The Killing Curse

The Killing Curse

Chapter One – The Taking of Flight 233

Hermione Jane Granger had forgotten, in the three years that passed since September 11, 2001 – nearly her 21^st birthday -- just how heavily secured American airports had become.

Walking through the airport, Hermione was instantly reminded of that horrible day. Then, Hermione, a graduate witch from the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry (with Highest Honors and as Head Girl), was working in New York as the First Assistant to the Chairwitch of the of Elf, Sprite, and Faeirie Welfare Department at the United States Federal Bureau of Wizarding, or FBW, for short.

Hermione hated business travel. However, on that fateful day, her travels may have very well saved her life. Hermione was safely in California, responding with all due haste to a report of an appalling instance of faerie abuse.

It was unthinkable to Hermione that anyone could allow a poor, innocent, faerie to be mercilessly trapped in a lantern for three days whilst filming a wizarding version of Peter Pan. Luckily for Hermione, the travel ban following September 11 did not apply to magical methods such as portkeys, disapperation, or floo powder, as these were not likely susceptible to terrorist attack on a massive scale.

Pulling herself back into the present, Hermione was quite satisfied with her precautionary measure of using an invisibility cloak to conceal two wizard’s wands she carried within her backpack. With these wands concealed, and no questions to possibly be asked about them by security personnel, she and her new husband, Harry James Potter – also a Hogwarts graduate and a fully-trained wizard -- slid effortlessly through the security checkpoints at the Chicago O’Hare International Airport.

After reaching the gate, and after about an hour’s conversation, snuggling, reminiscing, and yes, a little kissing, the newlywed couple queued up with the rest of the passengers, and boarded their plane bound for London -- home after a three-week honeymoon touring the Midwest of America.

Where otherwise Harry and Hermione may have traveled by magical means to their honeymoon destination, this particular trip was a wedding gift from Hermione’s parents. Mr. and Mrs. Granger, unlike their daughter and new son-in-law, were non-wizarding folk – Muggles -- and knew no other way to travel across continents. Therefore, the gift not only included first-class lodging, meals, and a new summer wardrobe for both, but first-class plane tickets as well. Harry and Hermione could not bring themselves to hurt the Grangers’ feelings by not using them. Plus, first-class was certainly much more posh -- not to mention much cleaner -- than floo powder.

Upon entering the plane, Harry gaped in awe, immediately noticing how incredibly large and expansive it was despite its compact exterior.

“Kind of like Mr. Weasley’s old Ford Anglia – or what’s left of it now,” the tall, black-haired, young wizard mused to himself, and gave a small chortle of laughter. Harry’s best friend’s father had once bewitched a Ford Anglia, not only to fly, but to be able to carry an immense amount of luggage, and about twenty people inside of it. When Harry and his friend, Ron Weasley, “borrowed” the car, just before their second year at Hogwarts, the end result was disastrous.

Hermione, on the other hand, became thoroughly consumed by the paperwork of tickets, juggling passports, and readying boarding passes. As this was only the second time Harry had flown in the Muggle way -- by airplane -- in the entirety of his 25 years, he left the details, worry, and organization to his experienced flyer of a wife.

The plane sat three on either side of two aisles, and three on the inside aisle. As Harry and Hermione secured seats in First Class, they did not get to see the remainder of the plane’s coach section yet. Harry and Hermione took their seats, and buckled in. A stewardess offered them both some real English tea, before takeoff, which they both polished off with relish.

After emptying his cup, Harry, out of habit, stared at the leaves stuck to the bottom of the cup. He could have sworn that he saw the small, indistinct outline of the head of a barking, vicious dog.

“The Grim,” muttered Harry.

Hermione looked at him questioningly, “What?”

“Blast, if only I had paid more attention in Divination! I think that’s the Grim at the bottom of my cup.” Harry struggled to remember, laughing to himself. “If memory serrrrves me wellllll,” Harry moaned dramatically in his best Professor Trelawney imitation, “I dooooo believe, young Harry, that that means,” he paused dramatically, “Oooohhhh! Deathhhhhhhh.” Grinning, he raised his eyes up and to the left, searching for the memory, and gave a small “Huh.”

“Ah, it’s a load of rubbish, anyways, Harry.” Hermione waved a hand in a brush-off gesture. “You know that. That batty old Trelawney was never right about anything. How many times did she predict your death, and here you still are!”

Harry smiled. “If only you knew,” he thought.

Thirty minutes after take-off, as Hermione began to doze off on Harry’s shoulder; Harry’s eyes caught a strange, quite unexpected sight. Men. Muggles. Three of them, walking up and down the business and first class aisles. While, normally, Harry would not find the sight of muggles on an airplane as odd, these men were carrying, what seemed to Harry, as guns.

These, to Harry’s untrained eye, seemed to be very, very powerful weapons -- the likes of which his cousin, Dudley Dursley, had toys of when Harry was a child. Harry, an orphan at the age of one, was raised by his Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon Dursley – Muggles who despised Harry’s parents, and everything about the wizarding world. Dudley, their portly son, would always, with a great deal of glee, refuse Harry the pleasure of playing along with his guns. These men, Harry quickly realized, were not playing, and these guns were not plastic toys.

Harry’s next thoughts went to the security back in the airport. He wondered how it was possible for these three men to carry guns on board a plane so heavily guarded and secured – without, possibly, the use of magic. Harry made a mental note.

Harry elbowed Hermione so hard that she woke with an, “Ouch, Harry!” and Harry immediately shushed her, whispering only, “Wands.”

With that, Harry felt himself being wrenched upwards by the right arm and he was forced to turn about-face. One of the men was moving Harry roughly toward the back of the plane. Harry turned and saw that another man had Hermione closely in tow. Her long mass of tousled brown hair was flying wildly behind her as she struggled slightly against the grip on her arm.

Harry silently prayed that Hermione had time to follow his one-word instruction. With every step toward the rear, Harry could hear a murmur from the rest of the passengers, growing louder, and increasing with the sounds of sheer, utter, and unmistakable panic.

The two men forced Harry and Hermione to sit in the front of a group of tightly situated, very frightened passengers and flight attendants. These men, almost in unison, began barking out orders to the crowd, bellowing in a guttural, almost gravelly, tongue. Despite the now obvious language barrier, Harry didn’t need a translator to catch the gist of what they were saying -- “Shut up, and don’t move.”

As the flight was not full, the group took up only about ten to twelve rows in the rear of the plane. Harry, sitting on the aisle, craned his neck around to see the group, to take stock in the numbers, calculate the odds. Harry began to lean over to view the other side of the plane, only to have the side of his face rudely, and purposefully, whacked with the butt end of a small pistol.

Hermione, hearing the dull “thud” of metal against flesh, gave a small, stifled scream of shock.

Harry did not make a sound. He simply, and deliberately took a moment to shake off the initial sting, stifle the ringing in his ear, and to focus out the stars in his eyes. Calmly adjusting his glasses, Harry muttered a silent, “Bastard,” with an exhaled breath. He then turned his head slowly back toward the man who had clocked him, eyeing him as if to say “Is that all you’ve got? I’ve taken far worse than you possibly can imagine – so, sod off you silly, stupid prat.”

In typical Hermione fashion, she gingerly laid a hand on Harry’s clenched fist, and whispered to him in a sing-song, yet shaken voice. “Ignoooore him, Harry. Ignoooore him. Ignoooore him,” she intoned, hoping to stop Harry from doing anything he might regret.

It took everything Harry had not to stand up and full on clobber this, this – person – in the nose. Better yet, Harry fantasized, to pull out his wand and fix him up right with a rather large, dirty, and smelly set of donkey’s ears.

The man was now defiantly gawping at Harry, as if, Harry thought, to say, “Try anything, English dog, and you will be lucky to escape with just a cut.” This did not faze Harry one bit. He was more than used to unwelcome stares. Specifically, other wizards often stared at the lighting-bolt shaped scar that adorned Harry’s forehead. This was the result of a fatal curse -- gone horribly wrong.

At the tender age of one, Harry unknowingly and unwittingly earned great fame in the wizarding world as the only person to survive what was known as the “Killing Curse,” or “Avada Kedavra.” This curse backfired upon Lord Voldemort, the wizard who cast it against Harry. As the result, Voldemort, the most powerful and horrible wizard of his time, lost all of his power, and, for all intents and purposes, died – but not completely, and not permanently. After that, Harry became known simply as “the boy who lived.”

Harry’s scar, therefore, was quite the conversation piece, and was the thing about Harry’s face most stared at by every wizard he met. Even moreso, the scar was a constant reminder for Harry of Voldemort’s presence and power. The scar burned with intense heat and excruciating, skull-splitting pain every time the Dark Lord was near, or if Voldemort felt particularly murderous since his return to power during Harry’s fourth year at Hogwarts. In his fifth year, Voldemort had, for a fleeting moment, possessed Harry, causing the pain to be deathly intense.

Despite the growing pain and insult to Harry’s face, Harry mentally measured the man up. Harry, despite Hermione’s protestations, bored his eyes intently, angrily – even threateningly, up into the man’s eyes.

To Harry’s surprise, the “man” was actually a boy, no older than 19, and little older than Harry was when he graduated from Hogwarts. The boy was a skinny thing, Harry thought, with the same kind of unkempt, jet-black hair Harry wore on his head. Unlike Harry, however, this boy’s eyes were not sparkling, shining green. They were a dull, lifeless, muddy-colored brown.

The boy, now shrinking somewhat under Harry’s malevolent glare, momentarily gained enough smarts to leave. His eyes darting with new fear, the boy cursed harshly at Harry in that gravelly language, turned on his heels and strutted toward the front of the plane. Harry let go of his apparent fury for a moment and sighed heavily.

It wasn’t until then that Harry noticed the blood dripping from the side of his face. He felt the wet stickyness begin to pool up around the collar of his polo shirt. He instinctively put a hand to his face, and finally allowed Hermione to dab at it with a stray tea napkin. Judging from the tingling sensation growing under his wound, he surmised that Hermione had daubed the napkin in the vial of phoenix tears – a valuable substance with strong healing powers -- she carried in her purse before wetting Harry’s cheek. The bleeding stopped rapidly and summarily, as did the throbbing pain in his jawline. Harry smiled weakly and lay back against the headrest, happy to let Hermione do her stuff.

While Hermione worked on Harry’s cheek, she touched her wand, now hidden within the napkin, to Harry’s right ear.

“Translenguoto,” she whispered.

Harry felt a mild heat and a slight buzzing sensation in his ear. Then Harry’s ears rang painfully. He clasped his hands to his ears and glared at Hermione, who only shrugged. When the pain finally subsided, Harry, to his surprise, was able to understand everything the men-with-guns were discussing, hearing their heretofore foreign words now in clear Queen’s English.

As Harry listened for the next two to three minutes, while the spell lasted, he overheard words such as, “September 11,” “crash this plane,” “finish the job,” “Capitol Building,” “British embassy,” “Washington, D.C.,” “American dogs,” and “English bastards.”

Fear, hatred, and anger, intense as he had not felt in a long time, began to well up and rise simultaneously within Harry’s core. His heart started to pummel the back of his chest wall, and he could feel his respirations quicken with every understood phrase.

Hermione could see these emotions reflected in her husband’s face. Harry’s otherwise placid and friendly countenance sloughed off with growing emotion. Hermione saw, in its place, a dark, brooding, hateful, and, Hermione thought, terribly frightening version of Harry – a look that Hermione had not seen since Harry’s beloved and newly-found godfather, Sirius Black, was brutally murdered years ago.

Newly frightened, Hermione continued in vain to tend to Harry’s now healed wound. As her hands became shakier and shakier, she simply needed something to do to quell her own rising fears.

Harry realized his reactions had distressed Hermione something fierce. He gently took her hand, pulled it down away from his face, and kissed it. “I’m sorry, Hermione, I didn’t mean to get upset there. Look, I didn’t mean to – to upset you, Hermione,” Harry’s cracking voice, try as he might, could not hide his rage and panic. “It’s just that -- that it’s not good.”

He tried desperately to convey to Hermione what he heard without panicking the other passengers. “I mean, not to panic, right? I mean, really.” He sighed. Hermione just stared at him, blankly. “Hermione, this will all just be a -- damn.” Harry hung his head momentarily, then turned in his seat to face Hermione full on. “Hermione, I love you. I would never, ever let anything happen to you. I’d die first, and you know that! OK -- I heard them say -- heard them say – Oh, blast!”

Instead of explaining further, Harry looked Hermione earnestly, pleadingly, in the eyes, signaling the need for Hermione to do the same.

“Pensandaroto,” Harry breathed, intoning the charm without the benefit of a wand.

As Hermione concentrated hard on the emerald brightness of Harry’s eyes, she heard, within the confines of her own head, small, quiet stutters of Harry’s voice.

“Need to stop them… Plan to crash into Capitol Building in D.C. … Wands… When attackers among passengers… Count of three… Turn… Stunning charm… All of them… Understand?” Hermione, her heart tangled up in her throat, understood what Harry was plotting.

Without looking away from Harry, Hermione simply, slightly, nodded her head in agreement, and slipped Harry his wand.

Chapter Two – The Stunning Charm

It seemed an eternity until at least three of the men with guns were standing among the passengers. Harry and Hermione were waiting to get a clear shot to throw stunning charms at the terrorists, to put them into a magical sleep along with the rest of the passengers and flight attendants. At least, with three of them down, there could not have been many more. The odds, Harry thought, would significantly turn in their favor.

Harry knew that what he and Hermione ultimately had to do should not, if it could be helped, be witnessed by this group of one-hundred or more Muggles. Such a mass witnessing of their wizarding abilities, if they all survived, would require long hours on the part of the Memory Modification Squads, and who knows what other problems within both the American FBW and the English Ministry of Magic.

Harry, seeing the chance, and hoping furtively that his plan would work, counted under his breath to Hermione. Hermione, adrenaline rushing, readied herself and her wand.

“One. Two. Three.” Then he shouted, “GO!!”

Both Harry and Hermione stood and turned. Harry immediately noticed the shocked and confused looks on the passengers’ faces. To his chagrin, Harry also saw the attackers begin to protest, aiming their weapons at him, readying to fire. Acting quickly, Harry aimed his wand at the right of the plane, and Hermione to the left. In unison, they called out, “STUPEFY!”

Red streaks of light shot out of the ends of their wands, covering the entirety of the plane’s rear quarters. One by one the passengers, crew, and the three hijackers either slumped in their chairs, or fell to the ground in a heap.

Satisfied, and rather amazed that the mass-stunning actually worked, Harry re-aimed his wand. “Accio guns!”

All three of the long, strange-looking rifles flew toward Harry, and he caught each of them in his arms. After Harry dumped the weapons behind a row of seats, Harry and Hermione began walking purposefully toward the front of the plane.

Harry, in his heroic rush, did not notice that the young boy, the one who hit him with the butt of his rifle, was not among the stunned attackers.

“Keep your wand at the ready,” Harry ordered Hermione, as if she were one of his underlings. Harry was an Auror – a sort of elite wizarding policeman -- in his job at the Ministry of Magic. Harry was running on pure adrenaline now, a feeling he was quite used to, and a situation under which he always performed his best. “You take the right side, and I the left. Your first task, if we don’t encounter anymore thugs, will be to ensure that the pilot and co-pilot are okay, and that they can land this plane straight away, ok?” Harry smiled weakly, momentarily dropping his take-charge demeanor. “I love you, you know.”

Hermione smiled back, speechless. She nodded again, too fearful and too bloody green in these situations to say a single word. Surely, she didn’t want Harry to see how truly and incredibly petrified she was. Turning her back to Harry, Hermione scooted herself quickly and purposefully across a row of the middle coach seats, and, then, in close tandem with Harry, started walking up the aisle.

As they simultaneously parted the curtains between coach and business class, Harry noticed immediately that this cabin, and that of the first class ahead of them, were dead silent and empty. “Impossible,” Harry mused, his instincts tingling. “There has to be more of them.”

Harry, again began to bark out orders in an audible whisper. “Hermione, go to the cockpit and check on the pilot, I’ll check the lavatories and the service stat…” But Harry’s words were cut off by the rush of a man, a fourth man, making a mad dash past him, back to the rear of the cabin.

“What the…..Blast!” Harry cursed, and then, wheeling around to his wife, “Go, go, go, Hermione, I’ll take care of him!” Harry turned to run, then back to Hermione. “If you see another one -- stunning charm -- quick, and then yell for me, ok!”

It was all Hermione could do but to nod her agreement yet again.

Harry parted the curtain again, and saw the most appalling, sickening, sight he could ever have imagined. In all his years as an Auror, in facing the death of his parents, the death of Sirius Black, and yes, Voldemort himself -- he never ever saw anything that wrenched at his insides as this did.

The man – no, to Harry’s astonishment – that young boy was holding a small child by the hair, and, with his other hand, was holding a large, obviously sharp, knife to her neck. This poor young girl could not have been more than four years old, Harry surmised. The girl was sound asleep under the effects of Hermione’s stunning spell.

“Bloody blast-ended skrewts!” Harry hissed. “I should have known.”

Chapter Three – Hermione the Healer

Hermione had reached the cockpit with little trouble, and no sign of any other attackers. She knocked on the heavy steel door. “Uh, hullo! Hullo in there, is everyone okay in there?” Her knocks went unheeded. Knocking again, “Hullo! Um, everyone’s alive out here so far, um, are you alive in there?” After knocking a third time, Hermione assumed that the door was so thick she could not be heard over the sound of the engines and the roar of the wind.

Hermione searched the front cabin. As she looked to her left, she noticed a red telephone hooked on the bulkhead. She ran toward it and picked it up. She heard only silence on the other end, but spoke anyways.

“Hullo? Hullo? This is passenger Hermione Grang--- uh, Potter. Is this the line to the cockpit? Captain, if you’re there please pick this up or answer or whatever it is you do.” She waited. “Sir, my husband, um, Harry and I have, um, taken care of three of the men, they won’t be bothering anybody!” She relayed the rest of the situation, hoping that the pilot knew that the plane was being hijacked. Still more silence. Hermione was ready to give up, when she heard a friendly, but tense, American voice.

“Ms. Potter?” Hermione felt a wash and a rush of relief. “This is Captain Charles MacDaniel. It’s good to hear a friendly voice, ma’am.”

“Yes! Yes, this is Hermione Potter,” she said with stiffness as if talking to someone who was hard of hearing. “Can you open the door or something? I need to make sure you are alright in there.”

“Ms. Potter, do you know if there are any doctors on board?” came the voice.

“Uh, no, I don’t Captain,” Hermione became frightened again. “Why?”

“Ms. Potter, one of the men attacked my co-pilot on his way back here from the bathroom, and ma’am, he’s in a world of hurt.”

“Captain, sir.” Hermione whispered. “Can you open the door for me? I think I can help.” Hermione’s hand went to her pocket where the vial of phoenix tears lay.

“One more thing, before you come in, Ms. Potter.” The previously smooth American Captain’s voice became one of grave concern and worry. “Please see if my daughters are okay out there – one is eleven, and one is four.”

Hermione swallowed hard. “Yes, sir. I will check on them for you – once we patch up your co-pilot, sir.” With that, the door opened. At the same time, Hermione heard a horrible roar come from the rear of the plane.

It was Harry. “Hermione!!!! Get back here, now! Merlin’s Beard, he’s got a hostage!”

Hermione’s head started spinning. She was torn between the profusely bleeding, obviously dying man sitting in the co-pilot’s seat before her, and Harry’s spine-chilling bellow. Also hearing Harry’s primal scream, the Captain turned the plane over to his navigator. “Jim, we’re just over Cleveland, right?”

The navigator nodded.

“They got our mayday already. Radio our status every 30 seconds to the tower. Tell them we’re taking this bird back. Turn off the auto these goons set, bank this baby 180, and fly her back to Cleveland – emergency landing -- now!”

Charles shot from his seat and started toward the rear cabin. He answered Hermione’s dilemma for her. “You, Ms. Potter, please stay here,” he gestured toward the co-pilot. “Help Danny – please, Ms. Potter.” As before, all Hermione could do, frozen in her fear, was to nod.

Chapter Four – The Terrorist’s Song

Harry, still not believing what he was seeing, began to seethe with fury and a newly percolating hatred. All he knew was that he had him – he held this increasingly irritating little boy at wand-point. Harry briefly wondered if this was how Voldemort felt about him when he was a student at Hogwarts. “No time for reverie, Potter,” he thought. “What to do… I can’t fire without hitting the girl, now, can I?”

Harry worked furtively at numerous scenarios and strategies in his Auror-trained and sharpened mind. Each circumstance, however, ended in severe injury or tragedy for the girl. Even if Harry’s timing was true, the girl would undoubtedly be hit with yet a second spell. For a Muggle, being doubly magicked, even by a simple disarming charm, was not a good thing. Even if he took the chance and performed a disarming charm, Harry thought, the flying blade may scrape the girl’s throat and kill her.

Despite his rolling emotions and brain machinations, Harry did understand one thing: that he must look awfully silly, standing there brandishing a wooden stick, to the hostage taker, and now to the pilot who was stopping at Harry’s side, panting.

The pilot let out a short blast of a scream. “Kellie!” He shouted. “No, no, no, no, not Kellie! Let her go. Let her go!”

Harry saw the pilot moving to lunge toward the attacker, and held him back with his free arm. “No! He’ll kill her!”

The pilot, resigning, turned to look at Harry. First, he was relieved to see the look of steely determination in Harry’s eyes. Following the path of Harry’s sight, however, Charles saw that he was holding a mere brown stick in his hand.

“What in the Sam hell are you doing?” Charles nearly clocked Harry for all his perceived stupidity. “What are you going to get with that thing?”

Harry shouted again, “Hermione! I could really use your help here!”

Hermione materialized from behind the left bulkhead curtain, and surveyed the scene with the same kind of horror that Harry felt. “He’s going to kill her!” She gasped.

“Not if we can help it, Hermione. Show this, this – boy -- what we can do. But don’t hit anyone. Make it a simple spell or charm, ok?”

Charles and the boy watched with rapt interest as Hermione, still shaking, pointed her wand to the floor and intoned, “Serpensorcia!” With that, a large, hungry looking snake flew from the end of her wand, and began writhing on the floor.

“Good one, Hermione.” Harry thought. “I can use this to my advantage.” Harry began making, what sounded to Charles, as a low, sleek hissing noise with the occasional vowel sounds thrown in. Unbeknownst to Charles and the boy, Harry was speaking Parseltongue – snake language -- as only Harry, and Voldemort, were able to do. Harry, continuing in his hiss, told the snake to rear up and frighten the man with the girl – not to touch him, not to bite him, but simply to frighten him.

When the snake had obeyed his commands, and when enough time passed that Harry was satisfied that the attacker was sufficiently wracked, Harry pointed his wand away from the attacker and at the snake, bellowing, “Finite Incantatum!” As instantly as it had arrived, the snake disappeared with a wisp of smoke.

“Good heavenly Lord,” the pilot whispered. “Point that stick thing back where you had it, man!”

However, Harry and Hermione’s display of power had the opposite effect than they had hoped. To Harry’s shock and horror, the boy heightened himself, craned his face heavenward and howled something horrible in that foreign language. Without another translation charm, Harry could no longer understand the strange tongue. As the boy’s screeching came to a siren-like ending, he lowered his head again, and stared coldly into Harry’s eyes.

This was unexpected, Harry thought. Without warning, Harry saw the man run the bladed edge of the knife across the young girl’s throat. The girl’s blood quickly welled up on the boy’s white shirtsleeve. The boy dropped the girl unceremoniously to the floor, leaving her for dead.

Chapter Five – The Killing Curse

Horrified, disgusted, revolted, and completely horror-struck, all three of them forced out variations of a scream. Harry’s in rage, Hermione’s in shock, and Charles’ in sheer, unadulterated grief.

The boy grinned, but there was no mirth behind the smile -- only a holier-than-thou grimace of pure satisfaction and pride. Suddenly, the boy sprang on the balls of his feet, and shot, running past Hermione, to the front of the cabin.

“For Heaven’s sake, Harry! Stop him!” Hermione shouted. Harry ran at full sprint toward the forward compartment.

The din and confusion settling, Hermione looked down at the crumpled heap of the girl lying nearly at her feet. She heard a small, plaintive, and pathetic moan from her right side, where the pilot had been. “This is his daughter,” she suspected.

Hermione surveyed the damage to the girl’s throat. It laid flayed open in a ribbon of blood, now pooling up around the girl’s red pigtailed hair. The girl’s breathing was extremely labored, and Hermione heard a distinct wheeze coming from her throat.

“Oh, God Almighty, no! God, God, God, please no, not Kellie!” Charles was wailing and keening in abject despair and grief.

Now on her knees next to Charles, Hermione laid a hand on his shoulder. “Believe it or not, sir, she will be alright.”

Charles blinked heavily and rapidly through his tears. “You! This is your fault! You and your damn snake charmin’ husband! How can you possibly say that -- that -- that -- that she’ll be alright?” His sentence trailed off in a whimper. “We’re hundreds of miles in the air, no doctor in sight!” Charles’ panic was building as his eyes darted around the quiet cabin. “And all these people are,” Charles gestured wildly, “They’re…they’re…”

“Stunned,” said Hermione calmly, her eyes full of sympathy, “Just stunned, it’ll wear off.”

“And that boy,” Charles continued, pointing. “That thing, that bastard just,” he swallowed, “cut my daughter’s throat.” Charles gave a great heavy sob, his anger ebbing away. “She’s dying, Mrs. Potter, and there’s nothing you, or I or anyone else can do about it.”

With that, Hermione retrieved the small flask of phoenix tears yet again. She held the vial up to the light and shook it. “Only a few left,” she thought, “but enough.” Showing him the flask, and begging permission from Charles with her eyes, Hermione opened the flask and poured with precision the remainder of its contents into little Kellie’s angry, gaping wound.

When nothing happened immediately, Charles broke down in increased and heartier sobs, burying his head in his hands. Charles began to shake uncontrollably and spasm with constant sobs of grief.

“Daddy?” Came a small, hoarse voice.

Hermione let out a squeal of delight and clasped her hands to her mouth. Charles, in utter disbelief, raised his tear streaked and face out of his bloodied hands and stared.

“Daddy, are you okay? Why are you crying, Daddy? Did somebody break your plane, Daddy?” Kellie was not only healed, but she had broken through the stunning charm. Hearing Kellie’s incessant questions, Charles gave a quite unmanly squawk and bundled his daughter up in his strong arms, rocking her.

“Strong girl you have there, sir.” Hermione laughed, fighting back her own tears.

“Runs in the family, Ms. Potter.”

“Please, sir, call me Hermione.”

Charles laughed, still wiping tears. “Then you, Hermione, call me Charles…and please, for the love of Pete, stop calling me sir!” Charles laughed again, and then became serious. “Hermione, I don’t know quite exactly how you did this. But, thank you.” He paused, clapping Hermione on the shoulder. “Now, let’s get out of here and land this plane, whaddya say?”

*************

Harry’s eyes darted left and right – seeking, searching, and trying with all his wizardly might to simply sense the boy. No, Harry thought, not the “boy,” the “killer” -- the horrible, hateful, murdering bastard of a man who dared kill a young innocent girl in spite of Harry -- not to mention in front of the girl’s own father. Despite the language barrier, clearly, this cretin could tell from the pilot’s body language that he loved her very much.

It took every inch of Harry’s resolve not to sing-song, “Come out, come out wherever you are….you little weasel.” Harry scoured up and down the aisles, checking beneath the chairs, peering in the open lavatories, and…

“Shit,” Harry murmured. The cabin door to the cockpit was wide open.

Harry jumped. There was a muffled “twhip” noise coming from the cockpit. If Harry was not mistaken, he had heard that noise on a spy TV show he saw as a kid – a silencer. “Oh, no….” Harry ran toward the front of the plane and flung the door the rest of the way open. The boy had killed again – he had shot the co-pilot point-blank in the chest. As Harry caught him, the boy was making to mete out the same fate to the navigator.

“Stop, you!” Harry bellowed.

Abandoning the gun in his hand, the killer ran back again toward the coach cabin, only to be stopped by Hermione, brandishing her wand. As she walked forward, the killer took a great and risky chance. He ran into Hermione full-on, knocking her down, and proceeding to rapidly pummel her in the face with his fists.

Harry couldn’t get to her fast enough. “Hermione!” He screamed.

No answer. Hermione was out cold. Charles materialized behind the curtain where Hermione had been standing. “What’s going on out here!” Charles demanded.

Now trapped between the pilot and the end of Harry’s wand, the killer began panting, his prior hubris being quickly replaced by abject fear.

Seeing Hermione lie motionless on the floor, Harry’s higher brain ceased to function properly. He lost all sense of himself, all sense of his Auror training, all sense of right and wrong, and all sense of the possible consequences of his actions. Mostly, Harry wanted this whole standoff to be over. He wanted this boy, this man, this thing, this whatever he was, dead. Simply dead. Other than his godfather’s murderer -- and Voldemort -- Harry had never, until now, wished anyone dead, let alone tried to purposefully kill anyone.

“Not going anywhere now, are you, boy?” Harry sneered. “Who do you think you are? Who do you think you’re dealing with?” Harry heard himself give a low, threatening growl. “I, my friend, am not one to be trifled with. And you have done quite enough trifling for one day, haven’t you?”

The boy stood mystified, continuing to shiver, and obviously beginning to see the error in beating Hermione to a pulp.

Harry brandished his wand anew. He continued, no longer aware that the boy could not understand a single word he said. “You, boy, are not going to hurt any more children, or women. Your little plot to resurrect September 11 has just fallen flat on its face, hasn’t it?” Harry’s voice dripped with uncharacteristic malice. “Just try and run now. Try and hurt someone else. Try anything, you little worthless git, and you will die.” Harry’s voice trailed off. “Hell, boy, if I have my say, you just may die anyways.”

Harry heard the pilot’s voice in some distant place. “But Mr. Potter! Don’t do it! She’s okay! Don’t kill him! He’s unarmed!”

Harry noticed immediately that the pilot was wrong. Very wrong. As the boy began to scuttle between the center seats, Harry noticed a glint of steel protruding from his back pocket. As the boy reached the other aisle, Harry saw him reach for the steel – “That damn revolver again,” Harry thought. As quickly as the boy reached for the gun and aimed it, Harry reacted.

It was an incantation Harry had never used, never even intended to use, on anyone before. Harry did not even realize or understand how or why these particular words were forming in his chest, only to be pushed out his throat and carried out over his lips. It was as if Harry, not the plane, was the one on autopilot -- and he could not shut it off.

Hermione roused from her beating, but Harry did not notice. Harry did not even hear Hermione’s desperate pleas to “Stop, Harry!” and “Please, don’t do it, Harry!”

Still in his rage-induced haze, Harry breathed the words, “A…a…Avada… Kedavra,” practicing them in a harsh, guttural, unworldly, almost snake-like voice. Now having tested – even tasted – these powerful words in his mouth, Harry recited them quietly again, “Avada Kedavra,” relishing their bittersweet flavor even more the second time.

Hermione, still reeling, knew at once that she had to stop Harry. This curse, the “Killing Curse” was highly illegal. Its use was automatically punishable by a life sentence in the horrific wizarding prison, Azkaban. Trying to protect Harry from this fate, Hermione weakly raised her wand to disarm him, but the spell, “Expelliarmus,” came too late.

Simultaneously, Harry took in a great breath, raised and aimed his wand at the boy, and gave a drawn out, hateful, and roaring, “Avada Kedavra!”

Hermione and Charles recoiled, arms over eyes, as a heavy, thick, blast of green light and sparks shot out of the end of Harry’s wand and hit the boy square in the chest. The force of the spell threw the boy backwards and forced him upwards against the bulkhead. As suddenly as it began, the green light stopped, and all was silent. The boy’s body fell from the bulkhead, lifeless across a row of seats.

Recovering their senses, Hermione and Charles, mouths agape and bodies shuddering, turned back to view Harry, horrified. Hermione immediately noticed that Harry’s face had turned a sickening, ashen color. Harry turned to Hermione weakly, with a frightened, “what have I done?” look on his face.

Suddenly, Harry began gritting his teeth, and Hermione saw a familiar, yet frightening look on his face. Harry’s lips and nose curled, and his eyes scrunched up with what Hermione recognized as incredible pain – scar pain. Wand still in hand, Harry clutched at his scar, and fell to his knees, bending over in agony. Still kneeling, Harry removed his hands from his face, and his eyes rolled upwards. He gave a small, quiet groan, and then slouched, unconscious, to the floor.

Chapter Six – Awakening, Awareness, and A Weasley

Harry’s mind likened to a dimmer switch. The “on” button was engaged, but the slider was at the very bottom, providing only very dim light. As the dimmer was brought up, Harry’s first sensation was a sharp, twangy pain in his right hand. As he instinctively balled up his fist, he could feel a long, thin, tube-like object move in the vein on the back of his hand. He could also feel something sticky, like tape, pulling painfully at the hairs as the skin moved under it.

Harry’s lights came on a bit further. Next, he heard a muffled, yet high-pitched “beep….beep….beep….beep.” His mind wandered momentarily to a time one summer when he was forced to sit in the emergency room next to a screaming, crying, and hysterical Dudley. A kindly young doctor was stitching up a cut knee after Dudley had a rather nasty skateboarding mishap.

More light. “Serves you right, you stupid sod.” Harry tried to say, but he couldn’t get his mouth to work. All that spilled from his mouth was a jumble of consonants and a long “oohhhh.” Harry’s mouth was dry as parchment, and his tongue felt as if he had just eaten a whole box of the Weasley Twins’ famous Ton Tongue Toffees from Harry’s favorite wizarding joke shop.

Hermione, perched on an armchair next to Harry’s bed, sprang forward, leaning her arms on Harry’s bare chest. “Harry? Harry, darling!” She started to cry. “Harry, talk to me, love, please!”

Harry could hear Hermione clearly now. He still, however, could not open his eyes, and he still struggled to form words. His mouth simply would not cooperate, producing only a load of mumbly gibberish. As the lights brightened further, Harry heard more and more voices in the room. The increasing din began to pound and richochet around in his head. Harry could have sworn, filtering out Hermione’s pleas to wake up, the nurse’s barky orders, and the television blaring, that he heard the unmistakable voice of his life-long friend, Ron Weasley.

Harry moved his right hand -- the only part of his body to cooperate thus far -- slowly and deliberately across his bare chest, clasping Hermione’s tightly. “Her-mi-ne,” he was finally able to say, “Water.”

Hermione immediately obliged him, offering him a cup with a long straw full of icy-cool, sweet, delicious water. “Can you open your eyes, Harry?”

Harry heard the voice again. “Stupid git was always gropin’ around in the dark before, why whould anything change? Flippin’ melodramatic all the time, he is.” Harry felt a large, calloused hand clap him on the left thigh. “How’re you feeling, Harry?”

Harry smiled weakly. Finally able to open his eyes, he blinked rapidly, soaking in the bright, sterile white light.

A smiling nurse in baby pink scrubs came in briefly to check on Harry, saying only, “Well, good morning, Sunshine!” and “Welcome back, Mr. Potter.” Harry was barely aware of her, even as she scoured his chart and continued through her medical paces. The nurse winked at Harry, tweaked his nose, and left the room, closing the heavy-glass door behind her.

Ron rolled his eyes in mock disgust. Hermione gingerly placed Harry’s glasses on his face, moving aside the oxygen cannula.

“Ron’s here?” Harry mumbled. “Where am I?”

“The Cleveland Clinic, Harry, in America.” Hermione replied. “You’re in hospital.”

“How long?” Harry looked concerned.

“Four days. Sweets, you’ve been in a coma for four days.”

For the first time since he opened his eyes, Harry saw an angry purple, black, and yellow blossom of bruise about Hermione’s right jawline and left cheekbone. She also wore two small butterfly bandages, one on her bottom lip, and one under her left eye. “Hermione?” Confused, Harry raised his left hand to touch her face – to see if the bruises and cuts were real. Instinctively, Hermione recoiled, but then allowed him to stroke her sore, still-swollen face.

“Too many Muggles saw my condition after the flight, Harry, after I was beaten. These, I’ll have to let heal on their own, at least for now.”

Bruises… cuts... hospital… four days… America… flight… coma… Harry tried to make sense of what he heard and saw, tried to remember what could possibly have landed him in a Muggle hospital – what could possibly have ravaged Hermione’s beautiful features.

“Got yourself into a bit of a scrape there, you did.” Ron chimed in. “Even Hermione’s try at the old ‘Ennervate’ charm didn’t work to wake you up. You had us dead worried there for a while. Mum and Ginny back in the Burrow are still all a-twitter with worry about you, and Dad’s knackered for lack of three nights’ sleep!”

Ron paused, suddenly beaming with pride. “Harry, you’re a hero, you know? You and Hermione both.” Ron’s grip on Harry’s thigh tightened momentarily. “I just got here, and Hermione’s not told me everything yet, but you should see the press coverage you’re getting.” Ron chuckled, leaning in to whisper at Harry. “Muggle press this time, mate.”

Harry studied his Best Man for a moment. Ron’s hair was still as carrot-red as it was at Hogwarts, but now glinting with the occasional sun-highlight. It was longer than when they were kids, tied up at the nape of his neck in a small band. Ron’s face was ruddy from outdoor work -- suntanned, and healthy, with a small growth of reddish stubble around his chin.

“What happened?” Harry felt as if he were pulling his memories through a cauldron of Mrs. Weasely’s pea soup. Before Hermione could explain, Harry heard a distinct, and vaguely familiar American voice coming from the television above.

“Harry and Hermione Potter – heck, they were the real heroes, here. If it wasn’t for them, we’d sure have another 9-11 on our hands. They were in first class -- they were the only ones, other’n myself and the cockpit crew, to stay awake after the terrorists gassed coach.” Charles continued. “If it wasn’t for Harry’s quick thinking, we’d all be dead, and Congress would be homeless.”

The reporter cut in. “How do you feel about the deaths that did occur on your plane, Captain?”

“I’m sad about the loss of my co-pilot, Danny Michelson, but, I suppose, big picture -- it could have been much worse.” He paused. Harry saw him look directly into the camera. “As for that terrorist kid that died, that Sariens boy – I’m too angry yet to fully comment on that.” He went on, however. “I can say – you know, he took my plane, killed my best friend and attacked my daughter -- nearly killed her. Good riddance.”

“Enough said, Shep. In the meantime, the three other hijackers will be facing the judge in their arraignments tomorrow morning in Federal Court here in Ohio. Back to you in the studio from the Cleveland Clinic. This is Richard Simonson for Fox News.”

The anchorman Harry presumed was “Shep” continued the commentary. “Thanks, Rick.” Shep turned casually toward a camera to his left. A happy photograph of Harry and Hermione, taken on their honeymoon, showed in the upper right corner of the screen. Harry was taken aback at seeing his own face on television.

“Some good news folks. Fox News has just received word that Harry Potter is now awake and talking for the first time in four days, since the hijacking incident occurred. As we’ve told you before, paramedics found Mr. Potter unconscious when they entered the plane after it made its emergency landing in Cleveland. Doctors at the Cleveland Clinic are still baffled by Mr. Potter’s condition.”

“Cor!” Ron exclaimed “News here travels fast, don’t it?” Harry did not respond. He remained glued to the television, in complete shock, and racking his brain to try and jog a memory.

Shep turned to another camera, and a picture of the killer-boy appeared. “In related news, the Cuyahoga County Coroner reported today that autopsy results for eighteen-year-old hijacker, Peter Sariens of Evanston, Illinois, were inconclusive. According to the Coroner,” Shep continued, “Sariens’ body showed no apparent signs of injury, and the cause of his death remains a mystery.” Stay tuned to the Fox Report with Shepard Smith for more -- right after we take care of some business.” After some dramatic music and graphics, the television went to commercial.

Hermione picked up the remote and clicked the television off, waving her hand dismissively. “This hijacking. It’s all we’ve been hearing for the past four days, Harry.”

Harry’s mind mulled over what he had just heard. He felt a sudden wave of worry, and questions upon questions came pouring from his mouth. “Who was that pilot, and how did he know me? Who was that kid? How did we…what did we do? How did I think quickly? Why are people dead? What did I do?” He dug the heel of his left hand into his forehead. “Blast! I wish I could remember! Did we use….”

Hermione leaned close to Harry, whispering. “Magic?” She continued darkly, “Yes, Harry, we did. We did.” She cleared her throat. “You certainly did.” There was an unmistakably strange tone in Hermione’s voice. “But never mind that now, Harry.” She said flippantly.

Harry couldn’t help but feel that Hermione was keeping something from him – something serious, something important, something, he thought, devastating.

“Hermione,” Harry’s worry intensified as his mind continued to work. “That boy the pilot was talking about and the Coroner – dead but no injury. Hermione – did I…” Harry stammered, his chin beginning to quiver. “Did I kill him?” His scar prickled slightly.

“Harry, Harry.” Hermione sounded nervous, her eyes darting about. “We shouldn’t talk about these horrible, horrible, horrible things now, right? I mean with all we’ve been through, and you being so sick, Harry, and just waking up and all.” She put on a concealing smile. “I’m just glad you’re ok, Harry. I was so worried.”

Harry opened his mouth in protest, and tried to sit up. The nurse peered in through the glass door. Hermione, catching the nurse’s gaze, guided Harry back down again. “Stay in bed, Harry. You’re too weak. You need to build up your strength. You…”

Harry felt a sudden rush of strength in his growing panic. “Hermione, I’m fine!” He shouted, shrugging off her hands. The nurse in the next room stood up, craning her neck to see in Harry’s room. “But I need to know, Hermione.” Harry’s voice lowered to a whisper, shaking heavily. “Did I kill him? Did I … Did I give the…the…”

Ron listened with rapt attention. Both Ron and Harry sought an answer in Hermione’s face. She did not shake her head. Hermione, in fact, showed no sign of denial whatsoever.

Harry continued. “The Killing Curse?”

Silence --long, drawn out, pregnant silence.

Ron’s lips pursed, his face blanched, and his eyes darted from Harry, to Hermione, and back to Harry again. Ron scrubbed at his face, and looked back at Harry with new, frightened, and horrified eyes.

Hermione sighed, stood up, and placed her hands lovingly on either side of Harry’s face. She stared intently into his bloodshot eyes. “Harry.” Her hands pressed firmer, and she spoke in a harsh whisper. “Don’t you ever, ever, ever say that. Don’t you ever! Don’t even think it. Up there in that plane, no one down here knew -- no one can ever know what truly happened.”

Hermione moved her hands to Harry’s shoulders, still hovering over him. “As far as I’m concerned, it never happened. Charles won’t say anything -- trust me. I know Ron won’t either.” Hermione cast a glare in Ron’s direction. Ron merely continued to gawk, nonplussed.

“Harry, if you can’t remember it, no one will truly know. I’ve even taken care of erasing the curse from your wand. So, -- don’t you ever remember what happened up there. Don’t even try. Don’t even think on it for one more minute, Harry Potter.”

But Harry couldn’t help but think on it. Now, it was all he could think about. He labored anew to remember, but simply couldn’t.

This Unforgiveable Curse -- this was the kind of thing, Harry thought, that only Voldemort or his followers, the “Death Eaters,” would do. In the last fourteen years of his life, Harry did everything he could to distance himself from Voldemort’s attempts at influence, anything to separate himself from the Dark Lord who had killed his parents, and tried, and failed, to take Harry’s life when he was just a baby.

Since graduating Hogwarts, and becoming an Auror – the bane of every dark wizard’s existence -- Harry was confident that he was nothing like the Dark Lord. Nothing at all like Voldemort. More importantly, he was absolutely sure that he would never, ever, become a dark wizard like Voldemort.

For the first time in seven years, however, Harry was not so sure.

Chapter Seven – Old Enemies, New Allies

“Oy, Harry,” said Ron, as he barged into Harry’s hospital room. “There’s a mess of those Muggle reporters out there waiting for you.” Ron beamed. “They even started asking me questions! Malfoy’s gotta be out of his gourd, eh?” Ron stuck up his nose and put on an imitation of a very snooty wizard. “In the news again, Potter? You and Weasley, stealing all of my attention again, Potter? Blah, blah, waah, waah, waah, Potter? Potter! Potter! Potter!”

Over the din of laughter following, Harry heard a snide, drawling voice. “I see you’re still hanging around with low-class wizards and mudbloods, Potter.” It was Draco Malfoy, the very person Ron had been poking fun of seconds earlier. Everyone stopped laughing.

Draco Malfoy had been Harry’s greatest rival at Hogwarts. From the very day the two boys arrived at school in their first year, they had been at serious odds. Draco was from a very wealthy, and great wizarding family. Draco was incessantly spoiled by his wealthy parents, Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, and he also enjoyed a brand of popularity at school because of his parents’ money, power, and influence in the wizarding world.

However, Draco’s parents were also Death Eaters, and devoted followers of Lord Voldemort. Thanks to Harry’s Auror mentors, the Malfoys, along with numerous other Death Eaters, were ultimately stripped of their power, stripped of their wealth, and sentenced to life in Azkaban. To everyone’s shock, after Hogwarts, Draco gave up magic and foresook his wizarding roots. He chose, instead, to live among Muggles, continue his education, and to simply forget his parents and forget the death, destruction and damage they caused. This was especially surprising given the Malfoy family’s sheer and unadulterated hatred for Muggles and moreso, wizards with Muggle parentage, such as Hermione.

Harry looked up and saw Draco leaning lazily against the doorframe, his legs crossed at the ankles. “Well, Potter,” Draco said, “Bet you’re wondering what I’m doing here.”

“Malfoy? Uh, yeah. What are you doing here?” Harry felt a mixture of astonishment and growing annoyance. The man standing in the doorway before him was not the Draco Malfoy he remembered. At school, Draco was thin and pasty with a shock of slicked-back white-blonde hair. This Draco was tall, well-built, handsome, smartly-dressed, and tanned – but with the same blonde hair and steely gray eyes. Now, the hair was longer, tousled, and stylish, its glowing color broken by the trendy sunglasses perched on Draco’s head. Even though Draco’s look changed, to Harry, the voice, and unfortunately, the attitude of superiority, had not.

“What makes you think,” Harry’s ire was rising, “that I need anything from you?” Hermione and Ron matched Harry’s glare. “Why, Malfoy, after all these years, and all the crap that’s gone between us, all the ‘Potter Stinks,’ and ‘Weasley is Our King’ and all that rot, are you here now?” Harry could feel years of forgotten anger welling up inside him.

“What could you possibly want from me? Want to rub it in? Looking to join the bandwagon? Looking to see me all hacked off? Looking for some Muggle press of your own now you’ve busted your wand and gone and joined that lot? Or are you still the jealous, wormy little pansy tart attention-seeker that you were seven years ago?” Hermione laid a hand on Harry’s shoulder, signaling, Harry thought, that he may have gone a bit too far.

Draco, despite the not-so-warm welcome, remained leaning in the doorway. He slowly raised his hand, curled his fingers over and casually inspected his fingernails. “I got an owl-post.” Draco said calmly, his nose scrunching as if he had smelled something foul. He looked up at Harry.

“A big, ugly bloody owl. I haven’t gotten an owl in seven years! I was in my office last night, working on a post-trial brief, and my partner knocked on my door.” Draco, remaining affable despite Harry’s insults, hoisted himself off the doorframe, and entered, placing his briefcase and sunglasses on a chair. Harry bristled slightly at this intrusion into his hospital room.

“I told him to come in, and he did.” Draco continued. “Trev looked horrible, his hair a great mess, feathers everywhere, his fingers all bloodied, and his Armani ripped at the shoulder. He was shaking, holding a parchment letter in his hand. Trev asked me, he did, ‘Dillon, do you know who Draco Malfoy is? Some big owl just swooped down on me in the middle of the Daley Center and pecked at me until I took this letter off its leg!’”

“Draco Malfoy – now that’s a name I hadn’t heard in a long time, and I was not at all keen on hearing it again.” Draco moved closer to Harry’s bedside, and tugged at the knot in his tie. “You see, Potter, I go by Dillon Mallory now. Dillon Mallory, attorney at law.” He held out his hand for a shake. Harry, Hermione and Ron just stared.

“Well,” Draco brushed his hands together. “Indeed, I told my partner no, but I asked, out of sheer curiosity, to see the letter anyways. I opened it, and here I am. I hopped on the first flight this morning from O’Hare.” Draco gave a mock-bow. “At your service, beck and call – your counselor.”

Harry just continued to stare, unblinkingly. He didn’t know what to think. Was Draco Malfoy actually offering his help? Had Draco changed so much that he was willing to put aside his practice, travel from Chicago, and actually represent Harry? Harry knew how to read people, it was part of his job. If Draco had any ulterior motives in offering to help, Harry would have known it.

Draco continued. “You see, I’ve been on trial this last week – quite a nasty murder one, at that­­ -- and I hadn’t the time to absorb any news, let alone even glance at a newspaper. I got this parchment,” Draco shuddered, “and started going through the stack of newspapers piled on my desk.” He held his hand over Harry’s bedside table to demonstrate the height of the stack.

“Imagine my increasing horror when I flipped over each paper, saw your ugly mug, Potter, and read headlines like, ‘Hijack Attempt Thwarted,’ ‘Mystery Illness Overcomes Flight 233 Hero,’ ‘Hijacker’s Death Baffles Experts,’ and worst of all, ‘Thank You, Harry Potter.’” Draco looked as if he were going to wretch. “You just can’t stay out of the limelight, can you, Potter?”

Harry blinked. “Who sent you the owl, Draco? I didn’t.”

Draco was nonplussed. “Not you?” He looked to Ron and Hermione. They both shook their heads. “Not you two, either, I suppose? Well, we have another little mystery on our hands now don’t we.”

Harry simply shrugged. He really hadn’t sent for Malfoy, and he knew that neither Hermione nor Ron had either. Even if he wanted to, with Malfoy renouncing the use of magic and wishing to live as a Muggle, Harry would not, as much as he disliked Malfoy, have sent an owl to deliver a parchment or to fetch him. Whoever sent for Malfoy – or, Mallory -- Harry thought, that wizard must not have agreed with or respected Mallory’s wishes.

“So,” said Draco, “I guess it’s time for me to do my job. I just talked to the nurse outside, and she tells me you’re being released as we speak. She is on her way with your transport outside.” Draco gave a wry smile. “Well, again, Potter – your press awaits.”

Both Harry and Draco became awkwardly silent. Harry, still leery, was the first to break it.

“Malfoy, I’ll probably never like you overmuch, and I still think you’re an insufferable twit. But…” Harry softened. His eyes dropped, and he fidgeted with his fingers. “I always knew you could be a good man. I just…” Harry looked at Draco, feeling a slight pang of guilt, “I wanted to say how sorry I am for you, with – your parents, being, um, where they are and with what happened and all. You, um, didn’t deserve any of what happened to you, at least, Malfoy. I know that what you went through was horrible, and I know you you had faith in your parents, and you never really thought…”

Draco bristled, and spoke slowly and deliberately. “I have neither time nor energy for sentiments concerning Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, Potter. As far as I am concerned, the Malfoy’s never were my – Dillon Mallory’s – parents, and Dillon Mallory’s parents are long dead.”

“Well, um,” said Harry, and he gave a wan smile. “You’re just in time, anyways. The American FBI wants to debrief me today. I could, um,” Harry swallowed, “really use your help.”

Harry never thought he’d hear himself agreeing to take anything – let alone help or advice – from Draco Malfoy. But, Harry thought, this wasn’t Draco Malfoy anymore. It was Dillon Mallory -- and Dillon Mallory, Harry perceived, was going to be a great, strong, and worthy ally. “So,” Harry continued, “Thanks….Mallory. Where do we start?”

“We can start by getting out of here in one piece,” replied Draco. “Get your shirt on, Harry, the nurse is here.”

Chapter Eight – The Surprising Interview

Hermione pushed Harry’s wheelchair past the crowd of reporters and journalists waiting outside the Hospital. Luckily for Harry, Draco had insisted that the Hospital ensure Harry’s safe exit, and demanded that they cordon off the press with security and roping before they left. To Harry’s great relief, he did not have to answer a single question on his way out of the hospital.

Draco had given a pre-prepared speech to the press, advising them that Harry was still very weak from his coma, that, because of his condition, he had no memory of the incident, and that he required a long, easy rest to fully recover from his ordeal. Surprisingly, and, Harry thought, with a little help from a well-placed charm or two, the members of the press were quite malleable to Draco’s demands and Harry’s wishes. Harry, tugging on Draco’s suit coat sleeve, thanked his old rival and made it clear how grateful he was for the diversions.

The four rode in relative silence in Draco’s rented Lexis SUV to an upscale Muggle hotel. True to Draco’s nature, the four-star hotel had a reputation for secrecy and strict protection of its high-class, and often famous, customers. “Good thing I’d managed my dad’s gold in Gringott’s Bank so well,” Harry whispered to Hermione, “I think Draco’s bill is ultimately going to cost me a small fortune.”

The four checked into their respective rooms. About an hour later, Draco knocked on Harry and Hermione’s hotel room door. He entered to find Harry staring out the window, and Hermione busying herself with unpacking. Draco saw that Ron was also in the room, perched on the end of the bed, fascinated with the television remote control. “Amazing…” Ron whispered to himself, as he flipped through the channels rapid-fire.

Ron, who grew up in a wizarding family, did not have many opportunities to watch television. There were too many other things to occupy his time – reading, lessons, playing Exploding Snap and Wizards Chess with his five siblings, playing a broomstick game called Quidditch in the back acreage, chasing Cornish pixies and gnomes out of his mother’s vegetable garden, and practicing the spells his father taught him.

Ron’s father, however, would have given anything to have a television in the house. His father, unlike Draco’s father, was fascinated by everything Muggle. Arthur Weasley even had a broad collection of Muggle artifacts – toasters, batteries, telephones, plugs, and even an old, broken radio. Ron remembered each of these items from in his father’s workshop. Mr. Weasley would take these things apart, enchant them, and put them back together just to see what happened. The height and pinnacle of Mr. Weasley’s tinkering was the Flying Ford Anglia car. It seemed that Ron had inherited his father’s affinity for Muggle inventions.

“Some things never change,” thought Draco as he watched Ron fiddle with the remote’s battery compartment. “Harry?” Draco approached Harry cautiously. “We need to go. You need to give your statement to the Muggle…” Draco caught himself using the word as naturally as he did seven years ago. The prospect of diving headlong into Harry, Ron, and Hermione’s world again proved somewhat unnerving. “I mean the investigators from the FBI and Scotland Yard. They’re waiting for us at the Federal Building.”

“Does he have to go now, Draco? I mean, really. He’s tired. He needs his rest now…” Hermione moved over to Harry and offered him a glass of water. “Harry, come to bed, sweetheart, you’re…”

“Hermione,” said Harry, taking her hand, “I’m fine. I do need rest, but I also need to get this over with. You’ve already been questioned, and you told me it wasn’t so bad. The longer I delay, the longer it is until we can just move on with our lives. The sooner I do this, the sooner we can go back home to Godric’s Hollow, start over, and have that family we’ve been talking about.” Harry smiled and brushed a stray piece of hair out of Hermione’s eyes. “Don’t worry. You and Ron go see the sights if you want. I’m sure this hotel has a limo or something. Go to the Rock and Roll Museum, maybe, or to Cedar Point?” He laughed. “Draco and I will be back before you know it.”

Harry inched carefully off of the window seat and walked slowly toward the door, his muscles and bones still stiff and achy from seven days without his usual strict exercise regimen. “Besides, Hermione, the walk to the car will do me good.” He bent and kissed Hermione gently on the forehead, and then her mouth. “I love you, Hermione.”

“Oh, crap!” growled Draco. “Can we save the snogging and the sappy goodbyes, please? Let’s go, Potter.”

The drive to the Federal Building in noontime traffic seemed an eternity. Harry tried, pushed, even strained to remember what exactly happened on Flight 233. He knew that the investigators would want a blow-by-blow and shot-by-shot replay of the hijacking, and ultimately, the killings. Try as Harry could, there was a significant void in his memory – a void which he could not fill, even with the recounts Hermione gave him.

At the Federal Building, Harry and Draco were met by a pleasant-looking security officer. The name on her badge said, “Dianna Lindros.” She introduced herself, and brought Harry and Draco up an elevator and to a small room – windowless with the exception of a large mirror on one side. “Wait here, please, Mr. Potter, Mr. Mallory.” Agent Travis and Inspector MacGillen will be right in. Have a seat, and help yourself to coffee from the pot or soda from the fridge over there.”

Draco gave Dianna a short, “thanks,” and set his briefcase upon the long table in the middle of the room. Harry didn’t know if he wanted to sit, pace the room, or even run. Harry had the distinct feeling that his confident façade was about to be shattered by those who shattered confident facades for a living. “Sit down, Harry!” Draco ordered. “You’re driving me insane with your pacing, man!”

Harry obliged him, settling down in a straight-backed chair beside Draco. “Now, you listen to me, Potter. Even though this seems a friendly interview, these things can easily turn ugly, you believe me.” Draco turned his chair to face Harry, and leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees. He jabbed a finger at Harry with just about every word. “Keep your answers simple. Don’t volunteer too much. A yes or no question gets a yes or no answer.” Draco softened. “But above all, Harry,” He glanced at the mirror. “Tell the truth, as best you can. If I feel that you’re being threatened in any way, I will stop the interview. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Harry replied. “I understand.” Harry was still amazed at the uncharactersistic level of concern Draco had for him. Maybe, Harry thought, Muggle life has been good for him.

With that, the door opened, and two people entered the room. One was an older man, near sixty. The man had a grizzled look to him, and wore what seemed a permanent scowl on his face. His tan jacket, mismatched tie, and white shirt were crumpled and disheveled. He lumbered into the room, placed a styrofoam coffee cup on the table, and lowered himself gingerly into a seat opposite Draco.

The other was a woman, about twenty-nine years old with starkly made-up features, bobbed red hair and sparkling green eyes. She entered and immediately shook Draco’s and Harry’s hands. “I’m Agent Laura Travis, FBI. This,” She gestured toward the sitting man, “is Inspector Drew MacGillen from Scotland Yard.”

After Draco introduced himself and Harry, Inspector MacGillen gave a curt nod and a “hrrumph” in acknowledgement. Agent Travis sat in the chair next to MacGillen and set a small hand-held tape recorder on the tabletop.

“Is it okay if we record this, Mr. Potter?” she asked. “I need your permission before we do so.”

Draco intervened, leaning forward in his chair. “Why don’t you interview my client off the record, first, Agent Travis.” He leaned back, draping a casual arm over the back of the chair. “Find out what he knows. Then, if it’s necessary we can do it again for the tape.” Agent Travis, much to Inspector MacGillen’s apparent chagrin and objection, agreed.

“So, Mr. Potter,” Inspector MacGillen began. “Tell me, what do you know about a man who calls himself Lord Voldemort?”

Harry and Draco both went instantly white. Draco gave a small shudder at the sound of Voldemort’s name. Harry looked at Draco, and then to Inspector MacGillen in amazement. He looked back at Draco, seeking some hidden advice in his face. Clearly, there was none. Draco was as flummoxed as Harry.

“Who is Lord Voldemort?” Harry stalled for time. “Is that what you want to know?”

“That’s what I asked you, Mr. Potter.”

Agent Travis took over. Her tone, unlike that of Mr. MacGillen was friendly, almost sisterly. Harry immediately sensed that they were working off each other, playing the ‘good cop, bad cop’ routine. “Mr. Potter,” Agent Travis continued. “It is very important to tell us if you know anything about who he really is, his whereabouts, or who his supporters are.”

Harry’s face remained motionless.

“Mr. Potter, I can see you’re agitated about this whole thing, and I’m sure the Inspector’s question has come as some surprise to you. Let me share with you what we know, ok?” She smiled pleasantly, reached in her bag on the floor, and pulled out three copies of the Daily Prophet, the wizarding daily newspaper. She held these up dramatically, and then began to systematically flatten them onto the table, facing Draco.

Both Harry and Draco struggled to keep their mouths from hanging open. All their lives they had been trained and taught that Muggles should never know about the wizardnig world. It had just become apparent to both of them that they did. At least the intelligencia knew. More surprising, the Muggle investigators were actually following and seeking out Voldemort for some reason. Knowing that they both wore shocked looks on their faces, neither Harry nor Draco would even think to hide their knowledge of these publications.

“Where did you get these?” Draco insisted, taking another glance at the mirrored window. “How did you get these?”

Harry took one of the newspapers and began to scan it. It looked extremely familiar. This Daily Prophet edition was from years ago. The lead article concerned the Ministry of Magic accepting Harry’s account of Voldemort’s return to power after Harry’s fourth year at Hogwarts. It said that Voldemort was back, and that he was congregating his Death Eaters again to wreak havoc and destruction among both wizards and Muggles. Harry’s name was all over the article, and his picture was plastered on the front page. Harry knew there was no denying it now.

“We’ve intercepted numerous owls flying over the U.S. and England carrying this particular publication, and others like it, Mr. Malfoy.” She replied, slyly.

Before Draco could correct her to say, “Mallory,” a sick, sinking wave of dread washed over him. “My name is Dillon Mallory. Not Malfoy.” He replied as calmly as possible.

“No,” she smiled benignly, tilting her head, “It’s Malfoy. Draco, isn’t it?” Agent Travis took another newspaper, and turned it over. There, Draco saw a photograph of his younger self and his parents, along with the headline, “Malfoys Sentenced to Azkaban.”

Draco was all too familiar with the headline and story, as he had read it over and over and over again when it was first published. In fact, Draco still had a rather crumpled and beaten up copy of this edition hidden in his Chicago Lakefront condo. He would read it now and then when he felt particularly low about his decision to live as a Muggle -- to remind him of how horrible his family, and its legacy as a pack of Death Eaters, was.

“Actually, Agent Travis, we know quite a bit about Lord Voldemort.” Harry injected. Draco, still reeling from the shock of seeing the article about his family’s disgrace, did not try to stop Harry.

Harry continued. “His given name is Tom Marvolo Riddle.” Agent Travis looked at him quizzically, holding her pen suspended above her notepad. “Oh, Marvolo – M-a-r-v-o-l-o; and Riddle – R-i-d-d-l-e.”

After Agent Travis finished writing the name, Harry went on. “Fifty or so years ago he was a star student at Hogwarts – a school prefect, Head Boy, and all that. Then, about 24 years ago, when I was a baby, he, then calling himself Voldemort, killed my parents.”

Again, Agent Travis held her pen suspended and looked up at Harry. “Oh. Yes. Their names, right. James Potter and Lily Evans-Potter.” Harry continued after the second interruption. “He tried to kill me as well, gave me this scar.” Harry pushed his hair off his forehead to reveal his scar. Harry could see Agent Travis making a small sketch-drawing of the scar’s shape. “As to his whereabouts now, what he’s doing, and exactly who he’s associated with,” he shot a quick glance at Draco, “neither of us know.” Draco nodded his head in agreement.

“In my line of work,” Harry continued, “it’s my job to find the Dark Lord’s supporters, and prevent the mayhem they cause in his name. In fact, I’ve sent quite a few of them to prison.” Harry shot a glance toward Draco. “But, as to Voldemort himself… he’s been more elusive than ever. The Ministry’s last spy to infiltrate Voldemort’s circle was killed about four years ago. We haven’t been able to keep tabs on him since.”

“You, Mr. Potter, are an Auror, am I correct?” grumbled Inspector MacGillen. Harry nodded. “Stupid, meddling gits. Your kind, with your strong-arm tactics, have gotten your noses ‘round about, ruining my investigations for years now. In fact, just four weeks ago, you sent my agent -- who has managed successfully to, as you say, infiltrate -- to that Ass-key-bland place. It’s taken up a week’s worth of my valuable time just to get the Ministry of Magic to let him out!”

“Azkaban,” Harry corrected. “And if Crabbe was your agent, I would never have known it.” Harry shook off the thought, focusing on the conversation at hand. “But regardless, what does this have to do with the hijacking and the flight? Do you think Voldemort had anything to do with it?”

“Harry, Harry, Harry…” Agent Travis said in a suddenly familiar, mock-soothing, and almost condescending tone. “We know you don’t remember what happened. We know you can’t tell us much about how the co-pilot died, or why the entire crew and passengers were asleep when the plane landed – even though the pilot said they were gassed, which we found no trace of evidence to support -- or why there was a pool of blood on the floor of the coach cabin when no one seems to have been hurt back there. Those things may always remain a mystery.”

Agent Travis paused, her sympathetic smile fading, and her eyes boring into Harry’s. “Despite all that, Harry, we do have our suspicions about the death of the hijacker. However, we won’t share those suspicions with the Ministry of Magic just yet if you are willing to cooperate with us, to help us.”

Harry knew immediately what “suspicions” she was talking about. “You…” he felt a sudden wave of mild anger. “You know how the hijacker died? Why don’t you tell me your theory? Share with me your suspicions.”

MacGillen smiled at Harry for the first time since the interview began. “Avada Kedavra.” He need say no more. Harry and Draco both became intently silent. MacGillen continued. “Under our laws, Mr. Potter, no prosecutor in his right mind would press charges against you for killing the hijacker – you did it in self-defense, defense of your beautiful young wife, defense of the entirety of that plane, and defense of this country. You were a hero.” He paused, smiling again. “But, I can’t say that your Ministry of Magic and your Wizengamot judges would be as sentimental, or as lenient, now, can I?”

Harry knew immediately that he was right. “What can we do to help you?”

“Mr. Potter,” began Agent Travis, suddenly formal again. “Just like in the 1970’s, there has been, over the past ten years or so, a rash of people going missing, of mysterious deaths – not unlike that of your hijacker friend.”

Harry bristled, scowling at the juxtaposition of the words, “hijacker” and “friend.”

“Also, within the last four to five years, there has been an immesurable surge in the amount of terrorist attacks, kidnappings, public murders, beheadings, bombings, gassings, shootings, and other horrible, horrible events.”

“But,” interjected Harry, “Aren’t all of those caused by terrorist factions -- Bin Laden, Hussein, Chechnyan rebels and the like? These are religiously and politically motivated, naught to do with wizards! From what I’ve read in the papers, there’s enough hateful and evil impetus to supposedly motivate these – people – without the need for outside influence from Voldemort! What makes you think that he – that Voldemort -- has any control over these terrorists?”

Agent Travis nodded her head, apparently impressed with Harry’s grip on non-wizarding world affairs. “Very true, Mr. Potter, and a very astute observation.” Agent Travis said calmly. “But, the three terrorists we arrested from the plane acted very strangely when we questioned them. It was as if they were all struggling against some form of mind control, some kind of drugging, or something that forced them all to do what they didn’t want to do. We hadn’t seen this behavior in a very long time.”

Harry’s suspicions grew, and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled as Agent Travis continued. “They would go back and forth from acting defiant, spitting at us, and calling us infidels -- to breaking down, sobbing and begging us to help them. They even went in and out from speaking in a strange, unintelligible language none of us could place, translate, or figure out!”

She stared at Harry for a moment, searching for a reaction, seeing if she could jog a memory. When none came, she went on. “Plus, Mr. Potter, these hijackers had guns! You know how impossible it is to get guns – or weapons of any kind -- on a plane, even if there is an inside job. Our airport security is so high that…”

Harry finished the sentence for her. “they only could have gotten the weapons on board using some kind of spell or magic” Agent Travis nodded slowly and deliberately.

“Agent Travis,” Harry continued, now leaning forward, his elbows on the table. “I don’t remember how these people acted, but I will lay you odds that those people weren’t drugged. They were under the Imperius Curse.” Agent Travis cocked her head, and blinked. MacGillen looked up at Harry over his coffee cup. “It’s an unforgiveable curse that subjects the victim to the total control of the person who cast it. I was a victim of it once. I was able to fight it, but I can’t imagine a Muggle…I mean, a normal person being able to, or even surviving under it with their wits intact.”

“That makes sense, Mr. Potter,” Agent Travis pondered. “The people we arrested – all three of them were Americans. They were people with normal families and decent jobs. They were well-known and loved in their communities. One was a church pastor! Even Peter Sariens was a good person before this all happened. He was a star marketing student at Northwestern University, was the Historian of Kappa Sigma – a top fraternity, and was on his way to being a ranking professional golfer. Before this, Peter would never have attacked anyone, let alone killed someone at point-blank range in cold blood.”

Harry thought momentarily. “If Voldemort is using Americans against their own people, he must be having trouble controlling the other terrorists – the ones who flew the planes and attacked those people on September 11^th.” Harry thought harder. “Or, perhaps, Voldemort wants to be caught. Perhaps he wants someone, an Auror, like me – or like you, Agent Travis -- to know he was behind the hijacking. Maybe he knew you were onto him.”

“Or,” Draco said ominously, “perhaps Voldemort’s ultimate target was not the plane or the people or Capitol Building after all.” He looked at Harry, worry glinting in his otherwise cold, gray eyes. “Perhaps, Harry, his target this time, after all these years, was – you.”

Chapter Nine -- The Long Journey Home

For the next two weeks, Harry, Ron, Hermione and Draco remained, for the most part, holed up in the posh hotel, avoiding both the Muggle press and the Wizarding newspaper reporters. While Harry was more than thankful that the hotel adhered to a privacy policy seemingly stricter than the wizard’s secrecy statute, he couldn’t help but grumble each morning, knowing that he had just dropped another sack of galleons out of his Gringott’s bank vault for the night in the hotel. Up until now, Harry was never one to be overmuch concerned about money. However, in his opinion, the exorbitant fee for the hotel was not money well-spent -- especially because Harry so longed to go back to England, and longed to begin his life with Hermione in the small town of Godric’s Hollow in Surrey.

Mixed among Harry’s growing dread at the prospect of another encounter with Voldemort, Harry felt guilty for subjecting Ron and Hermione to the same tedium he suffered. Even though Ron and Hermione put on brave, happy faces, Harry knew they were bored knackered. There is, after all, only so much one can do in a hotel room. However, Harry and Hermione, when they were alone, took all the time they needed to do just that.

The tedium was also broken by more meetings with Agent Travis and Inspector MacGillen. They had advised Harry that he and Hermione would be interrogated by the American Federal Aviation Administration (FAA), and the Homeland Security Department. They asked him not to mention anything about Voldemort or Killing Curses or Death Eaters. Harry happily obliged them.

By the time the FAA had gotten round to questioning Harry, he had enough practice that he gave his answers by rote, mainly, “I don’t remember that, sorry, my condition, you know.” After a time, all of the interviewers, questions, badges, offices, suits, notepads, tape recorders, dark rooms, and coffee pots whirled into a great blur in his mind.

After the investigators were finished with Harry, Agent Travis happily told him that he was free to go home. Harry and Draco shook the investigators’ hands, bid them goodbye, and promised to be at their call when the time came.

Back at the hotel, as Harry and Hermione were packing their honeymoon suitcases for a third time, there was a knock on the door. Hermione could hear Ron’s distinct booming voice. “You kids ready in there? Are you decent? Can I come in?”

Hermione finished zipping up Harry’s dopp kit and crossed to the door, opening it with a happy flourish. “Come in, Ron. We just finished snogging and all…you can bask in our afterglow.” Hermione raised an eyebrow. Harry, who was hastily folding t-shirts, looked up at Ron and grinned with mock-innocence.

“Oh, come off it, you two.” Ron brushed his hair back as he pulled his large suitcase behind him into Harry’s room. “So, has Draco told you our big plans for getting you two home, then?” Ron stifled a knowing smile.

“No,” answered Hermione. “I certainly hope it’s not an aeroplane, though. Think we’ve had our fill of those, now haven’t we?” She looked at Harry, who was grunting and letting out a frustruated breath at his inability to close his suitcase.

Hermione, sighing and rolling her eyes, took out her wand. “Pack!” she said, flourishing her wand.

Harry’s suitcase flew open, the top flap whacking him under the chin. “Ouch!”

“Sorry, Harry.” Hermione giggled. The contents of Harry’s suitcase came flying out, shirt by shirt, shorts by shorts, socks by socks, and arranged themselves neatly on the unmade feather bed. Then, in organized piles, the shirts, shorts, socks, and Harry’s other things neatly placed themselves back into the suitcase. The top closed with a “whap,” and the zipper moved smoothly around the case’s perimeter, sealing it shut. Even the small padlock fixed itself between the two zipper pulls and snapped shut.

After repeating the same with her own suitcase, the toiletry bag, and the carry on packs, Hermione smiled, surveying her successful and organized packing job. “Ready to go then, Ron. Where’s Malfoy? Where has he gotten off to?”

Ron smiled. “Believe it or not, he’s off checking with a wizard who lives in a flat up the street to see if we can use his fireplace. We need to get to New York before we can get home. Draco’s let his apperation license lapse, so we can’t travel that way, popping out of here and into New York. He’s seeing about using floo powder – seeing if the wizard’s hearth is connected to New York via a floo network, you know, like we have back home.” Ron smiled. “I think Malfoy’s coming back around eh? To wizarding, I mean.”

With that, Harry heard a soft tapping on the door. Ron, closest to the door, moved his suitcase aside and opened it. The hotel bellman was standing there holding an envelope addressed to the three of them. The bellman handed Ron the envelope, and then held out his hand, waiting. Ron, clueless, merely shook it heartily. The bellman, in complete shock, dropped his hand, scowled, and walked away.

“Oh, Ron, you are so thick sometimes.” Hermione blurted out, racing to cross the room before the bellman could disappear down the hallway. She called through the open door. “Hullo! Sorry! Come back!” The bellman raced back and Hermione handed him a twenty-dollar bill of Muggle money she had saved from their vacation. “Uh, he’s from the country, you know,” Hermione whispered, “doesn’t understand tipping and all that. Sorry.” The bellman stared at the twenty in his hands, then at Hermione, and then back to the bill in his hands, smiling. Hermione turned on her heels, trod back up the hall and back into the room.

Ron, turning a hot shade of pink at Hermione’s chastizing glance, opened the envelope. It was a note, written in Draco’s flowing, loopy pen. “Meet me at 1001 Lakeside Drive, Unit 1554. It’s just up the street. Bring your things. I’ll be there at 1:00. All is set for travels home. Signed, Dillon.”

Ron smiled. “Well, it’s on then, let’s go.”

The bellman turned and headed back to their room to ask if he could carry their bags or anything that would garner another generous tip. Suddenly, the bellman heard a loud “CRACK!” When he arrived at the room, it was completely empty save for the furniture and furnishings that belonged there.

Draco stoked and tended the fire at 1001 Lakeside Drive, Unit 1554. As he was readying to place a large log on the fire, he heard a great, booming “CRACK” behind him. As he was no longer used to the use of magic, the sound of wizards apparating or disapparating was highly unexpected and unfamiliar. Draco jumped, dropping the heavy log on the hearth, where it rolled off, and dropped six inches onto his right foot.

“Oh, you stupid bloody gits! Don’t you ever do that to me again!” Draco gave a small whine as he sat on the hearth, grasping his foot.

“Sorry,” Hermione said, stifling a small giggle. She took out her wand, pointed at Draco’s great toe and said, “Repairo.” Draco’s pain disappeared as quickly as it had come on. “Oh, so the repair charm does work on broken bones! Never tried that one before. Glad it did work. Couldv’e been disastrous if it didn’t, eh?” Hermione smiled. She looked around the apartment. She saw next to the fireplace a small pot of floo powder. “We on the network, then, Draco?”

“Well, we wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t. Would we, Granger?” Hermione shrugged. She could have sworn for a moment that he sounded more and more like the Draco she knew – and loathed – at school. Deep inside, she was rather glad the old Draco seemed to be coming back. “We’re going to my cousin’s flat in New York by floo powder, and then we’re catching the QE2¼ back home to England.”

Harry was puzzled. He had heard of the QE2 – the great vessel that made stops all over the world, including New York and Southampton, but, “the QE2 and what? One-quarter? Never heard of it.”

“Of course you haven’t, Potter! It’s not easy to get on that ship. You need to be connected. Luckily, I still have my lifetime membership in their Sailing the Seas club. I got us passage right away. Soon as we get there.”

Ron felt slightly disappointed. Like Harry, he wanted to get home to his own family. “We’re travelling by ship? How long is that going to take, weeks?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Could take minutes if you want it that way.” He sighed. “When you take the QE2¼, you can choose the length of your cruise. If you’re in a hurry, you can take the Super Sonic Speed package, which includes no amenities whatsoever, and gets you from New York to Southampton in about 17 ½ minutes. Otherwise, you can take a more leisurely route, going anywhere from a day, to a week, even up to a year if you take the Snail Slow Speed package and make all the stops.”

Draco looked at Harry and Ron, both of whom continued to appear mystified. “Don’t worry, Potter, I signed us up for the four-day cruise. Any faster and we’d miss any enjoyment in the ship! Plus, last time I took the Super Sonic Speed trip I suffered a nasty windburn for three days afterwards.”

As with the hotel, Harry thought about money, screwing up his face to the thought of the cost of four more nights’ luxury lodging and food. Draco seemed to read Harry’s mind. “Don’t worry,” he said in a low drawl, “this one’s on old mum and dad. I got the hotel tab, too.” Seeing the beginnings of an indignant protest form on Harry’s lips, Draco smiled wickedly. “I’ve got to blow all of that dirty Malfoy money somehow, now don’t I? May as well be on my – friends – eh, Potter?”

Chapter Ten – The Queen Elizabeth 2 ¼

As dirty and dusty as it was, Harry loved travelling by floo powder. Mainly, he enjoyed whizzing through fireplaces and chimneys, feeling the warm flames tickle at him with each fireplace he passed. Most of all, this time, traveling by floo powder meant that he was one step closer to getting home to his parents’ old home in Godric’s Hollow, and to beginning his life with Hermione.

After Ron, Draco, and Hermione had departed, Harry scraped the last bit of floo powder from the bottom of the urn on top of the mantle, and stepped into the fireplace. He threw the floo powder down with a long stroke, and shouted “Malfoys’ New York!” very clearly. He saw a flash of bright green flame, and felt the welcoming warmth of the floo network. Seconds later, after much spinning and tumbling, he landed square on his feet, on solid ground. He looked around and saw an expansive drawing room. “Pretty large for a flat,” Harry thought.

Hermione and Draco were there to meet him. Draco pulled Harry’s suitcase out of the immense hearth, and Hermione began sweeping at Harry’s robes until she was satisfied they were dust-free. The flat was essentially empty, save for a few scattered pieces of furniture covered with white dust drapes. “The family hasn’t lived here for years,” Draco explained. “It was my cousin’s house, but she’s since lived full-time in Florida.” He mused for a moment. “Couldn’t stand her, honestly. I think of her every time there’s a hurricane down there. She had a temper like one and it wouldn’t surprise me if the sudden rash of storms was due to her little outbursts.” Harry couldn’t help but laugh.

“Well,” said Draco. “Let’s head down to the QE2 ¼. The sooner we get on board, the sooner we can go home.”

The four walked the short distance from the Malfoy flat to the ship. Surprisingly, the pier where the ship was docked was a rather run down, rickety set up, inhabited by all sorts of ruddy, intouchable types. Hermione felt a shiver down her spine as she literally had to step over a drunken woman laying on the boardwalk. She was even more stunned when Draco pointed out the ship. To Hermione, the illustrious QE2 ¼ was no more than a garbage scow, flat, snub-nosed, and rather smelly.

“Draco, are you sure this is it?” Hermione asked. “I mean, I thought this was a luxury liner! This looks more like a dung heap than a cruise ship!”

“Just trust me.” Ron shot Draco a sarcastic look. “Ok, ok, just wait until we walk up the gangplank. You’ll see it when we get closer. It has a Muggle-repelling charm on it. Worst we get sometimes is kids sneaking up on it but there is heavy security for that – and a resident memory modifier on staff. Just follow me, ok?”

Draco leading the way, the four struggled up the gangplank with their bags in tow. The closer they got to the top of the ramp, however, the more the actual ship came into view. By the time they were on board, they were standing on an immense vessel. It was navy blue, cherry red, and blinding white with gleaming, sparkling chrome accents. Harry could see the double stacks belching out a particolored smoke, and giving a faint, “toot” with each belch.

The main deck was a glittering, gold atrium with all manner of plants and hanging decorations. Candles floated in mid air, and shimmering, enchanted songbirds flew around the ceiling. Everywhere Harry looked, he saw incredible opulence, sparkling gold, and pure, unadulterated decadence. The center of the atrium held a large, highly-polished fountain shaped like a rearing centaur, water flowing out of the tip of its drawn arrow. Harry could hear the faint tinkling of water as it hit the vivid blue swimming pool below.

“Wow.” Ron was flabbergated as well. “Wow, this is amazing!” As Ron’s jaw dropped, the four were greeted by a comely witch in nautical-looking, tight-fitting, and barely-there robes. Ron’s jaw gaped further as he surveyed the witch’s blatant beauty in her skimpy, gold-laden uniform

“Mr. Malfoy and party, I presume?” She asked, checking a clipboard. Before they could answer, the witch continued. “Your staterooms are on the seventh deck, and you share a drawing room lounge. You have about three hours before dinner in the main dining room tonight. Please, follow me.”

Three hours later, the four arrived together at the dining room. Although they did not bring any formal attire, surprisingly, there were tuxedos for the men and an opulent, tight-fitting evening gown for Hermione provided in the staterooms.

To Hermione’s surprise, the suite also came with its own house elf who specialized in cosmetology and hairstyling. To go with her glittering, bright-red sheath, Hermione was given striking, glowing makeup and an elegant, upsweeping style to her otherwise unkempt mop of brown curls.

Harry thought Hermione looked amazing, and could not stop telling her so. Even more amazing to Harry was the effect on Hermione’s form of the dress’ plunging neckline and plunging back – but, that comment he kept well to himself. During the walk from the stateroom to the dining room, Harry could not take his eyes off Hermione. He felt as if he had just noticed Hermione’s beauty again for the first time, and fell in love with her all over again.

Dinner proved as elegant and extravagant as the ship suggested. Their meal consisted of at least seven courses, each of them more delicious than the other. After Harry finished his last bite of crème brulee, he loosened his tie slightly, and sat back in his chair. He had not felt so satisfied in at least a fortnight, and for once, he was beginning to forget the horrible events of the past few weeks. Harry was snapped back to reality thanks to the turn in Draco and Ron’s conversation.

“Ron,” said Draco. “Harry and I have been asked to help the Muggle law enforcement to put a stop to the terrorist activities Voldemort’s been shoring up. The American agent’s asked me to go back to my old life – back to being a wizard – and back to maintaining the Malfoy family’s legacy, if you know what I mean.”

Ron bristled and shifted in his chair, not quite sure what Malfoy was about to ask of him, although he knew it was going to be something difficult.

“Ron, in order to get to the bottom of what’s going on, Harry’s told me the Muggles and the Aurors need someone on the inside – a spy, so to speak. Since Severus Snape was killed a few years ago, there’s been no one. I’ve been out of the community for so long, that Voldemort will never know that I’m not really a Death Eater like my…” Draco shuddered, “parents were.”

Ron did not like what he was hearing. “You know, Malfoy, Snape was killed for doing just what you’re saying you’re gonna do. Voldemort has ways of finding these things out – of getting information out of people and stuff. Malfoy, you know you can’t just go in there all willy nilly, say, ‘hi, ho I’m back’ and expect to survive! You’re a real nutter if you think you can!”

Draco took a deep sigh. Hermione and Harry fell quiet, their eyes darting between Ron and Draco as if they were watching a tennis match. “That’s why I need to ask you to be my secret keeper, Ron.” Draco’s eyes fell. “I need you to be the one to hold that secret – no one else will know unless you tell them. Even Harry and Hermione will forget it unless you tell them on practically a daily basis.”

Ron’s mouth hung open. “Why me?”

“Because -- and no offense to Harry and Hermione -- you’re the most trustworthy one of all of us, and you’re also the one who’s the farthest removed from all of it. There’s no way you will have to get close enough to Voldemort for him to try and torture it out of you – and we will make sure of that.” Draco leaned forward on the table toward Ron. “Will you do it, Weasley? Will you be my secret keeper?

Ron did not need any time to think on it. He knew Draco was right, that his role in the actual sting operation would be minimal. If he was going to do anything to serve in the fight against Voldemort, this was going to be it. “Yes,” Ron said resolutely.

“It’s settled then. After dinner, we do the Fidelius charm and seal this up before we get back to England.” Draco gave a curt nod, picked up his fork, and finished off the last bite of his treacle tart. Despite Draco’s brave exterior, Harry knew that his insides must be all mushy, as if someone had just used the jelly-legs jinx on his middle.

After dinner, the four retired to a large drawing room connecting to all three of their state rooms. Harry thought it was quite like the Gryffindor House Common Room at Hogwarts, where the boys’ and girls’ Gryffindor dormitories met and combined for meetings, study, or social time.

Harry and Hermione sat in the nighttime sea air on a large, open balcony, gazing at the stars, sipping champagne, and gazing into each other’s eyes. They had left the room for two reasons. First, they wanted – needed – deserved some time alone. Second, Ron and Draco required strict privacy for the Fidelius charm to work properly.

Ron and Draco sat opposite each other in two overlarge armchairs. Draco leaned forward, and took out Harry’s wand, which he borrowed for the occasion. First thing when they got to England, Draco thought, he would head to Ollivander’s Wand Shop and purchase a new one to replace the one he’d purposefully broken years ago.

Ron leaned in as well so that his head and Draco’s head were nearly touching. Draco tapped the wand three times on Ron’s ear, and said, “Fidelius.” Ron felt a slight buzzing in his ear. When the noise subsided, Draco whispered his secret in Ron’s ear. Draco repeated the procedure, tapping Ron’s ear and again whispering “Fidelius.” The two men leaned back in their chairs, certain that they had performed the spell correctly.

Draco smiled, stood up out of his chair, and held up his index finger to Ron as if to say, “watch this now.” To test the spell, Draco strode out to the balcony and spoke to Harry. “Potter, what is it I’m supposed to do when we get back to England?”

Harry gave Draco a sarcastic grin. “Well, Malfoy, if you ask me, you are to take a long walk off a short plank, dunk your sorry self into the drink forever, and sod off.” Harry’s green eyes twinkled with slight dislike. Hermione looked torn between a fit of giggles and a disapproving glare at Harry’s behavior.

Draco, satisfied, turned on his heels and returned to Ron, who was rapt in a fit of laughter. “Sterling, mate.” Draco whispered. “Task on target.”

Chapter Eleven – An Invitation From The Burrow

The following three days of the cruise proved most comical. Ron found himself playing the role of referee between Harry and Draco more times than he would have liked. Even though Ron started each breakfast sharing Draco’s secret with Harry and Hermione, by the time lunch rolled around, they had both forgotten, and went right back to picking fights with Draco, or treating Draco as if he were still the insufferable prat he was back at Hogwarts.

By the end of the cruise, Ron took to writing the secret down on a piece of parchment and handing it to Hermione and Harry each time he sensed emnity. At dinner on the last night of the cruise, all Ron had to say was, “paper in your pocket,” and that would settle things back down again.

Draco, with his wicked streak intact, rather enjoyed seeing Harry and Hermione’s scowls, and more enjoyed seeing Ron constantly having to reel them in. Often, Draco would purposefully taunt Harry when he sensed Harry’s dislike was at a high.

“You know, Potter,” Draco said one night after a rather uncomfortable meal, “I wonder if the Daily Prophet’s gotten a hold of your wedding story. I could see the headline now, ‘Mad Ministry Mage Marries Manky Mudblood Moo-Cow,’ or ‘Wanker of a Wizard Weds Whiny Witch.’ It’ll be their best edition yet.”

Before Harry could retaliate to Draco’s use of the foul word “mudblood,” and the description of Hermione as a “whiny witch,” Ron reached over, pulled the parchment out of Harry’s breast pocket and shoved it under Harry’s nose. Harry read it quickly. “Oh, very funny Malfoy. Very funny. Is that good sport then? Potter baiting again, eh?”

Ron, however, forgot to remind Hermione. By the time Harry got the joke, Hermione had flung the back of her hand smack against Draco’s cheek, sending him reeling out of his chair and on to the floor in a tangle of silverware, napkin, and dinner jacket. “Don’t you ever call me Mudblood again, you foul, loathsome, twitchy little ferret! And, do I look like a cow to you?”

As Hermione was standing over Draco, panting in her anger, Ron got up, walked round the table, and showed her the parchment. Hermione immediately blanched, laughed, then blushed fiercely.

“Sorry, Draco. I didn’t mean to call you foul and loathsome.”

Draco smiled, straightening his chair, and wiping breadcrumbs away from his breast pocket, “Well, what about ferret?”

“That name will always stick. You’ll never get out from under that one. Draco the Bouncing Ferret.” Hermione giggled, remembering a time at Hogwarts when a professor, Mad-Eye Moody, had turned Draco into a small, white ferret, and magically bounced him up and down when Draco had threatened to hex Hermione and Harry.

The next day, the four disembarked with little difficulty. Before they could go their separate ways, however, Draco turned to Harry and shook his hand firmly.

“Harry,” Draco said. “I’m sorry for the way I treated you in school. I was horrible. I was a complete and utter prat.”

Harry, having just been reminded of the secret by Ron, shook Draco’s hand back, clapping his left hand over Draco’s. “Your words, not mine, Malfoy.” Harry laughed. “Really, though, it’s ok. After all, we were just kids.” Harry smiled. “Most the time I deserved it you know. Especially after I beat you up after that Quidditch game in our fifth year.” He clapped at Draco’s shoulder. “Just, never ever insult Ron’s family or my mum again, clear?”

Draco grinned. “Crystal.” He paused. “Harry?”

“Yes.”

“If you’re ever – in trouble – I mean, if you ever need anything – need me for anything – just send an owl straight away. Not Hedwig, your owl, though, you know. I don’t want any messages intercepted. With what I have to do and what Agent Travis has planned for me, the less you-know-who…”

“Voldemort.” Harry corrected.

“Yes, V-Voldemort.” Draco still had difficulty saying the name. “The less Voldemort knows about our new, er, alliance, and our little scheme, the better. Things’ll be better once this whole bit of dreck is over, eh? Back to our lives, right?” Draco gave a weak smile. He was visibly nervous.

“Yes, back to our lives. Goodbye, Draco.” Harry and Hermione both waved goodbye. Ron also gave a hearty wave as Draco walked up the boardwalk. Draco was met at the end of the walk by a limousine with a uniformed driver. Harry, Ron, and Hermione all watched as he got into the limousine and sped off toward Wiltshire and Malfoy Manor.

“I do hope he’ll be okay.” Hermione said.

“He will.” Said Ron. “He knows what he’s doing and who he’s getting in with. Now, we all just wait, sit and wait until we get our messages.”

As the three old school friends were walking across the boardwalk together, a large, white and spotted snowy owl swooped down and lit on Harry’s shoulder.

“Hedwig!” Harry cried, and dropped his suitcase. He immediately reached up and started stroking her soft feathers. Hedwig made a soft, happy, hooting noise. “It’s so good to see you, Hedwig. Did you have a nice time?” Hedwig’s hoot in response sounded, Harry thought, sad. “I know, Hedwig,” Harry said. “I missed you too.”

The great snowy owl ruffed her feathers, and hooted again in a questioning tone, as if she had forgotten something. “Have something for me, then?” Hedwig hopped off Harry’s shoulder and onto Ron’s. Puffing up with pride, she stuck out her leg for Ron to remove the tiny roll of parchment tied to it. Ron, smiling at Harry, removed it, and read it.

“So, Ron, who’s it from then?” asked Hermione.

“Cor, it’s from my mum!” Ron said. He finished reading the note, and then looked up, beaming at Harry and Hermione. “Looks like you two’re invited to come with me for a bit of a rest-up at the Burrow.” He smiled. “Mum thinks you two need some R&R after all you’ve been through, and she’s invited all three of us to stay for a bit!” Ron sighed. “Been a while since I’ve been home. It’ll be nice to have some of my mum’s home cooking again. So, what do you say?”

Harry and Hermione looked at each other for a moment. Both were longing to reclaim that precious private time they had missed out on for the last two and a half weeks. They both desired more than anything to travel home to Godric’s Hollow, move into the Potters’ house, and settle in. However, there was something tempting about the prospect of Molly Weasley’s steak and kidney pies, treacle tarts, homemade fudge, and mince pies.

“Lead the way.” Said Hermione. “We’d love to.”

The three arrived just outside the Burrow moments later, having apperated directly from Southampton. Every time Harry visited Ron’s childhood home, he felt a pure, happy, warm and welcoming sensation. Perhaps it was the earthy, ramshackle way the house was put together – wing after mismatched wing built one atop the other as if there were no rhyme or reason for the building. Perhaps it was the expansive vegetable garden, or the comfortable fireplace, or the homey wood paneling throughout the house. Harry ultimately thought it was the incredibly delicious smells coming from the kitchen – where Molly Weasley cooked family-size meals, baked pies, biscuits, and tarts, and brewed up the occasional household potion in the fireplace cauldron.

During his years at Hogwarts, Harry loved spending the end of his summer holidays at the Burrow. Mainly, Harry loved getting away from the Dursleys. But, spending his nights in a comfortable feather bed, spending his days playing Quidditch and being fed immense amounts of delicious food was quite a bonus.

The house was just as Harry and Hermione had remembered it. They came in the front door, and laid their bags in the kitchen around the large trestle table. Next thing, Harry heard an elephantine rumble coming from the upstairs, accompanied by a number of happy yells and shrieks.

It was Molly and Ginny. Ginny was Ron’s youngest sister, one year behind them at Hogwarts. Harry could remember when Ginny fancied Harry such that she was dumbstruck whenever he was around. Now, Harry noticed, Ginny was a confident, happy, and vibrant young woman, career-minded and very ambitious.

“Harry! Hermione” Molly shouted. “So, so very glad you could come, dears!” Molly caught Hermione up in a tight bear hug, the mass of Molly’s weight pressing against Hermione’s chest. Molly repeated the hug with Harry. Ginny followed suit with both of them, her hug with Harry a little more guarded than that of her mother.

Ron came into the house. “Just saw my brothers outside. They want to talk to you, Harry!” Ron looked up, his face widening into a broad grin. “Mum! Ginny! It’s been too long…”

Smack! Molly had cracked Ron violently across the face. Ron, dumbstruck, raised a hand to the offended cheekbone. Molly began to scream, her arms flailing in anger. “Not so much as a word for over a fortnight, Ronald Weasley. I was worried sick about you – sick! I sent Harry’s Hedwig four days ago to find you, and I sat here,” she pointed to the trestle table, “and I waited for her, waited for you, waited for something to tell me that my youngest boy wasn’t hurt, wasn’t in trouble, or worse,” she sobbed, “dead.”

Ginny fought hard to stifle a giggle. “Oh, mum,” she said, putting a gentle hand on Molly’s shoulder. “He’s here now, can’t you come off it?”

Ron was still holding the side of his face where Molly had slapped him. “Yeah, mum. No need for that now, right? I’m here. We’re all here and we’re safe.”

“Yes, but for how long?” Molly said, sweeping some unseen dust off of Ron’s shoulder with her right hand. “Your father’s gotten word at the Ministry about some Muggles who are working with the Ministry of Magic, and your and Harry’s name have come up quite a little bit.”

“Shhh, mum.” Ron held a finger up to his lips. “Please don’t say anything more about it, Dad neither. Harry and I aren’t exactly full on involved right now, but someone else is, and we’re just waiting until we get told what to do.” Before Molly could ask, Ron said, “We can’t tell you who it is, but even if we did you’d never believe it.” Ron winked at Harry.

“So, mum.” Ron clapped his hands together. “What’s for dinner, I’m starved!”

Chapter Twelve – An Invitation from Voldemort

The next few days at the Burrow were just as promised. It was an opportunity for Harry and Hermione to catch up on some rest and relaxation, to enjoy some home cooking, and most of all, enjoy some diversion from the events of the past few weeks. Much to Hermione’s chagrin, however, Harry spent the majority of his days outside with Ron and Ron’s twin older brothers, Fred and George, playing fast-pace, and sometimes rather violent, pick-up games of Quidditch.

Hermione cringed each time Harry and the Weasleys came in from Quidditch at lunch or supper time sporting new cuts, bruises, or, in Ron’s case, bloody noses. One afternoon, Harry came in the house alone, long before any meal, sporting a horrid looking and quickly-blossoming black left eye. As Hermione retrieved a cure potion from the Weasley’s bathroom cupboard, Harry started reliving the events for her in great detail.

“Ah, ‘Mione, you shoulda seen it! I got the quaffle off to Ron, and Ron dove for it full on just as Fred got me a right good bludger smack in the eye! It was spectacular!”

Hermione shuddered. “Harry, you’re 25 years old now, shouldn’t…”

“No, I shouldn’t!” Harry retorted with a small laugh. “Would you want me any other way? Should I be ‘serious Harry’ from now on? Okay, I’ll be serious Harry.” Harry straightened up his back and pretended to adjust a tie on his otherwise bare chest. “Hermione, dear. Be a good wife and fix my eye.”

Hermione glared at him. Harry continued the charade. “Whatever is wrong, Hermione dear?” She continued the glare. Harry opened his mouth to speak again in a “serious Harry” tone. But before any words could get out, Hermione jabbed hard at the black eye with a cotton wad.

“Ouch!” said Harry. “You did that on purpose.”

“Yes, of course I did,” said Hermione. “Had to knock ‘serious Harry’ out of you, and some sense into you.” She laughed. “All better now. Get back out there and bludger them for once!” She gave Harry a deep, hearty kiss -- enough to make Harry second-guess going back for more Quidditch. Teasingly, Hermione, handed him his Firebolt, and sent him back outside with a pat on the rear.

As it was now mid-August, the weather at the Burrow was hot, sticky, and oppressively humid. The trees and flowers around the house were full on in bloom, all the plants in Molly’s garden were fully grown, and the fruits and vegetables were ripe for the picking.

On their last morning at the Burrow, Harry woke early, just after sunrise. The night before, he had agreed to meet Ron, Fred, and George outside for a final day’s worth of Quidditch before Harry and Hermione travelled on to Godric’s Hollow. Harry sat up, scrubbed at his eyes, and retrieved his glasses from the bedside table. He could hear Hermione’s low, shallow breaths beside him. He bent down and gently gave her a kiss on the side of her forehead, which she, in her sleep, brushed away.

Harry smiled, ran a hand through his unkempt hair, and lifted himself carefully out of bed, so as not to make any noise or wake Hermione. He pulled on his denim shorts, pulled on a pair of socks, and slid his feet into his trainers lying beside the bed. Harry then pulled on a red and yellow Griffindor Quidditch t-shirt, stretched, and bounded downstairs, where Ron and his brothers were already waiting for them.

“’Bout time you got your carcass out of bed, Potter.” Fred laughed. “We were beginning to think you were going yellow on us and didn’t want to play today – after the way Ron and I pounded on you and Fred here yesterday.”

“Challenge made,” Harry grinned, sipping at a cup of hot coffee, “challenge accepted. Let’s go.”

“Breakfast!” Molly sang. All four men gave rather childish groans, as if saying “mum, do I have to?” Molly compromised, shoving pieces of buttered toast into each of their hands as they left through the side door. Molly followed after them, watching as each, in turn, grabbed their broomsticks, kicked off, and sailed through the air toward the back acres.

Harry loved the feeling of flying on his broomstick -- his Firebolt – the broom his godfather, Sirius Black, had given him when he was fourteen years old. Harry took meticulous care of the Firebolt, and despite thousands of flying hours on it, it looked as new as the day it was made. The four men played Quidditch all morning, not even stopping for lunch.

At about 1:00 in the afternoon, Harry caught a glimpse of Molly running at full speed from the house out to the field. Molly, being a rather large woman, never ran for anything if she was able to help it. Harry saw that she was carrying something, something she was flapping around, waving in her hand. “Oy, Ron!” Harry called. “Your mum’s in a right state. What’s she doing running out here?”

Ron, Fred, and George wheeled their brooms around to look at their mother. “Crikey,” said George. “What’s she running for?”

“What’s she got in her hand?” asked Fred.

The four sped, almost in formation, to the ground to meet Molly. By the time they lit down, Molly was bent over, hands on her knees and panting. Harry, to his immediate worry, could also see that she had been crying.

“Mrs. Weasley?” Harry asked, “you ok?”

“Oh, Harry, Harry dear, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.” Molly sobbed.

“Sorry for what?” The hair on the back of Harry’s neck was beginning to stand with fear. She didn’t answer right away, but sobbed uncontrollably. Harry took her by the shoulders. “Sorry for what?”

“Her – her – her…” Molly stammered between heaving sobs.

“Hermione?” asked Ron. Molly nodded her head. “Mum, what’s wrong with Hermione?”

“G – g – gone. They – they – oh it was horrible!” Molly began crying anew.

Harry, now sick with worry, tried to pull his own emotions together to find out what happened. “Mrs. Weasley -- Molly. You have to tell me what happened. Who took her? Where? What happened?”

Molly’s sobs subsided, and she slowly lifted her eyes to meet Harry’s. “D – d – death Eaters.” Harry took in a sharp breath, but kept his eyes on Molly. “They - they – apparated in to the kitchen, and – and – and…”

Harry was losing patience, feeling that time was slipping away. “And what, Molly? What did the Death Eaters do?” Harry thought a moment. “The Death Eaters, did they take Hermione?” Please, please let the answer be no, Harry prayed.

“Yes.” Molly sobbed again. “Yes, Harry, right under my nose, they took her. She was stirring a treacle fudge batter for me and they came in and took her, and disapparated right out again without so much as a word.” Harry felt his heart pounding against his chest, and, despite the scorching summer heat, his skin suddenly went cold. Molly continued. “They left this note on the table. It has a sealing charm on it, so I couldn’t open it.”

She handed the note to Harry. Molly had held the note so tightly it was crumpled and damp with sweat. Harry took the note. It was an envelope of black parchment with silvery writing on it, addressed to “Harry James Potter.” Harry turned the envelope over to open it, and ran his fingers over the imprint of a skull with a snake twisting through the mouth and eye openings. “The Dark Mark,” Harry said, and showed the envelope to Ron and the twins.

“Well, don’t just stand there, Harry, open it!” said George.

Harry took out his wand and tapped the wax seal. The seal cracked and broke, and Harry immediately retrieved the letter inside. The letter too was on black parchment with the same silvery writing. Harry read it out loud:

My Dearest Harry Potter:

Since we last met, I have tried to figure out what is nearest to your heart, what I could use to draw you to me. Now I know what that is. You have something I want, Mr. Potter, and I expect now that I will have it. Now, I have something you want. Come and get the mudblood woman. I will keep her safe until you do – but my patience wears thin. She will not be safe for long.

Yours sincerely,

L.V.

Harry felt as if he were going to be sick. This is exactly what he had feared since he first started dating Hermione in earnest – since he confessed his love for her in their last year at Hogwarts -- that she would be placed in the direct line of danger, whether because of his work, or simply because of who he was and his relationship to Lord Voldemort. Harry couldn’t decide if he wanted to scream, cry, run, or punch someone. Ultimately, he decided to take action – immediate, thought-out and strategic action.

“Ron,” Harry said. “We need to get her out of there, now.”

Ron gave a quick, curt nod. “And I know just the person to get us in.” Ron kicked off his broom and sped back to the house. After a moment of confused looks between the rest, they all followed suit, Molly riding on the back of Harry’s Firebolt. By the time they had arrived back at the house, Ron was already hunched over the trestle table with parchment and quill, writing a letter.

“Who’re you writing to?” Harry demanded. “How could you be writing a letter at a time like this?”

Ron sighed. “I’m writing to Malfoy.” He replied. After he again told Harry, and also filled his family in on Malfoy’s secret and his role in the fight against Voldemort, he finished the letter. “There. Pigwidgeon can take this to Malfoy straight away. We shouldn’t do anything until we hear back from Malfoy, which I right expect will be on short order given the emergency and all. Otherwise, we’d have no way to find Hermione, now will we. You-know-who…”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Ron will you just say his name!” Harry snapped. “I’m sick of this faffing around when it comes to that – man – that’s all he is, just a wizard. I’ve defeated him before and I’m going to again – with or without Malfoy.”

Ron continued as if the outburst didn’t happen. “You-know-who didn’t even give Harry the courtesy of telling him where he was keeping her. Malfoy’s bound to know.” With that, he tied the message to Pigwidgeon’s leg, and sent him on his way, with a “hurry, please, this is urgent.”

About two hours later, as everyone was sitting, or pacing, in the family room, there was a loud CRACK! from the kitchen. Draco Malfoy, dressed in black and gray robes, hurried in. “Afternoon everyone. I trust you sent me this letter?” He held Ron’s letter in the air. No one answered. “I take that as a yes. Harry, are you ok?”

“Oh yes.” Harry said sarcastically. “You stupid git, of course I’m not ok! Voldemort has my wife and I don’t know where to find her or what he’s done to her! What’s yet, I don’t even know what it is I have that Voldemort wants!”

Draco gave a sympathetic sigh. “Keep that righteous anger, Potter, you’ll need it later.” Harry shook his head in disbelief. “You go to the Aurors, Harry. Get all the reinforcements you can. I will go to Agent Travis and get some help from them. We can do this. We can help her and get her out of there.” Draco said assuredly.

“But, how do we get her if we don’t even know where she is?” Harry stood up, yelling full on at Draco.

Draco reached under his robes and pulled out a flat, white mask with two slits for eyes. He held it up over his face. Everyone in the room screamed with fear and outrage. “A Death Eater!” cried Molly, putting her arms protectively around Ginny.

Draco put the mask away. “No, Mrs. Weasley. I’m not a Death Eater. Voldemort just thinks I am. Thinks I’m carrying on the Malfoy family line.” Draco spat. “Fat chance. I’m in for the Ministry, for the Muggle anti-terrorism forces, and now,” Draco looked at Harry. “I’m in to get Hermione back.” Draco pulled at Harry’s shoulder. “Go upstairs and change your clothes. You’re coming with me, Potter. I know where she is.”

Chapter 13 – The Hunter and the Hunted

Harry listened intently and eagerly through an overlarge set of headphones. This Muggle instrument, along with all of the electronic eavesdropping equipment strapped to Draco’s body, was Harry’s only lifeline connecting him to Hermione – and at this time, Harry knew that Hermione’s life was in great peril. He held his hands against the soft, cushiony plastic of the headphones, and pressed them tightly to his ears.

In front of Harry was a small, black and white screen. This, he eyed as fixedly and carefully as he listened. His whole focus, his whole concentration divided between discerning the sounds in the headphones and interpreting the images in the video monitor. The image on the screen was blurred, grainy, and extremely jumpy. This, also was a lifeline to Hermione, with Draco as the catalyst.

Not only did Draco wear what Agent Travis called a “wire,” he also had a miniscule camera hidden in the eyehole of his Death Eaters’ mask. Therefore, everything that Draco saw, Harry and Agent Travis saw.

“Where is she? Where is Hermione? I don’t see her!” Harry’s patience began to wear thin. “Look at her, Draco, you idiot. Look at her! I need to see!” He picked up a small microphone next to him and started to speak into it quietly. “Draco, if you see her…”

“You have to turn it on each time you use it, like this,” Agent Travis demonstrated. Harry tried to flip the small switch, but his fingers were too sweaty and his hands were too shaky to move.

“You do it, please,” Harry said impatiently, shoving the microphone toward her.

Agent Travis smiled and calmly flipped on the switch. Harry repeated himself. “Draco, if you see her, please show me, I need to see her. Is Hermione okay?” He swallowed hard, not really wanting to see Hermione, but compelled to.

On the video screen, he could see that Draco was panning his head left. As Draco was standing in a wide circle of Death Eaters, he did not think it wise to make any sudden moves, noises, or even speak. If the Death Eaters or Voldemort hear even a whisper, or see a movement out of place, Harry knew, that could mean Draco’s death.

As the camera continued to pan in a wide arc, Harry saw her. Hermione. Harry gasped in a combination of excitement and fear. Hermione was conscious, but she was tied to the base of a large memorial angel. Although the screen was black and white, Harry could see that there was some sort of magic – a kind of binding or net – holding her in place.

“She can’t disapperate.” Harry observed, pointing at the screen. “She’s been bound.” He looked at Agent Travis for instruction.

“This is your operation, Mr. Potter. You and the Aurors. We just came along for the ride and provided the equipment.” Agent Travis put a sympathetic hand on Harry’s shoulder. “I knew we should have had another Auror or even one of our agents handle this. You’re too close to …”

“No,” Harry barked. “Damnit, Agent Travis, I wouldn’t trust this to anyone else – not even you.” He turned, without apology, to the screen again, and turned on the small microphone. “Draco, if you are within wand range of Hermione, nod.”

The image on the screen slowly moved up and down, and up and down again. Harry could now hear Voldemort speaking in the background. He could hear the shrill, horrible voice, but he could not make out any of what Voldemort was saying. A feeling of ice cold water ran up the length of Harry’s back, and landed in his scar, which gave a nasty prickle.

“Good, Draco. Excellent.” Harry took another shuddering breath, again recovering his senses. “Do you have your wand handy?”

Again, there was a slow up and down motion.

“Draco, when he gets far enough away from you, can you remove the binding spell, so Hermione can apperate out of there?”

There was a pause as the video became still. Harry thought he saw the image begin to veer left to right – Draco was shaking his head no. Harry’s heart sank, and he scrubbed at his mouth, thinking. But then, as before, as Draco nodded his head, the image moved up and slowly back down.

“Good! Good!” Harry nearly shouted. Agent Travis again laid a hand on Harry’s shoulder. Not in comfort this time, but to silence him. Even though they were some distance away from the Death Eaters’ meeting place, hiding from their view in a stone tomb vault, they were still within the same graveyard and on the same grounds. Given the exigency of the situation, Agent Travis could not ensure complete stealth.

Harry acknowledged Agent Travis’ admonitions, and turned again to the microphone. “Okay, Draco, when you get your chance, do it. Hermione will know what to do.”

It seemed an eternity before anything happened again. Harry remained fixed on the screen, and kept the earphones on, listening. He had heard Voldemort’s orations once before in this very graveyard at the end of his fourth year at Hogwarts – the year that Voldemort returned. When Harry had in one second, shared Triwizard Tournament glory with Cedric Diggory, and in the next, watched his victory partner die a horrible death. A death that occurred right in the spot where Draco was standing.

The video screen image flashed to the left. Harry watched in horror as Voldemort stalked toward Hermione. “Blast, he’s moving toward her.” Harry said. He picked up and flicked on the microphone again. “Draco, can you get closer? Can you move in? Can you see what he’s doing?”

This time, Draco shook his head “no.” Harry could have sworn he heard Draco take a sharp, hiss-like intake of breath.

As Hermione was at somewhat of a distance from the circle, Harry could not hear what Voldemort was saying. However, from the horrible, wicked laughter of the other Death Eaters, Harry judged it as not good. He hated that Draco couldn’t move, couldn’t move in closer. Voldemort was now blocking Harry’s view of Hermione, and the other Death Eaters were closing in in a tight circle around him.

Harry grew impatient, angry, and frightened. “Blast, he’s going to kill her, or worse!”

Harry stood up from the makeshift table, threw off the headphones and glared into the screen, trying with all of his might to make out what exactly Voldemort was doing to his wife. Suddenly, he felt a white-hot pain in his scar. He doubled over the table, grinding the heel of his hand into his forehead, trailing it down to scrub the newly formed tears out of his eyes.

“What – is – going – on!!!” Harry shouted, pounding a fist on the table in confusion and growing hatred. Without thinking, Harry turned on the microphone again, and shouted into it. “Malfoy, get her out of there, now!”

Draco acted instantly and without thought. He sent stunners flying, taking out each of the Death Eaters. He re-aimed his wand as Voldemort turned, sending off a counter-curse to free Hermione. Seeing the chance, Hermione disapperated immediately, disappearing from the video screen and materializing again at Harry’s side in the tomb enclosure.

Harry embraced Hermione, a wave of relief and gratitude washing over him. However, despite Hermione’s appearance, Harry remained fixed on the video monitor. He knew Malfoy was in deep, deep trouble now – and it was completely and utterly his fault. While Draco had single-handedly taken out eleven Death Eaters and freed Hermione, he failed to affect Voldemort at all. In fact, Harry knew that Draco’s actions immediately gave him away as a traitor.

Harry again leaned forward to get a better view of the monitor. Hermione and Agent Travis huddled around him as he again placed the headphones to his ears. What he saw and heard next horrified him. Voldemort had flown – literally, flown – toward Draco, landing deftly in front of him. Without even using his wand, Voldemort performed some kind of spell that seemed to have made Draco stiff and unable to move.

Hermione began to speak, but Harry immediately shushed her.

Harry saw Voldemort’s bony, waxy hands move upwards in tandem toward Draco’s face. The camera attached to the mask suddently began to move moved again, aiming forward towards Voldemort’s face, and then downward. Voldemort had removed Draco’s mask. Harry could hear a wheezy, raspy breathing, and then a soft whimper from Draco. It was obvious, even without the video camera, what was happening. Voldemort was leaning in, his face close to Draco’s.

“Harry Potter is here, isn’t he, Malfoy?” Voldemort’s voice came in a low, angry growl.

Harry heard Draco try and speak. He heard more muffled words, and another whimper. Then, a second later, Harry heard a blood-curdling, horrifying, and unmistakable scream.

Then, Harry heard no more.

**********

Harry heard the words, “Harry Potter is here, isn’t he, Malfoy?” over and over again in his head for the next several seconds of silence following. Harry knew that Voldemort had discovered that Draco was wearing a wire, discovered that his conversation with Draco was being monitored, and sensed that the listener was Harry. Harry listened further.

“You know, Malfoy. Your parents would be ashamed to see you now, consorting with half-bloods, Muggles, Aurors and mudbloods.” Voldemort taunted Draco. “Lucius and Narcissa were two of my finest Death Eaters, killing many in my wake, and killing yet others in my name. They gladly went to Azkaban for me.” Voldemort slowly raised his wand and pointed it square at Draco’s chest. “I don’t imagine you would do the same, now would you? Would you go so far as to die for me, like your parents pledged to do?” Draco stared, still stiffened, but trying to appear resolute.

“How disappointing. I didn’t think you would,” Voldemort continued, re-aiming his wand and removing the stiffening spell. Suddenly, ropes and bindings flew out of the end of Voldemort’s wand, shoving Draco backwards and fastening him tightly to a tall marble grave marker. Draco felt a wince of pain and a drip of blood as the back of his head hit the top cornice of the grave marker.

After the ropes, a black cloth flew out of Voldemort’s wand, smacking Draco in the face. Draco scrunched up his face at the cloth as it worked its way into Draco’s mouth, wriggling past his pursed lips and clenched teeth. Harry, still listening, could hear the ropes drag against the microphone, and could hear Draco’s muffled screams and cries.

“I have to go out there.” Harry stood and shoved his chair backwards. Hermione looked up at Harry pleadingly and put a hand on his arm to try and stop him. “No!” Harry shouted. “You stay here, Hermione! I have to go out there!” He wrenched his arm away, and strode out of the chapel’s back room. No longer caring about stealth, operations, spying, and secrecy, Harry flung open the chapel doors and ran headlong into the twilight-lit graveyard. Agent Travis followed shortly behind him.

“Since you are about to die, Malfoy,” Voldemort walked slowly toward Draco, “I may as well tell you what I had planned.” Draco struggled anew against the ropes and let out more doleful screams.

“You see, young Draco, I sent you that owl to help Harry Potter. I was the one who kidnapped those four people. I used the Imperius Curse on them and gave them invisbility charmed weapons to hijack the plane.” Voldemort used the tip of his wand to trace the outline of Draco’s now grimacing face. When Voldemort removed his wand, some red sparks flew out, singing Draco’s eyebrows and eyelashes. He tried not to wince in pain.

“I knew Potter and his mudblood wife were going to be on that plane, and I knew he would do all he could to save her and those foul, dirty Muggles. I also knew that I was closer and closer to getting what I really wanted out of Potter.” Draco’s eyes bulged with questioning.

“What is it? What does Potter have that I want? Well, that’s for me to know and Potter to find out.” Voldemort turned and began pacing. “I never meant for Potter or anyone else to be killed on that plane, you see – never intended for the plane to crash anywhere. I made it too easy for Potter to save the day, to play the hero like he loves so much.”

“This, Draco, was a test. A test to see if the thing I so craved all these years was still within him. When I sensed, felt, no – relished in the use of the Killing Curse in that plane, the Avada Kedavra,” Draco shudered at these words, “I knew it was still there, still waiting for me to come and claim it again.”

Voldemort wheeled around on Draco again. “And you, when I knew Potter was going to be questioned, I thought how simple, how easy – to get the two of you at the same time. My two greatest enemies. When your parents were sent to Azkaban, I counted on you to carry on their legacy. Alas, you did not. I was so, so, so terribly disappointed in you, Draco. You turned your back on me. Turned your back on everything your parents taught you.” Voldemort grinned and clucked his tongue. “Naughty boy. Naughty, naughty little Draco Malfoy. I knew, when you went to live with those filthy Muggles, that ultimately you’d side with Potter, and that you’d try and return to set me up. Well, here you are aren’t you?”

Voldemort gave a wrenching, ugly grin, and raised his wand anew, pointing it at Draco’s chest. Voldemort turned around slowly as Harry approached, out of breath and panting. The sheer horror of the scene before him left Harry speechless.

“Potter!” said Voldemort, in mock-cordial tones, “I am so glad you’re here to see this. Pull up a headstone, stay a while. Watch what I do to traitors and mudblood lovers!” Voldemort’s vapid grin turned into a wicked grimace, as he turned back to take aim at Draco. “Say goodbye to your new friend, Potter, but don’t worry, you’re next!”

As Voldemort began the incantation, “Avada Kedavra,” Harry’s instincts kicked in at full throttle. Harry ran headlong and at high speed between Voldemort’s wand and Draco.

“Expelliarmus!” He bellowed, aiming his wand in Voldemort’s general direction, hoping, praying for contact.

However, the only contact was between the Killing Curse and Harry’s head, deflecting off and shattering a nearby marble angel. Harry fell and tumbled to the ground, landing at Draco’s feet. Harry’s mind was reeling. He could hear a womans’ scream in the background, Voldemort’s high pitched cackle, and Draco’s muffled yells growing more distant and faint with every passing second.

Suddenly, there was an intense, horrendous and skull-splitting pain in his scar, a pain more excruciating than he had never felt in his entire life -- as if his entire being was being wrenched apart, split in two. Behind his clenched eyelids, Harry saw a great flash of green sparkly light. And then, as quickly as it started, all of Harry’s senses – sight, sound, touch, and smell -- went completely, and utterly dead.

Chapter Fourteen -- The Two Souls of Harry Potter

Black. Simple, uncompromising black. Between the darkness of nightfall, and the continued pain in his scar, that was all Harry was able to discern. As before, the dimmer switch in Harry’s mind began working anew. He heard Draco’s voice. “Harry?” He stirred momentarily.

“Harry, my God, you’re alive! I don’t believe you survived that!” Draco had somehow spat out the gag napkin, but he was still tied to the headstone. Harry felt cold. Harry felt sick. His back was touching a hard, frigid surface – marble, Harry thought. As he continued to regain his senses, he noticed that his hands were bound tightly behind him, and he had ropes around his bare chest. He, like Draco, was tied to a grave marker.

“Potter, can you open your eyes?” Draco pled, whispering. “He’s going to be back any minute now. He thinks your’e dead but he tied you up anyways just in case you survived it again. And you did!” Draco added, still whispering. “Potter?”

Harry mumbled a small noise of acknowledgement. “Harry, listen to me.” Draco continued. “After he hit you with the curse, he just stared at your face for the longest time. He smiled every once in a while. I think he saw something in your face – something he said before he’d been looking for for a long time, Harry.”

With that, Harry heard a loud “crack,” a “whoosh,” and then a whimpering, deflating sigh from Draco. Harry surmised that Voldemort had returned, and had stunned Draco. Harry, mustering up all of the strength he could, raised his head and looked up into Voldemort’s red eyes.

“Hello, Potter.” Said Voldemort. Harry continued to stare into those horrible eyes. His glasses having been knocked off, he tried focusing on Voldemort’s face, the slit-like nostrils, the flattened snake-like features, the horrible eyes, and the pasty white-gray skin. His vision, mercifully, blurred in and out of focus.

“I see you’ve managed to be the ‘boy who lived’ again. You should be doubly proud. Imagine the press you’ll receive.” Harry made no answer but kept staring, his scar searing anew. “This time, Potter, the curse had an interesting effect. My theory was right, you know.”

“What – what – what theory?” Harry stammered, closing his eyes to the pain and the cold and the growing lack of sensation in his legs and feet.

“The theory of why you lived the first time, Potter – when you were just a baby -- and why I ceased to exist, or nearly ceased to exist for fourteen years. I found the reason in you just now – saw it in your face -- just after you were hit with the curse again.”

In addition to the burning in his scar, his arms were aching and the cold stone on his bare back was making the rest of his body tingle with numbness. He opened his eyes again briefly and saw Draco unconscious. He looked down. Agent Travis was obviously dead, lying sprawled next to Draco’s feet. He took in a sharp breath at the sight.

“Oh, her, Potter?” said Voldemort. “She was once my faithful servant – using her position in Muggle law enforcement to draw you and Malfoy to me – but at the end, she changed her mind, go figure. She betrayed me, too. Alas…” Voldemort’s vapid smile vanished, and he frowned angrily. “She outgrew her usefulness. I disposed of her.” Harry shuddered. “Now, Potter,” Voldemort smiled again, “were you going to ask me something?”

Harry hated to oblige him, something inside him was driving his curiosity -- he had to know. “What – what – what did you see in m – m – me?”

Voldemort glared haughtily at Harry for what seemed an eternity. “Myself, Potter. I saw myself.”

Harry’s eyes flew open with shock. This had been Harry’s greatest fear his entire life – that he was like Voldemort -- or worse -- was Voldemort. His old headmaster at Hogwarts, Dumbledore, told Harry once that, when Voldemort tried killing Harry, Voldemort left something of himself behind.

That was the reason, Dumbledore explained, why Harry was a parselmouth – Voldemort was as well. It was the reason Harry was good at flying a broomstick and at Quidditch, the reason the Sorting Hat almost put Harry into Slytherin House his first year at Hogwarts – Voldemort, too, was a star Quidditch player in his youth and was a strong member of Slytherin when he was still known as Tom Riddle.

“You’re – you’re lying.” Said Harry, desperately.

“No, Potter, I’m not.” Voldemort smiled. “Dumbledore was right all along. I did leave something of myself in you all those years ago. I did leave a trace of my abilities, my aptitudes, my powers, within you. Mainly, Potter, I left my – that is, Tom Marvolo Riddle’s – soul, spirit, essence, what have you – inside of you. Guess it was a good thing I was never able to kill you after all, wasn’t it?” Voldemort gave a shrill cackle. “Now, Potter, I want myself back!”

This made perfect sense to Harry. Despite the logic, he wanted more than anything to deny it, for it not to be true, for this not to be happening. He thought about how he had been so conflicted all his life, how he had a hot, uncontrollable temper when he was a teenager, and now – his use of the Killing Curse on the plane, and his resultant loss of memory. It was obvious. It was all Tom Riddle. Orphaned, abused, unloved, and angry Tom Riddle. Despite this reasoning, Harry’s head continued to swim.

There’s no way he could have lived his entire life with Tom Riddle – with Voldemort – with that – horrible thing – living inside of him, he thought. There was no way he was anyone else but Harry James Potter -- wizard, Auror, crack Quidditch player, son of James and Lily Potter, godson of Sirius Black, and husband of Hermione Potter.

“No, you’re wrong! I am – Harry -- Potter!” Harry tried to shout it but it came out a weak, feeble groan. Between the increasing pain in his scar, and his muddled mind, he could no longer hold up under it. “You’re wrong,” he whispered.

Voldemort gave a shrill laugh. “We’ll see how wrong I am, Potter. See how talented or strong, or even alive you are when I draw Tom Riddle’s soul out of you – through this lovely little scar!”

Voldemort laid a cold finger on Harry’s forehead and traced the outline of the scar. “All this time, all your life, Harry, Tom Riddle has been trying to get out of you – to get back to me, to make me whole again, to make me even more powerful – invincible, in fact. Whenever your,” Voldemort put on a simpering, whining voice, “scar hurt,” He continued, “that was me – that was Tom trying to push his way out of your sorry, weak, simpering, talentless little body – trying with all his might to rejoin with me.” He touched Harry’s scar again, as if stroking a pet lizard. “Well, today, Tom, you will succeed.”

With that, Harry felt a tingle -- a dark and vacant chill. Despite his stupor, he felt a familiar sensation -- as if he would never be happy again. His mind showed him a slide show of the most horrible experiences from his past. These ghastly images welled up again and flooded his thoughts – Sirius’ death, mainly. The darkness and cold became like a great, dark, blanket of despair that had been draped over him. Harry had experienced this feeling before, and he knew only one thing, one creature, that could cause this reaction.

“Dementors.” Harry said, his teeth clenched against his desperate desire to scream in horror and agony.

Voldemort lowered his face to Harry’s. It was so that Harry could feel the cold emanating from his gray skin and smell the foul crepitus of Voldemort’s breath. “Yes, Potter. Dementors.”

Chapter Fifteen -- The Dementor’s Kiss

Harry knew it was no use to resist the dementor. He saw its black, ugly, faceless, cracked, and tattered form hovering -- floating mere inches in front of him. This dementor seemed particularly hungry, Harry thought, particularly eager to perform the “Dementor’s Kiss” on Harry – to suck the very soul right out of his mouth – right out of his body. This was, Harry knew, a fate worse than death.

Harry knew there was only one way to get rid of a dementor – the Patronus charm. Harry learned this bit of magic in his third year at Hogwarts. At that time, the dementors had been released from their duties guarding Azkaban prison to hunt down and kill the fugitive Sirius Black – who, as it turned out, was innocent of the murders he was accused of committing.

The dementors, seeking out Black, searched Hogwarts. For some reason, they paid particular attention to Harry, sensing his abject fear of them, and feeding off of it. Harry’s kindly Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Remus Lupin, an old friend of Sirius Black, taught Harry the Patronus charm so that he could ward off the dementors when they attacked.

It was a simple charm, really, Harry thought, trying to bolster his own confidence in the dementor’s shadow. You simply need to think of a powerfully happy thought, raise your wand, and shout “Expecto Patronum!” Harry had done it numerous times. He was even able to do it as an underage wizard – something very rare and exceptional. Except now, he feared his abilities and the Patronus charm would fail him.

Simply, Harry did not have his wand, and he knew he could not send up the Patronus charm without it. He did not have the use of his hands, as they remained bound behind him. Harry tried an unlocking spell numerous times in attempts to loosen his binds. Without a wand, this did not work either. Harry grew increasingly fearful and annoyed.

He saw his wand on the ground, almost teasing him, taunting him. He tried anyways. He had to. He made a severe attempt to think – think of something happy – but what? The dementor remained floating before him, waiting for the signal to strike.

Your wedding day, Harry told himself, think of Hermione’s shining face, Ron at your side, the smell of the flowers, Mrs. Weasley in tears, Dumbledore . . . “Ex-expecto Pa-patronum!” His voice remained weak. Nothing happened except a small, white ‘pouf’ which emanated from his wand. He said it again, nothing, and he realized it was useless to keep trying.

Harry could only screw up his eyes and hope, pray for the dementor to lose interest in him, to go away, to leave him alone, to leave him intact, to…

Harry felt a powerful, concentrated pulling sensation. But, it did not come from his mouth as he expected. The sensation centered itself around the scar on his forehead. Trying in vain not to lose himself in the dementor-generated despair, or to faint from the foul, noxious odor of death it emitted, Harry realized what was happening.

The dementor wasn’t drawing his soul out, the thing was feeding on Tom Riddle’s. If, Harry thought, he could only focus and concentrate on holding onto his own being, on his own personality, his own soul, maybe, just maybe, the dementor will be satisfied with Tom alone. Harry thought again of his wedding day, of running down the aisle arm-in-arm with Hermione, seeing the smiling faces of his friends and family, dancing until the early hours of the morning, reuniting with old school friends, and basking in the glow of Hermione’s beauty and happiness.

The pulling sensation stopped. Harry opened his eyes, and he could again see stars twinkling in the sky and could see the moon above. The veil of blackness and despair left in the wake of the dementor had lifted. He looked up and saw the dementor floating in the air, high above Voldemort. Voldemort was in sheer ecstacy – he was laughing, his arms were in the air, and it almost looked to Harry as if he were dancing.

Voldemort bellowed, “Come! Come back to me, Tom Riddle! Come and join with me again! You! Dementor! Let that spirit go – let it out!”

The dementor, Harry saw, did not move. It did not do anything to acknowledge Voldemort’s order. It merely floated there, quite uncharacteristically, its arms folded defiantly in front. Harry thought he heard the dementor speak. “Dementors don’t talk,” Harry said to himself. He listened further. It did! It did speak!

Voldemort spoke again, anger bubbling in his raspy voice. “Let Tom Riddle out of you! Release him to me! I, the Dark Lord, order you!”

The voice coming from the dementor was soothing and familiar, as if Harry had heard it all his life, like that a family member or a close friend. Despite this, the dementor’s response to Voldemort’s demands sent a wave of shock and, surprisingly, a measure of relief through Harry’s battered body.

“I will say it again, Voldemort -- No, I will not go with you.”

Chapter Sixteen -- Tom Riddle Returns

In Harry’s amazement, he did not take the time to do the kind of self-check that one would do when nearly killed twice in the span of a half hour. To Harry’s surprise, he did not feel much different than he did before being separated from Tom Riddle. He imagined that any effects would manifest themselves once he was free and once he was away from Voldemort.

All of a sudden, Harry saw the dementor shudder and convulse violently, shrink in size, and lower itself to the ground. He saw human hands where there had once been skeletal, gray talons. He saw feet poke out beneath the tattered robes. Even more miraculous, Harry saw a face hidden beneath the hood where there should not have been one. With still blurry vision from the lack of his glasses, Harry could not discern the identity of the dementor. It reached its hands up to its face, and pulled the hood back, allowing it to fall on its shoulders. Despite the blur, Harry could make out the face easily. It was Tom Marvolo Riddle – and he was holding Voldemort’s wand.

Voldemort, for the first time since his rebirth, was at a loss for words. The most powerful wizard in the world was silenced by his own shadow, his own spirit taking corporeal form before his very eyes. “What? How did you?”

“I learned a few things about dementors, possession, and transfiguration from you and from Harry over there, Voldemort.” Tom replied. “It’s amazing how much knowledge a soul can absorb over two lifetimes. I know this form won’t last, so I will make this quick.” Tom walked slowly over to Harry, and pointed the wand at him. “This won’t hurt a bit, Potter.”

Harry flinched, expecting the worst. Was Tom Riddle, the soul who lived in him – lived with him – nearly his entire life, going to snuff him right then and there? Harry braced for another impact from the Killing Curse. Maybe, three times was the charmer, and it will all be over, he thought.

But no such curse came. Instead, Tom Riddle had removed the bindings from Harry’s hands and torso, and did the same for Draco Malfoy. “Stay there, Harry, please.” Asked Tom. “I’d like you to stay for a while. Take care of Malfoy. He needs you now.” Tom returned to Voldemort, who was growing angrier by the minute. Tom raised the wand and aimed it directly at Voldemort’s head.

“Do you really believe, Voldemort,” Tom continued, “that after 24 years of living in Harry Potter, that I’d go with you just on your order?” Harry was astonished by this. “I would rather be vapor, Voldemort, I would rather be a ghost haunting the halls of Hogwarts than go back with you.”

Harry could see a sneer forming on Voldemort’s face. “You were nothing without me, Tom. I made you. I was you. If it wasn’t for me, you would never have been the wizard you were – you would have just been a mudblood, muggle born bit of scum!” By the end, Voldemort’s voice was pitched in a song of outrage.

Tom sighed. “Possible. But if it wasn’t for Harry, I would not be the wizard I am today. Yes, I still have a bad temper, that’s not going anywhere, and Harry has felt that bubble up numerous times, especially when he was younger. Yes, I still have tendencies toward the dark arts – I am a parselmouth, I am the Heir of Slytherin, and I do not have a problem with using the Unforgiveable Curses.”

Tom shot a glance toward Harry. “Sorry about that one, Harry.” Harry smiled weakly, mainly with relief that he was not the impetus behind that curse. Tom continued. “I had to make you stop that boy, Harry. I knew what was happening. As soon as you questioned to yourself the presence of the weapons on the plane, I knew.” Harry looked confused. “Harry, I know you don’t remember anything, and that’s because of me. I did not want to give Voldemort the pleasure of leaving you with nightmares, horrible memories, or guilt again.” Understanding and comprehension began to dawn on Harry’s face.

Tom continued. “Voldemort was behind the whole thing. I could feel it – I understand Voldemort, and there were too many things about the hijacking that made no sense to me, starting with the guns. When I -- when we -- saw the co-pilot dead, and saw Hermione laying there on the floor – I love her too, you know, Harry – I had to do something, I had to take over. So I did, and I did the only thing that came to my anger-addled mind -- to kill the boy.” Tom’s voice lowered. Harry could have sworn he heard a tinge of sorrow. “I regret that now. I regret putting you through all of this. I regret what may happen if the Ministry ever learns about the Killing Curse. Most of all, I regret Hermione seeing me – you – do that.”

Tom turned his attention back to Voldemort. “But, I have learned, through Harry, how to control my anger, to, most of the time, control my temper, and to forget the horrors from my childhood which made me so bitter before. Harry and I, unbeknownst to Harry, of course, have fed each other all these years,” Tom explained. “I gave Harry uncanny abilities to fly a broomstick, to play Quidditch, to perform difficult spells, to speak to serpents. I’m the reason he almost got sorted into Slytherin. Oh, how I wanted to be in Slytherin again – but Harry was too stubborn.” He winked at Harry. “As for me, Harry gave me feelings I never had – warmth, real friendship, true fidelity, loyalty, bravery, adventure, pride, love, and a life free from hatred.”

Voldemort remained uncharacteristically glued to the spot. His face began to twist in a scowl of hate and rage the likes of which Harry had never seen. “You do not belong with Potter! What about the pains in that scar? I felt you, felt you drawing to me. You, Riddle, belong to me and I will have you back! I will be whole! I will be immortal!”

Tom sighed as if he were speaking to a silly child. “The pain was not from me wanting to get out, Voldemort. On the contrary, it was me struggling to stay in! Yes, everytime you were near to Harry, there was a natural attraction between yourself and me. That’s nature, that’s the way God made us, soul and body to be together. But, I did not want it that way. I was sorry to have caused Harry so much pain, but I had to fight, I had to struggle to stay with Harry.”

Tom, wand still pointed at Voldemort, crossed the knoll toward Harry. Harry was sitting on the grass, cradling the still unconscious Draco. He held his hand over Harry’s forehead. “May I?” Tom asked.

Harry was dumfounded. “Uh, yes.”

Tom reached down and touched Harry’s forehead. At Tom’s touch, Harry felt a shiver, as if he were touched by a dementor, or, by a dead body. Tom gently moved Harry’s hair aside, exposing the skin above his eyebrows. Voldemort reeled in surprise and panic.

“What?” asked Harry.

“S – s – scar!” Voldemort hissed, his eyes transfixed on Harry’s forehead.

Almost involuntarily, Harry raised his hand to his brow and felt for the scar. It was gone! Harry scrubbed harder at the spot, pulled his hand away to look at it as if maybe it had rubbed off, and then put his hand to the spot again. The scar really was gone! Harry looked up at Tom in amazement.

“Yes,” Tom said, the scar is gone. “So, then Voldemort, Tom continued, “the answer is no. I will not rejoin you. I will not go with you. You will not have the thing you crave. It’s up to Harry now, then, if he’ll have me back – and this time, without that scar, I will stay forever.” Tom looked back to Harry, who was oblivious to Voldemort’s wails of protest. “Will you, Harry?”

Chapter 17 -- The Mirror’s Image

By June of the next year, Hermione and Harry were well settled into their home in Godric’s Hollow, thanks to much backbreaking (and wand-breaking) moving help from Fred, George and Ron – coordinated and supervised, of course, by Molly and Ginny.

The house was a gift to Harry, left for him by will by his parents, James and Lily Potter. It was a modest house, with four bedrooms, a sitting room, an office, a spacious, sunken living room, and a kitchen – now retrofitted with all the modern appliances to contrast with the traditional overlarge kitchen hearth.

Since moving in, Hermione had decorated the house tastefully with all of the latest colors, clever trinkets, and paintings she saw while shopping with her parents in Muggle home improvement and home fashion stores. In the twenty four years since the home was inhabited, -- since James and Lily Potter were brutally murdered and the house utterly destroyed – a number of house elves rebuilt, repaired, lived in, and took care of it. As much as Hermione hated house elf labor, what she called “disgusting slave labor,” she had to admit that the house was immaculately kept and run for such a long time.

Now, the house was cared for under the supervision of an old friend of Harry’s, a precocious house elf named Dobby, who, unlike most house elves, was paid, given vacations and sick leave, and was given benefits by Harry and Hermione. “Harry Potter is most kind, sir. Harry Potter freeeeeed Dobby, and now gives Dobby real, paid, honest work, sir! Er, Mr. Harry Potter, sir? Will kind, brave, noble, Harry Potter bestow Dobby with an extra day off this week, sir, so that he can attend the Chudley Cannons match with Mr. Ron Weasley, sir?”

Dobby, having once served the Malfoys (“Scummy, filthy, foul, nasty . . . Oh! Bad Dobby, Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby, to speak ill of the Malfoys!”) had training so strict that he kept the Potter house even more clean than Harry would have liked. Oftentimes, Harry would have to chastize Dobby for dusting the television centre more than once a day – especially at inopportune times like during a Muggle football game – “Out the way, Dobby!” -- or invading Harry’s office to polish sneakoscopes or rememberalls, or to dust the computer whilst Harry was working. “Dobby, watch out! Don’t polish that too hard, or you’ll – oh no – break -- it.”

Hermione often wondered if Harry had any bad memories of the place. As Harry was only one year old when the murders happened, he had no memory of it at all, other than it being a warm, happy, and comfortable home, full of love, life, and magic. That was the only memory Harry needed.

As with many wizarding homes, this house also had its share of enchantments. One of them, very much to Harry’s liking, was a massive Quidditch pitch his father and Sirius Black had built in the backyard – unseen and unseeable by the Muggles living around them.

To their Muggle neighbors, Harry and Hermione’s back yard looked like a typical English flower and pond garden – a charade Hermione loved keeping up by tending to the flowers, feeding the fish, and hosting the occasional neighborhood barbeque and social. “More iced tea, Mrs. Tolliver? Oh, yes, Gladys, I will happily give you the recipe for my curry noodle salad!”

On one rather balmy June evening, Harry sat in his old bedroom – the corner bedroom on the second floor -- and rocked rhythmically in the overstuffed glider rocking chair – a gift handmade with love by Ron. His feet perched on the footrest, Harry leaned far back in the chair, craned his neck upwards, and studied the stars glowing on the ceiling he had enchanted to project a likeness of the starry sky outside.

“And that one’s Orion. He’s the great hunter. See his belt and knife there? And that’s Persephone, the chained lady, tied up to a big rock!” Harry whispered, pointing up at the sky ceiling. “And there, that one’s called Canis Major, and that one, Canis Minor.” He traced the constellations’ outlines with his finger, landing on a single bright star.

“And you see that star there, the eye of the big dog? That’s Sirius. It’s the largest, brightest, and most brilliant star in the heavens, you know?” he said wistfully. “Every time I look at it I feel like my godfather’s watching over me. His name was Sirius, you know.” Harry’s voice lowered to a staccato, playful whisper. “Sirius was an animagus! Oh, Yes! You know what that means? He could turn himself into a big, black doggie! Woof!” Harry couldn’t help but smile.

“You know, my little niffler, if he were here today, I know he’d want you to call him Papa Black or Gramps or Big Dog or something like that.” He sighed, with a slight chuckle. “I truly do miss him.” Harry beamed down at the sleeping, blanket-bound pink bundle in his arms, and his heart melted like so many chocolate frogs on a hot summer’s day.

Harry yawned heartily, removed the bottle from the sleeping bundle’s mouth, and placed the bottle gingerly on the table beside the rocking chair. “There now, little little Lily, all done, right?” Harry cooed. “Time for bed, little tweets.” He laid the baby down in the ornate, white-painted crib, covered her in a soft pink coverlet, and gazed over the railing at her. “You already have your grandmother’s eyes, Lily. I’ll bet they’ll be all twinkly and green, just like mine.” He stroked the curve of her soft cheek, leaned over the railing awkwardly and gave her a kiss. “Daddy loves you.”

Harry retrieved his wand from the chair-side table, and waved it at the ceiling. “Finite Incantatum.” The starry night faded, replaced again by the high, white plaster ceiling. As Harry turned and walked toward the door, he caught his reflection in the dresser mirror opposite the crib. As was somewhat common these days, the reflection looking back from the mirror was not his own.

“Hiya, Tom. Been a while,” Harry whispered.

“She’s beautiful, Harry. Simply beautiful.” Tom beamed with pride.

“Thanks, Tom,” Harry paused. “Tom?”

“Yes?”

Harry hesitated. He had been waiting to ask Tom this one burning question for months now, but hadn’t gotten up enough nerve – not to ask the question, but to hear the answer. As Harry did not know when Tom would show up again, he screwed up his courage at that moment and asked.

“Do you remember doing it, killing my parents, I mean? Was it – was it in this room where it happened?” Harry stared into the mirror, leaning on the dresser.

“I remember only bits of it happening, Harry, and yes, it was in this room.” Tom seemed to be looking around from within the mirror, as if trying to orient himself to the place and the memory. “Your mother nearly dropped you, but she was able to place you right under that window there,” Tom pointed, “before Voldemort killed her, and before Voldemort tried to kill you.” Tom eyed Harry cautiously, searching his face for reaction. Seeing none, he continued. “Your mother lay there, in front of your crib and your father was in the hallway downstairs.” Tom watched Harry look around the room, and now saw the tell-tale crystalline signs of welling up emotions begin to blossom in Harry’s eyes.

“I can’t believe it’s been so long and I haven’t asked you this yet,” Harry continued, scrubbing at the tears. “Tell me about what happened.”

“I can understand why you put off asking me for so long. It’s a horrible memory, Harry. Not one I personally like to dredge up. I can imagine how hard it would be for you.” Tom sighed. “Truthfully, though, I don’t remember much. Just the end result. By that time it was Voldemort, not me -- not this Tom Riddle you know now -- who lived in that body, who killed your parents. This Tom Riddle, my Tom Riddle was squelched nearly out of existence – any last vestiges of conscience or goodness or happiness had been squeezed out, shoved aside, packed away.” Tom looked down. “I wish I could remember so I could tell you all about it, answer all of your questions, but I just can’t.”

Harry nodded. He understood well what it was like not to remember. He was disappointed but grateful at the same time. While he had to ask the question, he was not sure he wanted to know every gruesome detail about his parents’ death – especially since it happened in the very room where his brand new daughter, Lily, lay sleeping peacefully and without a care in the world.

“But I can tell you one thing, Harry,” Tom continued. “Even though that day, the day the Killing Curse backfired, was the worst day of Voldemort’s life, it was the best day of mine! I got to start fresh, live in a brand new body free from hate, free from evil and anger and insecurity and rage. And look where I am now. I couldn’t be happier. Thank you, Harry, for taking me back.”

“My absolute pleasure, Tom.”

Tom grinned suddenly. “And Harry?”

“Yeah?”

“No more Muggle aircraft trips -- for at least a while, right?”

Harry laughed. “Just broomsticks, apperation, and floo powder from now on, I promise.” Harry glared at the odd reflection again and smiled. “Just don’t get too comfortable in that mirror, there, buddy.” He pointed his finger at the mirror. “We had a deal.”

Silence. “Harry,” Tom said, suddenly serious and with a twinge of fear in his voice. “You may have escaped, and I know I do not need to remind you of this, but you and Draco and that American woman – you did not defeat Voldemort last year. He’s still out there.”

Tom’s voice reflected the dread now bubbling up within Harry. “Voldemort may come back after you just like he did your parents. I may be far removed from him, even moreso now, but I still know him, I know how he thinks. Protect yourself, okay? Protect Hermione and Lily – and Dobby. I love them too, you know.”

Harry nodded his head furtively and smiled. “Don’t worry, Tom. You know we have a secret-keeper! Even if Voldemort were to press his nose against our window glass he’d never know where we live, and he’d never look here, among Muggles anyways.” Harry shrugged.

“Yes, Harry, but remember, your parents lived here, too! And they had a secret keeper as well! Your father’s friend, Peter Pettigrew, betrayed them to Voldemort!” Tom warned.

“Dammit, Tom! You know perfectly well I thought of that!” Harry snapped, and then softened when he saw Tom scowl. “I know… I know. It’s okay, Tom. I’ve learned from my parents’ -- mistake -- and our secret keeper is the most unexpected, yet most trustworthy person I could have asked for.” Harry gave a crooked smile. “Anyways, if anything happens I have you, right?”

Tom smiled. “So right, mate. So right.” The image on the mirror morphed from Tom’s face back to Harry’s. Harry, still staring into the mirror, touched at his forehead where the scar had been. It was still gone. Harry reached the same hand out, touching the mirror glass with all five fingers, and let his fingers slowly slide down.

Just then, Hermione opened the door and poked her head into the room, whispering. “Harry, love, is Lily in bed?”

“Yes,” Harry briefly looked back at the mirror, and then opened the door the rest of the way for Hermione. “She zonkered off right after the bottle about five minutes ago.”

“Good.” Hermione looked around the room suspiciously. “So, er, Harry, who were you talking to just now then?”

Harry smiled broadly, and wrapped an arm around Hermione’s shoudler, leading her out of the room. “Just talking to myself, darling. Just talking to myself.”