily and James Potter, newly married and smiling, visions of love on their faces. They waved at
her, blowing kisses to whoever was taking the picture.

"You're brilliant, Harry!!!" she squealed, flying at him and throwing her arms
around his neck.

"Er, thanks, Hermione," he said in a strangled sort of way, as he was being partially
asphyxiated by her hair. "What am I brilliant for?"

She pushed back from him, her hands resting on his shoulders. "This," she announced
proudly, "is leaves that hold life."

"Leaves that hold... Bloody Hell," he said, his mouth dropping open. "Leaves that
hold life. The prophecy."

She could just nod while she smiled. There was something missing from the smile, though. The
sparkle in her eyes was absent.

"Hermione, did anyone ever tell you that you're a bloody brilliant witch?!" he
asked rhetorically. She wasn't listening, however. She had removed one of her hands from his
shoulder to open the book further. Leaning on him with her remaining arm, she flipped through page
after page of happily married Lily and James and their smiling, cheerful baby boy. She saw their
joy and pushed back her own fears. She didn't know where her own family was.

Think about the prophecy, she told herself. She focused on the pages. She recalled the
prophecy in her head, scanning to find anything that might help her. She abruptly stopped turning
pages. There was something in this image that caught her subconscious mind.

It was an image of all of the faces represented the Order of the Phoenix in her head. Lily and
James Potter. Sirius Black. Remus Lupin. Albus Dumbledore. Frank and Alice Longbottom. They were
all standing, crouched, around a stone basin. Their faces looked younger in age, but still aged
from the horrors of the war. Both Lily and Alice were noticeably pregnant. All of them stood in a
circle around the basin, wispy silver strands flying gracefully around their heads. Dumbledore
appeared to be saying something, and Alice's face was colored with worry. Frank's hand
gently rubbed circles on the small of her back, while Lily squeezed her hand. Lily looked concerned
also, but a strong resolve was fixed into her small face. James stood behind her, a hand on her
shoulder, reassuring her silently.

In this image, Hermione could see Harry. The man standing with Lily, protecting her... it
reminded her so much of Harry. Not just the looks, though the looks were uncanny. But the aura. She
was never into the supernatural. She just could see the caring, the spirit of James. It lived in
his son.

Her eyes scanned the photo, over and over. Something was here. She knew it. She ran her finger
smoothly over the page. She could almost feel them moving. Though her mind knew that most of them
were dead, she could feel them... they were close. This wasn't supposed to happen, she
didn't believe in Divination-

Her thought was interrupted as a shot of ice jerked her backwards from behind her
bellybutton.

She distantly heard someone-- herself?-- scream as her body hurtled through space, her insides
frozen.




Thud.

She had stopped. She was sprawled out on a cold, hard floor and every inch of her had
constricted in pain. She shivered. It felt as though her veins were filled with liquid nitrogen.
Where am I? she thought, her mind befuddled but still alert.

Something moved beside her.

Ignoring the pain in her head, she sat straight up and pointed her wand threateningly in the
approximate direction from which the sound had come. She couldn't focus her eyes for the
dizziness, but she was ready to strike.

"Hermione?" came the tired voice.

"Harry?!" she cried, her vision finally coming into focus. He, too, was sprawled on
the floor, rubbing his head and attempting to sit up. "Are you alright?"

His eyes opened, though unfocused. "I will be once I find out what just happened." His
wand hand was also outstretched, his wand posing a threat to anyone who might be in the room with
them. "D'you spot my glasses?"

Shaking her head to clear it, she closed her hand around the shattered bits of wire and glass
that had once been Harry's glasses. "Oculis Reparo," she said softly. Making
sure that they were in good condition, she reached over and handed them to Harry.

He took them, sliding them on and scanning the room quickly. They appeared to be in a room that
resembled a dungeon, though it seemed to extend forever on all sides. The floor was cold gray
stone, but every time he tried to focus his vision on the walls, they seemed to fade further back.
He slowly stood up, ignoring the throbbing in his body. His wand hand was still outstretched,
trained to patrol. He offered his other hand to Hermione.

She accepted it and he helped to pull her to her feet. Her wand was also extended. They both
silently turned in opposite directions, attempting to get some clue as to where they were.
"Humana aparesco," she whispered. The tip of her wand glowed blue, sparked
twice, and then faded out. "There's no one here," she said quietly, still on alert.
Sensing his confusion, she answered his unasked question. "Company Charm. The Smart
Witch's Guide to Self Defense. One blue spark comes from the wand tip for each person in the
area."

He nodded. "Look at the walls," he said.

She looked around her. Suddenly, her eyes lit up. "The Infinity Room," she whispered.
"We're in the Infinity Room."

"Where are we?"

"It's not so much a where... more a when, or a how--"

"Hermione, what the hell is going on?!" he demanded, not angry at her but frustrated
at his disorientation. This was not a good situation.

"I... I don't know," she responded quickly. "The Infinity Room... I
didn't think it was real. It's from wizarding legend, it's not a real place... or I
thought it wasn't. It was in the Infinity Room that Merlin was born. He was the illegitimate
child of a mortal mother and a demon father. She was imprisoned here, this used to be a fort. This
room was a dungeon. But when Merlin emerged, a reverberation of power hit the walls and made them
extend into eternity. It's not really a place, or a time. It's just there. It's where
time and space stand still. When Merlin was here, he was in the past and the present and the future
at the same time. Some people think that his powers were left here when he died. The room goes on
forever," she added, with the tone that said that she was reciting from a book.

He paused, as if sensing the powers around him. "So we're in a mythological
place," he said, so quietly that she wasn't sure he'd said it. "If it goes on
forever... how do we get out?"

She glanced at him briefly. "The only way to get here is to be summoned by the Keeper.
We've been brought here for some reason, and the only way out is to be... put back in our
respective places." She slowly scanned the room, turning on her toes. "We were
summoned... but something triggered it. I was looking through your album, I was moving my finger
over the page..."

Her eyes fell on something directly behind her, in what appeared to be the center of the room
(though she wasn't sure that infinity had a center). There stood a stone basin.

It caught her attention immediately. She had seen it before.

It was the same basin as she'd seen in the picture, with the members of the Order standing
around it.

I had just touched the image of that basin.

"Is that how we got here?" he asked. "You touched the picture? That section must
have been a Portkey, but why they'd make a picture of a Pensieve into a Portkey... and I've
touched that picture before, why did this happen now?"

She lost his words after 'Pensieve.' That's a Pensieve, she thought.
Why didn't I see it before... "That in which thought is hidden," she
finished out loud. "That in which thought is hidden! Harry, that's it!!!" Taking his
wrist in the semidark hall, she knelt over by the pedestal. She dared not touch it yet, or look
within its depths. There was a deep inscription that ran the entire circumference around the basin,
written in the same odd script that had shown up on Sirius's mirror.

SANCTUS QUOD OCCULTUS EST SAPIENTA UT FUTURAS INTUS PRO TOTUS VICIS.

She delicately ran her fingers over the air in front of the text. "I can't read
it."

"It's Latin, Hermione," he said.

"I know that, thank you," she said, a bit more sharply than she'd intended..
"Can you read Latin? Because I can't."

He rolled his eyes. "You're a witch. Bewitch the letters. You did it before."

Her face lit up for a split second, not paying attention to the fact that she had, once again,
forgotten her ability to do magic. She waved her wand in a wide, graceful sweep over the
inscription. The letters glowed and reshaped.

Sacred and concealed is the wisdom that lies within for all time.

She could barely breathe. She felt the power, the sanctity in the chamber. This, sitting in
front of her, could spell all of the answers. She'd always been intellectually curious, and she
couldn't resist the chance at knowledge. Her trembling hand reached out toward the stone basin
that held the wisdom of the ages. This was the Holy Grail. It stopped millimeters before contact.
She could already feel the cool stone beneath her fingertips in her mind. Something was
inexplicably pulling her closer, yet simultaneously holding her back.

Harry knew the weight of this moment. He could sense it. This could be it. His chance.
He felt a strange power coursing through him that he didn't recognize as his own magic.
Actually, two strange powers. One was reverberating from the Pensieve, flowing through him and the
endless room. The other, though, was deep within him and seemed to be coming from Hermione.
He'd felt her power before, in battles where they'd fought together, but this didn't
feel like her. It was a different surge, and he couldn't place it. He just knew that
as her hand got closer to the stone, the energy pulsed stronger and higher. It just intensified...
built... he could feel it growing and expanding.... doubling... increasing exponentially... All he
could do was pull toward it. His hand reached on its own accord toward Hermione's shoulder. It
was almost as though he was being possessed, but he still felt completely in control. He came
closer...

She came closer...

It was so close...

It was there.

She felt the fleeting stone under her fingertips just as he reached the warmth of her shoulder.
The surge that flew through both of them rocked them to the core. They barely noticed the blinding
flash of light that flooded the entire room, from one infinity to the other.

They each pulled back, jerking forcefully to break the terrifying, though wonderful chain of
feeling.

"Sweet Merlin," Hermione whispered.

"Indeed," said a quiet, but unmistakably powerful voice from behind them.

Author's Note: I do not, in any way, speak or read Latin. The Latin used here is from
InterTran, a free online translation resource. I apologize if it isn't correct, because it is
very likely that it isn't.

I'm really, really sorry. I'm terrible about cliffhangers. Remember, reviews equal an
accelerated journey to the next chapter. On toward morning, you might say. ;)






8. Realism and Memory
---------------------

Author's Note: After reading Half-Blood Prince, I took a long hiatus from this story, both
because of real life and because of the events of the book. I didn't know whether to continue
this story as AU, just leave it incomplete and start over, or try to go back to make the
corrections to include HBP. I have continued with this chapter the way I'd intended prior to
HBP, so it is now an Alternate Universe story. Please review and tell me whether you would still
like for it to be continued as is.

Thank you very much for both your reviews and your patience. A VERY special thank you goes to
allyeinstein123 for her corrections of my Latin in the last chapter. I took it as a high compliment
that you took your time to give me not only the corrections, but an explanation as well. Thank you
very much. The Latin in the last chapter should have read:

Sanctus occulusque sapientia est quae intus per totem tempore iacet.




See Chapter 1 for Disclaimer.

"Sweet Merlin," Hermione whispered.

"Indeed," said a quiet, but unmistakably powerful voice from behind them.

Both quick as lightning and slower than time itself, Harry and Hermione turned about.

He stood before them, straight as a rail and nearly as thin as one. Tall, wispy, but exuding a
strength and power unmatched by anyone or anything either of them had ever experienced. His golden
robes billowed around him; what appeared to be a solid gold sword encased in a mahogany scabbard
hung low on his hip. Long silvery-white hair framed his age-old face and melded into his long
beard. He bore a striking resemblance to Albus Dumbledore, with one notable exception. Though his
eyes held the same youthful sparkle, while Dumbledore's were sapphires, this man's- if he
could even be called a man- were emeralds.

"Good Lord," Hermione breathed as Harry simultaneously cried "Bloody
Hell!"

"Though I might appreciate the flattery, Miss Granger, I'm afraid Mr. Potter's
utterance is more accurate. It seems more fitting that the son of a daemon would be met with a
curse rather than a religious term of endearment."

For one very rare time in their lives, both Harry and Hermione were struck speechless.

"Though I assure you that I possess one of the most lengthy and tedious names of anyone,
now or forever, I believe that sort of formality will not prove necessary. I am Merlin, sorcerer
and Keeper," he said offhandedly, as if he were simply commenting that he was hungry or old or
Irish. He made a sweeping bow, his robes flowing perfectly as he bent as fluidly as someone
one-thousandth of his age.

"Harry James Potter and Hermione Jane Granger. I have waited eternities to have your
presence, or possibly you have come before I have even known of you. Time is uncertain, you see,
its sands are relative."

Harry let out a breath that he didn't know he'd been holding.

"Welcome to the Infinity Room. Here, there is no past that has already occurred, no future
waiting to take place. There is no present, and life is merely an illusion. Yet at the same time
everything is in the past, and everything is in the future. There is no life, no death, no
evolution, no stagnancy. Simply infinity. Time, as life, is fleeting. In this room there is neither
power nor weakness, and yet there is no equality. Time, you see, in infinite, though the time of a
human may be finite."

"Sir," Hermione began as she had so many times before, "how--"

"Nothing exists in this room that is not infinite, Miss Granger. Life is mortal. Death,
contrary to most speculation, is not a final state. Evolution has a beginning and end with the life
from which it evolves, and stagnancy is temporary. You see, power and weakness are merely tricks of
the mind. Smoke and mirrors. Infinite power cannot exist, and tangentally, neither may infinite
weakness. For even the weakest have power, and the most powerful often carry the deepest
weaknesses.

He paused.

"Evil exists here. Evil is an infinite parasite, always seeking a new host. But although
evil fools the Room into believing its infinity, there exist things stronger, things truly
infinite. There are only three true presences in the Room, just three truly infinite energies. Your
fight is not truly a fight against evil, Mr. Potter. Your fight is against something much easier to
vanquish. Power. Your quest is to find the weakness in a seemingly endless power. This, you must
remember. You can not vanquish evil. Evil will continually return. All that you need to do is
discover the bounds of the power of the one who you must destroy."

"Three infinite entities, Mr. Potter, Ms. Granger. Find them and your battle will be won.
Invoke them and your enemy will be eradicated."

"Triumvirate."

With that one word echoing through his mind, the darkness engulfed him.






His shoulder hurt.

Harry slowly opened his eyes to the blinding golden light of a summer evening. He knew where he
was; he was lying on the pristine linoleum floor of the Dursleys' kitchen. He knew these
surroundings well, which was a good thing, considering the fact that he simply knew that
his glasses were lying in shards beside him. After breaking them so many times, he had developed a
sixth sense for knowing when his glasses were broken.

His shoulder hurt, a dull ache that grew into a hot inferno as his awareness returned to him. As
the pain radiated from his shoulder to his collarbone through his arm to his fingertips, he became
aware of a weight on his burning arm. A human-sized weight with bushy brown hair-

"Hermione?" he asked quickly, his wits returning. He attempted to sit up, but his arm
refused to support him. "Hermione!"

Her eyelids fluttered and opened, her eyes unfocused at first. Reality seemed to flow back to
her after several moments. "Harry?" she said to no one in particular. It was then that
she realized that her head rested on his collarbone, her legs thrown haphazardly across his solar
plexus. "Are you alright?"

"I'm not sure," he said.

Squeezing her eyes shut and opening them once more to focus them, she managed to sit upright,
sliding her legs off of his chest and kneeling by his side, looking him over. "I'm so
sorry! I must have fallen on you, I never meant that, I don't even remember
Apparating--"

"You didn't," Harry said. "Apparate, that is."

"Oculis reparo," she sighed, flicking her wand at the shards of glass scattered across
the kitchen floor. They swirled together into Harry's old glasses, which she reached across his
body to retrieve and give to him. "What hurts?"

He started to sit up, and her hand immediately flew to his back to help him. I'm not an
invalid, he thought.

She chose to ignore that. "What hurts, Harry?"

"My..." he hissed as her hand skimmed over the site of his pain,
"shoulder."

She raised her hand to his right shoulder. Gently, she touched the junction between his
collarbone and his arm. She had intended to ask him if that hurt, but his sharp intake of breath
told her. "Evanesco," she murmured, touching his sleeve with her wand.

"Hermione?" he queried, startled as his shirt disappeared.

"I need to see what I'm doing," she said somewhat briskly. His shoulder had bled;
there was a jagged cut across the skin, and a bruise was appearing. She wondered in the back of her
mind how long they had been unconscious. "Aenesthia," she said, her wand circling the
injury. He looked on as she healed his cut and felt his shoulder with her hand to find any possible
internal damage. "Desroto," she said finally. He could feel his bones shifting and
growing back into position, even through the pain-deadening charm. Something prickled under his
skin as she moved behind him and slid both of her hands over his shoulders, attempting to determine
whether there was any swelling still.

"You'll have a scar," she said. "I can try to remove it--"

"Don't," he interrupted harshly.

She was silent.

"I need the scar. I need the memory of the hurt and the welts on my skin. My whole damned
life revolves around a scar. That scar tells me who I am. I would bloody well like to rid myself of
that one. I don't want this job I've got. But I've got it. Ever scar I've got has a
purpose and a story. You could erase every damned scar on my body, but the scars on the outside
aren't the ones that hurt. I live so that either I can die or I can kill. Or both." He
took a breath. "I need the scars. The scars on the outside force me to remember why I'm
living this life. The marks on my skin... they take away from the marks inside."

He felt her fingertips skim the tops of his collarbones and shoulder blades. She was humming
something, something quiet and beautiful and distant and familiar in a strange sort of way.
"What're you humming?" he said before he could decide whether or not he should ask.
It almost seemed sacred.

But she stopped when she heard him. There was an audible silence, a void. "I didn't
realize... it's just... It's just a song that my mother..." she trailed off. "My
mother used to sing me to sleep."

"Mine, too," Harry heard his voice saying somewhere very far away. "I hear
her."