Buckbeak's Flight

(Disclaimer: If, after reading this story, you still think I'm Jo Rowling and that I own these characters, then I have a wonderful business opportunity for you. No checks, cash only.)

"Buckbeak's Flight"

by Paracelsus

* Part I *

Hermione hesitated at the door with her hand on the ornate knob. She was beginning to resent the word 'Gryffindor,' or at least its power over her. Lately, everyone seemed to be able to talk her into doing the stupidest, most dangerous things just by saying, "You’re a Gryffindor, aren't you?"

Like now.

Taking a deep breath, she opened the door just wide enough to sidle through. She closed the door behind her quickly – she'd been warned to keep it closed – looked around the room, and gave its only other occupant a polite bow. Bowing to him might not be strictly necessary – he knew Hermione quite well at this point; indeed that was why she'd been brought here today – but to a hippogriff like Buckbeak, courtesy always counted.

Buckbeak stirred restlessly where he lay on the floor and disregarded Hermione for a moment, concentrating instead on the door behind her… as though determining if he might escape through it. Eventually he turned his great orange eyes on Hermione, still bowing, and inclined his head in response. She straightened from her bow as she gave a small sigh of relief.

"Hello, Buckbeak," she murmured as she slowly approached him. He was no longer paying attention to her; he was now gnawing dispiritedly on some old beef bones. "How are we doing today, old fellow? Are we feeling any better? Let's have a look…"

Lightly Hermione placed her hand on the hippogriff's body, where the wing joined his shoulder. She ran her hand along the wing's coverts until she came to the first of the injuries. Ever so gingerly, she eased aside the surrounding feathers, until she could examine the wound more closely. It was still red and raw, healing very slowly – but healing nonetheless, she was fairly sure. She had, of course, skimmed Remus's copy of Absolutely Fabulous Veterinary Practice before entering Buckbeak's room, but she still felt less than qualified to be treating injuries on a magical creature this size. With talons that sharp.

Making no sudden moves, she opened the jar of salve that Mrs. Weasley had given her. Hermione scooped two fingers' worth of salve from the jar and gently applied it to the wound. Buckbeak didn't seem to object, or even notice… he continued to gnaw on his bones. Hermione released the wing and moved back to Buckbeak's body, to the next wound: more severe, just under the scapula. As much as she tried not to, she couldn't help resenting Kreacher… he could have found some other means of distracting Sirius besides injuring an innocent hippogriff…

A knock at the door startled her out of her reverie. "Hermione?" came Ginny's voice calling softly through the door.

Hermione turned to the door and opened her mouth to reply. Before she had a chance to speak, Buckbeak lunged to his feet, hissing angrily at the door. The sweep of his wing caught her squarely in her solar plexus and she fell to the floor, gulping for air, one hand pressed to her chest.

There was a quick scuffling sound on the other side of the door. After a moment, she heard Lupin's voice, full of worry. "Hermione?" he asked. "Are you all right?"

It took her another moment to catch her breath. "Yes, Professor," she replied, keeping the pain out of her voice with an effort.

The door opened and Lupin put his head in the room. He saw Hermione on the floor and began to protest, but she spoke first. "I'm fine, Professor – I mean, Remus. Buckbeak doesn't know his own strength sometimes, that's all."

Lupin frowned at Buckbeak, who was eyeing the door now that it was open again, looking for a chance to bolt. "If you're done here, could you come down to the kitchen? There's been a… development." He sounded exhausted, and his tone was far from reassuring.

Hermione immediately picked herself up from the floor and dusted her clothes. With a calming murmur to Buckbeak, she sealed and pocketed the jar of salve and left the room. As she left, she saw the hippogriff settle back down onto the floor, having again lost interest in her in favor of another bone to gnaw.

Outside the door, Lupin greeted her with a nod and a raised brow. By his manner, he knew that her collapse had been due to more than a tussle with Buckbeak, but he didn't speak of it directly. Instead, he murmured a sympathetic "I hate potions too." Hermione gave him a slight smile, which he returned.

Together they walked down the corridor to the head of the stairs. Ginny was waiting there anxiously, bouncing from one foot to the other. Sorry, she mouthed silently.

"So you should be," Lupin told her as he led the girls down the stairs. "You know how Buckbeak reacts to your family now. Not your fault, I know, but you want to take greater care."

They arrived in the kitchen of Number 12 Grimmauld Place to find Ron, Fred and George seated around the table. Mrs. Weasley was at the stove, ladling potion from a steaming cauldron into a goblet, which she handed to Lupin. "Here, Remus, this should help. Drink up and tell us what's happened… it's a shame you had to deal with it today, of all days."

"I think the choice of days was deliberate on their part." Lupin took a sip and made a face. "Ugh, wolfsbane. Awful stuff." With a look of resigned determination, he drained the entire goblet. Setting it down on the table, he murmured thanks to Mrs. Weasley and took a seat. "I don't know whether you all know," he began, "but I've spent most of the day at Gringotts, talking with solicitors. Both Gringotts' and… Draco Malfoy's."

The name caused Hermione to wince and Ron to scowl. "What the hell does he want?" Ron's language earned him a reproving frown from his mother, and he slouched into his chair disgustedly.

"The House of Black is – was, I should say – very conservative in many ways," Lupin replied obliquely. Despite the fact that he insisted on not being called 'Professor,' he automatically fell into lecturer mode whenever he spoke to his former pupils. Hermione, at least, appreciated both the extra information and its method of delivery. "They followed an old custom known as entailing… are you familiar with the term?"

Hermione nodded. "It means that the real property can only be inherited according to specific rules. It can't be willed to anyone outside the family line. That's how powerful families kept their estates intact through each new generation."

"Exactly. In the case of the House of Black, 12 Grimmauld Place can only be inherited by the closest male relative, according to the laws of primogeniture," Lupin said. "That worked to our advantage when Sirius's parents died: he would never have inherited Grimmauld Place if it hadn't been entailed. I'm sure his dear mother, in particular, would have preferred to will the property to someone who wasn't a 'blood traitor.'"

"And now it's to our disadvantage," said Mrs. Weasley. "Sirius's closest male relative is Draco Malfoy… his first cousin once removed, I think."

Ron sat up sharply, his disgust now mixed with indignation. "You mean… you mean all this," and Ron jerked his head to encompass the kitchen and the house beyond, "is going to the Ferret?! Mr. Death-Eater-in-training?! There is no justice…"

Mrs. Weasley spread her hands. "Well after all, dear, that's why I've had to put you all to work again this summer. Not like last summer, when we were cleaning out all trace of Dark magic – but to clear out all traces of the Order. Any clues to the names of whoever visited last year… every item that was stored here for safekeeping…"

"And Buckbeak," Hermione guessed. "That's why you brought me here, isn't it?"

"We'd have been happy to let you spend the summer with your parents, Hermione," Mrs. Weasley told her, "but some people can't leave well enough alone." She directed one of her patent-pending Glares at Fred and George, who stared at the tabletop and mumbled something about only trying to help. "It'll take time, but with your help we'll have the poor thing in fit shape to be flown back to Hogwarts…"

"There's our problem, Molly," Lupin interrupted her. "That's what the meeting today was all about. Thanks to the Malfoy family solicitors, we've run out of time." He drew a deep breath. "Draco Malfoy takes possession of Grimmauld Place tomorrow. More precisely, tonight at midnight."

Everyone at the table stared at Lupin in consternation. "But, Profess… I mean, Remus, it can't be tonight! Tonight's the full moon!" cried Ginny.

"Oh, trust me, Ginny, they know that. As I said, I think their timing was deliberate." Lupin sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. His features, already creased by years of pain and care, looked even more stark than usual. "They know I'm a werewolf, of course… that secret's long been outed. By choosing tomorrow, I'm sure they thought they were maximizing our inconvenience… as well as making it that much harder to, shall we say, clean up after the Order."

"But what about Buckbeak?" pressed Ginny. "Malfoy couldn't have known we had Buckbeak here!"

"I don't know… I don't know. It's possible that Kreacher might have told them about Buckbeak… last Christmas, when he defected to Narcissa. It would depend on whether Sirius ordered him to keep it secret."

"And besides," Hermione put in, "the Malfoys must've at least suspected that Sirius had Buckbeak. They both escaped from Hogwarts on the same night, after all."

"Huh. Malfoy'd love to be able to finally get Buckbeak executed," Ron growled. "If he thought he could catch Buckbeak here, before we had a chance to get him out…!"

Lupin acknowledged their points with a tired nod of his head. "Originally, we'd planned to wait until Buckbeak's injuries had healed somewhat – then I'd fly him back to Hogwarts, where Hagrid could care for him. Dumbledore was sure he could keep Sirius's estate tied up in probate until then. Unfortunately, we weren't expecting this latest legal maneuver." Lupin's eyes met Mrs. Weasley's, and he sat up a bit straighter. He assumed a more businesslike tone. "So, then. We'll need to Floo Dumbledore immediately – the Fidelius Charm must be removed from Grimmauld Place at the stroke of midnight. Molly, if you'd direct the final cleaning of the place? I think we've gotten just about everything…"

"Buckbeak?" Ginny persisted.

It was odd how Lupin couldn't quite meet Ginny's intense gaze. "We'll wait until dusk… then let Buckbeak loose. With luck, he'll find his own way back to Hogwarts."

Mrs. Weasley nodded in sad agreement. The others at the table looked aghast. "But… no!" said Fred, speaking aloud for the first time. "He's almost sure to be seen by Muggles – the Ministry'll have to catch him then!"

"And once he's back in custody…!" began George.

Sudden anger blazed in Lupin's face. "Do you think I like it?" he demanded, lips pulled back in a feral snarl. "What choice have we? I would have flown him back to Hogwarts myself, but I can't now – not tonight. I'll be spending the evening in a locked room, doped to my eyeballs with Wolfsbane Potion. And thanks to your unparalleled stupidity, neither you nor your family can fly him there in my place! If you two had tried, you couldn't have made more of a mess of things!!"

George swallowed nervously. Remus Lupin had never before lost his temper in their hearing, and it wasn't pleasant to watch. Less pleasant to have that temper directed towards him and Fred. And even less pleasant to know that it was fully justified.

The flash of temper was gone as quickly as it had come… Lupin had years of practice keeping the wolf in its place. He looked away from the twins towards Ginny and Hermione. "I'm sorry," he said with an air of defeat. Mrs. Weasley leaned over and sympathetically put her hand on top of his, and he gave her a grateful glance.

"No, wait, there has to be another solution," said Ron, thinking hard. "Can't Hagrid come down to collect him?"

Hermione shook her head. "Hagrid can't leave Hogwarts this summer," she reminded Ron, choosing her words carefully. "Big Brother is watching, and all that." Ron understood: Grawp was still living in the Forbidden Forest. And considering what had happened the last time he'd been left unattended, Hagrid didn't dare leave him alone again – even for an overnight trip to London.

"Someone else, then?" asked Ginny hopefully. "Someone in the Order?"

"I've already made inquiries," replied Lupin. "Tonks and Kingsley are working double shifts, now that You-Know-Who has officially returned. Mad-Eye's out of retirement and busy helping them. The others… well, I asked Hestia and she flat-out declined. Said she'd as soon stick her head in a dragon's mouth as ride a hurt hippogriff all the way to Scotland." He sighed. "I can't really blame her – it's not as though she was in Gryffindor, after all."

And there it was again. Nobody was even looking in her direction, and she could hear the words. You're a Gryffindor, aren't you?

It didn't help that she heard the words in Harry's voice.

"I can fly him there," Hermione said in a creditably brisk tone. "Buckbeak still trusts me, I think he even likes me. We'll wait until dusk before setting out, as you suggested, Remus. I'll need some supplies, of course…"

"Hermione!" Ron stared at her as though she were insane. "You aren't up for…"

She cut him off before he could say more. "As Remus said, what choice have we? I'm actually the best qualified of us all, since I've at least flown Buckbeak before."

"But you're… I mean, you aren't strong enough to…"

"It's not a question of muscles, Ron," she said, deliberately misinterpreting his words. "Buckbeak responds to me, and that's what counts. Isn't that so, Remus?" she added, turning to her old professor with a glint of challenge in her eye. If Lupin chose to mention her collapse in Buckbeak's room a few minutes before, he was as good as condemning the hippogriff to death.

As she expected, Lupin sighed mildly. "It's still going to be physically demanding," he said. "But I'm afraid it's our best solution."

"Well then, you should probably get in a kip this afternoon, dear," said Mrs. Weasley, accepting the inevitable. "You'll be flying all night, after all. Your bedroom's ready… I'd best pack you something to eat along the way. Oh, and there's Buckbeak's ointments to take. Thank Merlin, Dumbledore got permission to stockpile some Portkeys – you can take one with you to bring you back…"

Still heavily in organizational mode, Mrs. Weasley bustled Ginny and Hermione out of the kitchen. Lupin waited until they were out of earshot before saying, "I think a final check on the Memory Charm on Kreacher is in order. Ron, would you care to assist me? A very useful bit of magic, Obliviation…"

"And a lot better than that little toerag deserves," Ron growled as he stood from the table.

"No argument there," Lupin replied evenly as they left, leaving the twins in the kitchen alone.

Wordlessly, George stepped to the icebox and drew out two cold bottles of butterbeer. Opening them with a tap of his wand, he passed one to Fred and took a thoughtful swig from the other. "The Professor's right," he said after a pause. "We really were stupid."

"That bleedin' hippogriff," grumbled Fred. "He's just overreacting, that's all. I mean, I quite understand him being mad at us, but mad at our whole family? It's a bit over the top, if you ask me."

"Which no one did."

Fred winced at George's flat tone. "Our fault then, you reckon?" He gave a theatric sigh. "Me too."

A gloomy silence returned as the twins sipped on their butterbeers. "Hermione hates flying, you know," George observed after another minute.

His brother nodded agreement. "And I don't care what she says, she's a slip of a thing and just hasn't the strength to handle Buckbeak. If he decides to be trouble, that is – and he probably will."

"And if anything happens to her…"

"We're rat meat." Fred cocked an eye at George. "I'm open to suggestions."

"Just brainstorming here… Hmph. He's too big to Apparate with. And even if he'd fit in the fireplace, the Floo Authority'd be sure to notice a bloody great hippogriff going through. Mmm, maybe we could modify one of Dumbledore's Portkeys?"

"No such luck. I've already checked: Portkeys can't be used with magical creatures. Some incompatibility in the magic, it drives them into a frenzy." Fred leaned back in his chair and smiled in reminiscence. "Pity, that. It would've been so much easier for Charlie to bring the dragons to Hogwarts for the Triwizard Tournament if he could've used Portkeys. And Harry and Hermione could've used Portkeys to save Buckbeak and Sirius back in our fifth year…"

"Hold on!" A broad grin was blossoming on George's face. "That's it! Fred m'lad, you're a ruddy genius!"

"Of course I am. Uh, what did I say?"

"The answer to our dilemma, of course. And come to think of it, we will need to modify one of Dumbledore's Portkeys…"

*

Petunia Dursley couldn't help scowling at The Boy as he coughed again. She and Vernon were being especially accommodating to him this summer, she considered. They were allowing him to watch the evening news with them before sending him to the kitchen to wash the supper dishes. As long as he remained quiet, that is… which was apparently too much to ask for.

"BOY!" her husband hissed. "I am trying to listen!"

He didn't reply, didn't so much as acknowledge Vernon's request. The Boy simply sat in the chair furthest from the television, staring at the screen without ever blinking those painfully green eyes of his. Of my sister's, Petunia reminded herself with the closest she ever came to guilt. She disliked guilt, and she tended to resent The Boy for evoking it in her. He probably did it on purpose.

The Boy managed to be quiet for another minute before coughing yet again. The cough was quickly followed by a sneeze, and he didn't even bother to cover his mouth with his hand. Vernon roared at The Boy to be quiet, but Petunia's attention was drawn to his face. She noticed for the first time how tired The Boy looked: there were bags under his eyes, and his skin had an unhealthy cast.

"Go up to bed," she ordered him, interrupting Vernon's protests. "Go on. You need rest. And you needn't worry about getting up to fix our breakfasts tomorrow, either. I think it would be better if you were to sleep late for once." Petunia turned to her husband, who was staring at her goggle-eyed. "If he's coming down with a summer cold, we don't want him giving it to us," she explained briskly. "Duddie's constitution hasn't been the best since he's been home. And we certainly don't want him handling our food."

"Good point, dear," said Vernon, relaxing into a smile for her – which quickly became a glower for The Boy. "Well? You heard your aunt – go to bed, boy!"

Petunia watched The Boy for another moment as he shuffled out of the room. Bad posture, slovenly appearance, and not a shred of gratitude for being allowed to sleep late. With a last disdainful sniff at her nephew, Petunia banished him from her mind and returned her attention to the evening news.

*

The doorknob began to turn and Fred nodded to George. George swung the door wide, took Harry by the arm and pulled him bodily into his bedroom. "Quiet, Harry," he said rapidly, "it's us. George and Fred."

"Fred and George," corrected Fred, quickly closing the door and placing a Silencing Charm on it. "Don't be startled, Harry, we had to be a bit crafty to avoid your watchers. Trust us, we're here to… to help…" His voice trailed off uncertainly. Their warnings to Harry had been quite unnecessary: Harry hadn't needed to be quieted, for he hadn't said a word. Not only did he not act startled at their presence, he didn't so much as smile or frown at them. Harry just… looked at them.

Fred quickly recovered. "Yeah, and we're sorry about the sneezing and coughing," he said blithely. "It made for a good excuse for you to keep to your room, though we didn't think your aunt'd actually give you tomorrow morning off. Bit of luck, that." He smiled reassuringly. "It was just a milder form of one of our Skiving Snackbox selections… perfectly harmless, don't worry."

There was a moment's pause, while Fred and George waited for Harry to ask why they'd come to Little Whinging. The pause stretched, and grew uncomfortable. "Right," said George brightly, "you're probably wondering why we're here. Fact is, Harry, we need your help. But we also thought it'd be a chance to help you, too… get you away from your loving family for one night, at least."

"Long story short, Malfoy's moving into Grimmauld Place at midnight, and if he finds Buckbeak there, Buckbeak's dead." Fred grimaced. "Normally, Lupin'd be dealing with this, but tonight's the night of the full moon, and he's, uh, indisposed."

"And Fred and I…" George traded a speaking glance with his twin, reached consensus, and turned serious. "Well, we made a dog's dinner of things. Lately Buckbeak's been getting antsy, trying to escape. So we thought we could scare him into staying in his room. One of our special fireworks, a little one, right by the door… We should've known better, really. Nearly took my arm off, he did."

"And now he's attacking anything with red hair," finished Fred glumly. Like George, he saw that total honesty was their best option at this point. "So that doesn't leave a lot of people Buckbeak trusts enough to let near. We were hoping you'd be willing to help us."

Harry hadn't moved during this explanation. Hadn't spoken. Fred wasn't sure he'd blinked. He just… looked at them. Some might have called it a pleasant change from Harry's continuous anger last year, but actually… it was a bit unnerving.

"Buckbeak needs your help, Harry," Fred added, unexpectedly softly.

At last Harry moved. He walked over to his wardrobe, opened it, and took out a dark jumper. It was two sizes too large for him, but that was an improvement over past years. George waited until he'd slipped it over his head before handing him a small brass tube, like the top of a lipstick. "We nicked this for you," George said. "Dumbledore made a set of Portkeys – it's amazing how cooperative the Ministry can be once they're shamed into it – this one's keyed to Grimmauld Place. The Portkey's at the bottom of this tube, you reach your finger in and touch it when you want to leave. The tube keeps from triggering the Portkey unintentionally. Right clever, don't you think?" He grinned at Harry, the grin fading when Harry didn't smile in return.

"Uh, well then…" said Fred. "You use the Portkey, and we'll Apparate. Meet you at Grimmauld Place." A last quick glance at George, and silently they agreed to wait until Harry'd left before they did.

*

Buckbeak's medicines, check. My medicines, check. Change of clothes, check. Portkey to return to Grimmauld Place, check. Food enough to feed an army, check. Hermione zipped the knapsack closed and slung it over her shoulders. "I suppose I'm as ready as I'll ever be," she told Ron.

"Hermione…" Ron began.

Hermione interrupted him, hoping to forestall what she knew would be a hard-fought row. "I wanted to ask Fred or George about their Headless Hats," she said lightly, picking up a hat from the table. "How they designed the invisibility field to cover your head… I was hoping I'd be able to make Buckbeak and myself invisible, extend one invisibility field over us both. Have you seen either of them this afternoon?"

He sighed unhappily. It was obvious he wanted to press her to stay behind, but for the moment he seemed willing to let it slide. "They're probably afraid to show their faces, the way everyone's mad at them," he said instead. "Especially, uh, Remus." After a moment he continued in a lower tone, "Remus is down for the night. He really hates this, I reckon. Not the fact that you're riding Buckbeak," he added quickly, "but the fact that he isn't. It's like… he's taking it as a personal failure, y'know?"

It was remarkably perceptive for Ron – for anyone, Hermione admitted to herself. "He's still mourning Sirius, after all," she said quietly. "They were closer than brothers. I think… I think trying to preserve Sirius's legacy… keeping Buckbeak safe… working for the Order, all that is Remus's way of dealing with grief. And being unable to do all that himself… yes, I'm sure he feels he's failing Sirius." She shook her head. "Someone needs to talk with him."

"Sirius's godson, you think?" Ron put his hands in his pockets. "Yeah. Talk about preserving Sirius's legacy… he's really fussed about Harry. Have we heard from him recently?"

Hermione nodded. "Hedwig's brought letters. Not as often as we'd like, but at least he's writing." To the Order, she added silently. Not to us. Not… not to me. It worried her sick, not knowing exactly how Harry was handling his stay at Privet Drive this summer. More than once she'd been sorely tempted to visit Harry in person, to see with her own eyes that he was doing well…

Once I'm back from taking Buckbeak to Hogwarts, I'll write him again, she promised herself. A long letter. And I'll make it clear I'll keep writing until he answers.

In the meantime, there was her other best friend, who had steeled himself to talk about the issue that most concerned him. "Hermione, I really don't think you…"

"We've been through this, Ron," she interrupted, more sharply than she'd intended. "Unless you have something new to add…?"

"Nope," he shot back. "Not much point to it, since you weren't listening to anything I said before now!"

"I might have listened, if there'd been anything worth listening to!"

"The thestrals, Hermione! Have you forgotten how much you hated our thestral ride last month? I haven't. And I've seen you trying to fly a broom in Hooch's classes, too. You – don't – like – flying! Which makes you about the worst choice to fly Buckbeak to Hogwarts, I don't care if you've flown him before!"

"Best choice, worst choice, it doesn't matter! I'm the only choice!" She slammed her hands on the table. "I'm not doing any stunt flying, Ron. All I have to do is stay on Buckbeak's back. I think I'm competent enough to handle that, don't you?!"

"It isn't a question of competence, is it! It's a question of… of…"

"Yesssss?" asked Hermione, her voice dropping dangerously.

Ron hesitated. Hermione knew what he wanted to say… but though he might suspect, he didn't know, not for certain. And if he was discomfited about discussing a woman's health, she wouldn't scruple to take full advantage of his discomfiture.

She raised her head and straightened her posture, composed and determined, and gave him a slight smile. "I'll be all right, Ron," she said in a more conciliatory tone. "Nothing will happen, I'm sure."

"Sure." It was amazing how much opinion Ron could squeeze into a monosyllable.

Hermione waited a moment… sure enough, he was preparing to argue more. He opened his mouth, and she cut in. "Don't, Ron," she forestalled him. "Just don't."

"Fine! Fine! You win." Without meeting her eyes, he took the hat from her hand. Fiddling with the brim, he mumbled, "You always win. Don't know why I bother arguing with you, really…"

"Well, it can't be because I enjoy it so much." She grimaced. "I hate it."

Now Ron did meet her eyes, with a look of surprise in his own. "I thought you liked it. Well, not liked it, but… well, you know…"

She shook her head. "I know we tend to bicker, but I always thought you relished the challenge."

"Yeah, but you argue with everyone, Hermione."

She was about to argue that she didn't argue when she realized how absurd it would sound. It brought her up short. "I don't mean to," she said after a pause. "And you know… I really don't enjoy arguing. Well… not as much as I used to."

"Oh." A rueful smile began to spread on Ron's face. After a moment, he said, "Um, y'know… we had a bit of a truce for a while there, last year. Because Harry asked us to."

"Yes, I remember," Hermione said, astonished that he remembered. Harry had been quite upset by what he called their "always having a go at each other."

"D'you… d'you suppose we could do that again this year? A truce? For Harry's sake."

If she was astonished before, she was astounded now. This was a new level of maturity for Ron. She returned his smile brightly. "Of course, Ron. For Harry's sake, then: pax."

"Done!" Ron spat into his right hand and extended it to her to shake.

Hermione immediately lost her smile. She stared at Ron's hand as if it had been a dementor's. "You must be joking…" she said coldly, and looked up to see his shy smile transformed to a smug grin. Right. That's the last time I forget that Fred and George are Ron's role models, she promised

Right, then. Without taking her eyes off his face, she brought her own palm to her lips. Delicately, she licked her palm with the tip of her tongue. She smirked when she saw him blush, and only then reached out to shake hands with him, sealing the bargain. Both of them grinned happily at the prospect… Ron, indeed, seemed unwilling to let go.

They were interrupted by the appearance of George's head in the doorway. "Ah, I thought I'd find you two here. Can you –"

"Where've you been? I was looking for you," said Hermione, hastily pulling her hand from Ron's. She noticed Ron surreptitiously wiping his hand on his trouser leg. "I had questions about your Headless Hats…"

"Happy to talk about 'em later… but right now, can you join us in the front parlor? Something's come up." George disappeared before any questions could be asked.

She gave Ron a quizzical look; he replied with an eloquent shrug. Mystified, they went downstairs to the parlor. Mrs. Weasley and Ginny were already there, seated and facing George, who stood at the far end of the room. George waved Ron and Hermione to empty chairs.

"Thanks for joining us," he said as Hermione unslung her knapsack and sat down. "Well now, I just wanted to say that Fred and I are very sorry for causing so much inconvenience." He ignored the simultaneous snort from Ginny and Hermione and continued, "Seeing as this mess was our fault, we felt that fixing it was our responsibility. And you'll be pleased to hear that we've done it. We found another way to get Buckbeak to Hogwarts." He beamed at his audience, seemingly unaffected by the disbelieving expressions on their faces.

"So Hermione," George concluded, "you can unpack your bag, you'll be staying home. Fred and I found a better solution. We know you were willing to make the trip, and we thank you for that, but it won't be necessary now."

"Really." Hermione didn't try to keep the skepticism from her tone. "An alternative to flying him? Surely you're not thinking the two of you can Apparate him to Hogwarts?"

"You can't Apparate to or from Hogwarts. Haven't you read Hogwarts, A History?" George said with a grin, in a perfect imitation of Hermione's voice. Ron couldn't suppress a chuckle as the phrase she'd delivered so many times was returned to her.

Hermione was not to be put off. "Portkeys won't work. Floo powder won't work. What 'better solution' did you find?"

"George," said Mrs. Weasley suspiciously, "this isn't another of your untested spells, is it? Or… you weren't planning on letting the poor beast loose?"

"No, Mum, of course not," said George earnestly. He looked over their heads and nodded – very slightly, but enough to catch Hermione's attention. She turned in her chair to see Fred in the doorway behind them. Hermione was positive he'd just given George some sort of signal.

George immediately began speaking more loudly. "Truth be told, we found a way to, well, guide Buckbeak to Hogwarts. You'll appreciate this, Hermione…"

But Hermione had stopped listening… since it was obvious that George was simply trying to distract them, keeping their attention fixed on him and away from whatever mischief Fred was doing. Her eyes focused on infinity as her brain worked feverishly: The idea of a spell that would guide Buckbeak was nonsense. The only way to steer a flying hippogriff was to ride him. But if they'd found someone else to ride Buckbeak, why didn't they just say so? And why wait until the last minute to tell them? Remus was already locked away for the night…

Come to it, they couldn't have found someone else to ride Buckbeak. As far as she knew, nobody but she had ever ridden him. Well, excepting Sirius of course. Sirius and…

… No.

"You idiots!!" she cried. "How could even you be so stupid!!" She was already out of her chair, grabbing her knapsack as she ran for the door. Fred, still standing in the doorway, was about to say something calming when he saw the fury on Hermione's face; he made a life-saving decision and hastily ducked out of her path as she pelted down the hall. "Harry! Harry, wait!"

Behind her, she heard Ginny yelling, "You brought Harry here?! Unprotected?!" A cry of pain from George immediately followed, but Hermione couldn't spare the time to enjoy it. Buckbeak couldn't fly out of the bedroom window, he was too large for that. But if Fred had thought it safe to give an all-clear signal to George, then departure was imminent. Which meant…

She raced through the house, shrugging the knapsack back onto her shoulders, ignoring the throbbing that was building in her chest. "Harry!" she called again, as she burst out the back door of Grimmauld Place into the walled garden behind the house. Buckbeak was already there, with Harry mounted on his back. They were facing away from the door… Buckbeak's great wings were spread, he was rearing on his hind legs, he was one second from launching himself into the sky…

Days later, Hermione would take a moment to measure the distances in the garden – and conclude there was no way she could have done what she did in that one second. Perhaps it was a combination of factors: her forward momentum as she ran, the fact that the back door had a porch almost as high as Buckbeak's back… and the strength that comes from desperation. Or perhaps she levitated herself without realizing it – and without using her wand.

However she managed it, she did the impossible: without hesitation, without breaking step, Hermione leaped out the back door and landed astride Buckbeak's back behind Harry. In the same instant Buckbeak's wings swept powerfully down, and the three of them were over the rooftops and into the air.

Instinctively, she wrapped one arm around Harry's waist and held on for dear life. Her other hand came up to her chest, to the sharp throbbing pain that could no longer be dismissed. There were potions for the pain in her knapsack – at the moment, as unavailable as the moon. She rubbed hard at the scar on her chest, and sternly told the pain that it wasn't welcome here. After a couple of minutes, it subsided to a dull ache.

The scar and the pain were her mementos of the battle in the Department of Mysteries, less than a month ago. So far, Hermione had kept both of them secret: Madam Pomfrey knew, of course, and Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall, but no one else. Her parents thought the potions were for the "last bit of clean-up" of her injuries; they had no idea how extensive those injuries had been. They were far from healed – they might never heal fully.

She felt somewhat guilty that she hadn't told her friends the full truth. Not that it mattered: Remus had deduced it earlier, and even Ron seemed to know there was a more of a problem than she let on. He was more perceptive than people gave him credit for… Of course, if Ron knew the full truth, she'd end up in St. Mungo's for the rest of the summer. He was a bit overprotective… bless him. Hermione resolved to tell them everything upon her return.

By now, she'd gotten her breath back. "Harry, what are you doing here? You were supposed to stay with your aunt and uncle again this summer. How did Fred and George… oh of course, they gave you a Portkey, didn't they? And they probably told you about Malfoy, too. Harry, I understand how much you want to help, but honestly, it was incredibly reckless of them to bring you here! And I know for a fact they didn't clear it with anyone in the Order, certainly not Remus. What will Professor Dumbledore say when he hears you've slipped away from your guards again? Harry, you know how important your safety is… you shouldn't be risking it just to help Buckbeak. Not that Buckbeak's not worth saving or that you couldn't do it, I don't mean to say that, but I was already prepared to ride him to Hogwarts, it wasn't necessary for you to leave your protection…"

Her voice died. It wasn't for lack of breath. The body she was holding was as responsive as a store mannequin. Harry continued to look straight ahead, unmoving, unmoved. He gave no sign that he'd heard a word she'd said.

To be sure, it wouldn't be the first time Harry had ignored her words. Last year, he'd almost made a habit of it. But never before had he ignored her. He might disregard what she was saying, but never had he pretended she wasn't even there. Hermione felt a flash of irritation at such juvenile behavior. "I know you don't want to hear this, Harry, but you need to listen to me. You need to realize how irresponsibly you've acted by leaving your aunt's house. Harry…?"

Still no response, and Hermione lost all patience. With her free hand she grabbed Harry by the shoulder and pulled, determined to force him to look at her. She was aware that her fingernails were digging into his shoulder, but she didn't care. "Harry Potter, will you at least look at me…!" And then she got her first look at Harry's face.

It was the face of a dead man.

The skin was dull and waxen. The lines of the face sagged. No expression at all was visible… a postage stamp showed more personality. The eyes – the eyes were the worst. They were dull, lifeless bits of stone. They stared at her fingers as they gripped his shoulder, neither blinking nor flicking to her face nor showing interest in anything else. Hermione found her fingers loosening from his shoulder, moving to cover her horrified mouth.

As soon as his shoulder was released, Harry turned away from her and resumed his steady stare ahead. She was reduced to shouting into his back: "Harry, please, what's wrong? What happened to you? Talk to me, Harry!" She soon gave up. He wasn't ignoring her – he couldn't hear her. Her beloved friend was lost somewhere behind his deathmask of a face, and her words couldn't reach him.

(A/N: First, let me thank everyone who's reviewed this story! I've said this in the past, but I mean it: I appreciate helpful criticism fully as much as more effusive reviews. They help me temper my craft… which I think you'll agree can still use it.

Second, it should probably be noted that "Buckbeak's Flight" is not going to be a long epic adventure. It was originally intended to be a one-shot; then it sort of grew and I had to break it into manageable parts. This chapter is rather shorter than the first chapter, but I broke it off at what seemed to be the logical point.)

(Disclaimer: I didn't create either the characters or their universe. At best, I launch exploratory interdimensional probes.)

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"Buckbeak's Flight"

by Paracelsus

*Part II*

They'd flown for hours now, heading north. London was far behind them, and the full moon transmuted the landscape into an eerie silver mosaic. Hermione might have found it beautiful, if she weren't painfully aware that she was a mile above the ground on the back of a flying monster. It was borne upon her again how much she hated, really hated flying. "The next boggart I see will probably look like your Firebolt," she shouted to Harry, before she could stop herself. She bit her lip and swore silently.

Or possibly a dementor kneeling over Harry's body.

Both her arms were tight around Harry's waist now, and she'd pressed the side of her face against his back. Doing this let his body shield her from the wind… as well as block half of her field of vision, which was all to the good. And to think I was trying to find a way to make Buckbeak invisible! What was I thinking? Wasn't the thestral ride last month bad enough?

She'd done her best not to attempt to talk to Harry, partially because it now meant shouting into the wind… but more because it distressed her so much when he didn't respond. Harry had yet to respond to anything Hermione had said or done. She couldn't help herself, though: nerves made her talk. Babble, actually, she thought ruefully.

And it wasn't as though her talking had done any good. Well, not yet anyway. But, she reasoned, he had to be at least somewhat aware of his surroundings: at one point, when Buckbeak banked into a turn, Harry had leaned in the right direction. And he'd reacted to her grip on his shoulder… but it was the reaction of an automaton.

Instead of talking, Hermione had spent her time racking her brain… trying to come up with something that might explain his behavior. Finally she recalled traumatized soldiers of the First World War, casualties sent home from the front during the first months of combat – victims of the condition later christened "shell-shock." The worst cases were close to catatonia… their senses, and their sensibilities, had been assaulted so violently that the mind's only defense was to retreat. Harry fit the descriptions of those soldiers, the "walking dead"… but she couldn't remember how they were treated…

"What's happened to you, Harry?" she asked sadly, her face against his back. She wasn't expecting an answer, but again she couldn't help herself. "How did it happen? You weren't like this when we stepped off the train… when I promised you I'd see you really soon…"

No response, verbal or otherwise, from Harry. What could have happened to him? Surely, after all that Harry'd gone through in the last year – his persecution by Umbridge and the Ministry, the attacks on his mind, the battle in the Department of Mysteries, and worst of all, the death of his godfather – if Harry were going into shell-shock, surely that would have been enough to do it.

Whatever it was, then, had to have happened since leaving King's Cross... yet it was hard for Hermione to see what it might have been. Besides, since arriving back at Privet Drive he'd been in contact with the Order – not very frequently, perhaps, but enough to let them know that nothing bad had happened.

Nothing Harry would admit to, anyway.

She sighed and shifted her weight from one buttock to the other. Flying Buckbeak wasn't exactly like riding a horse: the muscles that moved his wings didn't cause any shifting of his hindquarters. But still, she was sitting bareback, without so much as a horse blanket between her and Buckbeak's spine. After the first ten minutes it had stopped being even remotely comfortable.

Letting her mind drift, Hermione tried to imagine what was going on back at Number 12 Grimmauld Place. Mrs. Weasley would have realized that Harry had arrived and left… with any luck, Fred and George would have been Transfigured into little red-headed Gila monsters and sealed in a terrarium… Ron and Ginny were probably back at the Burrow by now. They wouldn't have waited around for Malfoy to arrive… was it midnight yet?

As for Remus… come to think of it, did Ron say where Remus was spending the night as a wolf? Not at Grimmauld Place, certainly, not if Malfoy insisted on taking possession tonight and not wait until morning. On the other hand, Remus was the last of the Marauders. He might have thought it a great joke to force Malfoy and his solicitors to try and evict a werewolf on the night of the full moon.

Hermione was startled out of her thoughts by a plaintive shriek from Buckbeak. She peered around Harry's torso, trying to get a look at their mount. Buckbeak was tossing his head, his shriek dampening to an ekkk, ekkkk sound. He was obviously in distress… She gave a gasp of fright as Buckbeak's wings missed a stroke and his body bobbed dangerously in mid-air. Hermione understood immediately what was happening. But could she make Harry understand?

She had to try. "Harry? Harry, we have to land. Buckbeak's in pain. He's still recovering, Harry, and he's hurting… we need to…" She broke off. At her first words, Harry had leaned forward and placed a hand on either side of Buckbeak's neck. It was a gentle pressure but firm, and Buckbeak responded gratefully to it. His cries of pain subsided. They began to descend.

Hermione sneaked a peek at the ground as they got lower. They'd crossed the Trent some time ago… at least she assumed it was the Trent, given its direction and how long they'd been flying. She tried to recall the details of the maps in her knapsack. They'd kept to the hills, less likely to be spotted there… Mmm, would those lights to their left be Manchester? No matter, she had a rough idea of their location now. They still had hours to go before they reached Hogwarts.

With a jarring thump that sent a shot of pain through her scar, Buckbeak landed in an empty field. A small copse of trees to one side gave them a place to hide, should any Muggles show up – Hermione devoutly hoped none would. She wished for a moment that she could have mastered the twins' invisibility spell, or even a Disillusioning Charm… but they'd been so rushed this afternoon… ah well. We'll just have to be as inconspicuous as possible, she decided ironically.

She slid down from Buckbeak's back, wincing and trying not to show it, and swung the pack from her shoulders. Buckbeak was looking around, peering into the trees… looking for another chance to escape. Quickly she set her pack on the ground, unzipped it, and began to rummage through it. It only took her a moment to find the jar of salve, but it was a moment she wasn't paying attention to the hippogriff.

Without warning he started walking away quickly, towards the trees… Hermione looked up to see him trying to leave, and felt exasperation explode inside her. I don't have time for this!

Before she knew what she was doing, she'd marched in front of Buckbeak, planted herself in his path and looked him sternly in the eye – without bowing first. She immediately realized her mistake… but having committed herself, she didn't dare back down. The best she could do was keep her eyes fixed on his eyes, and not on his talons.

To her amazed relief, the hippogriff bowed to her first. Only then did she notice that her chest ached again, though not only from her wound – she'd forgotten to breathe. She exhaled slowly and returned Buckbeak's bow… and couldn't help mocking herself, just a bit, for her moment of recklessness. You're a Gryffindor, aren't you?

"All right then," Hermione told the beast, "no more nonsense out of you. Let me take a look…" Opening the jar, she moved to his shoulder wound, thinking it was probably hurting the most, and squinted. The moon was behind Buckbeak, putting the wound in shadow.

"Buckbeak, I need to turn you so I can see this," she said patiently. Buckbeak gave no sign he'd heard her… evidently, having been stopped in his attempt to get away, he'd decided to sulk. In any event, he wasn't cooperating with her. Hermione tried again, still with no effect. "C'mon, boy, turn this way… into the light…"

Sudden bright light illuminated the wound with perfect clarity. Startled, she looked over her shoulder. Harry stood a few steps behind her, a store mannequin again, but a mannequin holding a lighted wand. He showed no more animation than he had before, but he'd given her the light she needed at the moment she needed it.

Hermione was sorely tempted to drop the salve, seize Harry's moment of lucidity and try to reason with him. She discarded the idea: the moment would have passed as soon as it had come. She'd have to wait… and in the meantime, Buckbeak's injuries required her attention.

The salve went on quickly, now that she could see what she was doing. Buckbeak made no further attempts to escape… indeed, he seemed not to care that she was treating him. He must be more tired than I thought, Hermione chided herself. Once she'd finished with the last of his wounds, she resealed the jar and knelt in front of her knapsack. Without looking up, she said, "We should probably wait a few minutes and let Buckbeak get his wind back."

The light went out. Harry lowered his wand but otherwise didn't move.

It was exactly what Hermione was expecting. It would take a moment for Harry's eyes to adjust to the lower light levels, and she took advantage of that moment. She slipped the jar of salve into her knapsack and brought out a bottle of potion. Quickly she uncorked it, took a healthy swallow, and corked it again. She had the bottle back in the knapsack before Harry could notice. There was no need for him to know she was still in pain… if she hadn't told Ron, she certainly wouldn't tell Harry.

And right now, the last thing she wanted to do was remind Harry of her injuries… and the circumstances surrounding them.

With her and Buckbeak's medical needs taken care of, Hermione focused her attention on her friend. If her thoughts on shell-shock were right, there was no point in trying to reason with him: Harry wouldn't be able to respond. For once, she found herself in the rare situation where words, her most powerful tools, were useless… she was at a loss what to do.

And she couldn't bring herself – didn't dare – to do the thing she wanted most to do: step up to him and hold him, hug him as hard as she could for as long as it took. Because it might make his condition worse, she began to say to herself… but even as she did, she knew it wasn't true.

Because he might not respond to my hug, she admitted. Or worse… he might flinch, shy away. And if he did that, if he rejected me like that – I don't know how I'd handle it. I'm not sure I could.

So Hermione took a step closer, almost close enough to embrace him, but kept her arms at her sides. She gave Harry a small smile, both anxious and hopeful, but made no overt movements … she simply stood before him, as motionless as he, and managed to not speak aloud for five long minutes. Her passive stance was her message: I'm here, she told him silently. I'm not a threat. I won't reach out if you don't want it. I'm here.

The minutes stretched, and neither of them moved. This total passivity was harder than Hermione had thought it would be. To not talk to Harry… to not touch Harry when he clearly needed to be touched… and when she so desperately needed to touch him, hold him, reassure him…

"Can you hear me?" she pleaded at last. "Please, Harry, you have to try. You have to come back to us… back to me. I…" Her lungs felt constricted, and she had to take a shaky breath before she could continue. "I… I miss my…"

Friend, she tried to end the sentence. But her mouth wouldn't form the word.

Friend, her brain insisted. For nearly five years, friend. He's defended me… I've supported him… we've been there for each other.

Friend, her heart agreed. And after five years, more than friend. Deny it if you can.

For a little while longer, argued her brain. We must.

"I miss my friend," her mouth said simply. Her eyes closed, unable to continue to look at Harry's lifeless face. She forced her breathing to slow back to normal.

A soft scrunching sound caused her to open her eyes quickly. Had Harry taken a step towards her? If he had, he was making no further moves. She knew that helping Harry through his trauma would take time and patience – but for the moment, she felt only frustration at his lack of response.

"We'd better get going," Hermione sighed when she stay silent no longer. She wished, oh how she wished that those green eyes would look at her, not through her, if only for a moment. Just long enough to give her some hope, that's all.

She stepped back to her knapsack and slid a map from it before zipping it closed. She hoisted the pack from the ground and slung it over her shoulders. When she looked up, Harry was in the process of clambering onto Buckbeak's back. Without a tree stump or other aid, it looked none too easy: Harry had to pull himself up by grabbing the opposite wing – something Buckbeak usually wouldn't permit.

Hermione waited until he was settled before approaching the hippogriff's side. With Harry already mounted, she wouldn't be able to climb onto Buckbeak's back the way he had. She tried to jump up and throw herself over his back, but felt herself sliding back to the ground. "I could use a hand," she muttered irritably as she tried to scramble back up.

Wordlessly, Harry extended his hand. She had grasped his hand and pulled herself up behind him before she realized the significance of what had happened. He heard me! He responded to me! What just happened?

An idea began to form in Hermione's head, but she wanted to think about it very carefully before she did anything. For the moment, it was time they were on their way.

She considered the map for a moment, turning it over in her hands, before drawing her wand from her pocket. She balanced it on her outstretched palm and commanded, "Point me." Her wand spun once and stopped with its end pointing north. Picturing the school and the map in her mind, she added, "Point me to Hogwarts." The wand's end budged slightly to the left. Hermione was rather proud of having devised that modification to the charm. If she gave any thoughts at all to the Restrictions on Underage Sorcery, she dismissed them… they'd already broken so many other rules tonight.

"That way," she told Buckbeak and Harry, reaching around Harry's body to point. Harry bent low over Buckbeak's neck and gave a little kick with his heels; the hippogriff made a running start before leaping into the sky once again.

(A/N: Well, this is it, the last installment. I want to thank everyone who's encouraged me with their comments as I unfolded this short tale… you'd be surprised how much it helps me.)

(Disclaimer: These are Ms. Rowling's characters, and her universe; I've only borrowed them for the occasion.)

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"Buckbeak's Flight"

by Paracelsus

* Part III *

She was cold. Never mind that it was summer, and never mind her jumper: at that hour of the night/morning, at that altitude, in that wind, Hermione was cold. She blew into her hands to warm them, one at a time (the other hand kept safely wrapped around Harry's torso). If Harry was cold, he showed no more awareness of it than he had of anything else.

As it turned out, the second leg of their journey was less than half the length of the first leg. They hadn't reached the Border, but Hermione judged that Buckbeak was looking more tired already. Like a willing horse (which half of him was), he'd go on until his injuries absolutely forced him to stop. She wanted to land before that happened, and let Buckbeak rest longer once they'd landed.

And once they'd landed, she'd have to decide whether to implement the plan she'd come up with to help Harry.

"Look for a secluded spot," she shouted to Harry – uselessly perhaps, but he might obey her words even if he didn't consciously hear them. Besides, she still couldn't help it: when she was nervous or upset, she covered it with talk. And her plan had her very nervous indeed.

Because after thinking hard, Hermione realized that Harry would respond… when someone needed help.

When Buckbeak was hurting and needed to land; when she needed light to treat Buckbeak's wounds; when she took his hand to climb on Buckbeak's back. She had no doubt that Fred and George had used Buckbeak's impending execution to convince Harry to leave the Dursleys'. It was Harry's "saving-people-thing," as she'd called it during their terrible fight last month – and though she sounded disparaging at the time (and oh, how she wished she could turn back time and redo that day), it was one of the qualities that made Harry so very special.

And she winced at the thought that she was now planning to exploit it.

All I have to do is let my pain show. Reveal the extent of my injuries to him. I won't even need to exaggerate… the plain truth will do all too well.

The problem was that, while she was sure he'd respond, she wasn't sure how he'd respond. Oh, he'd be right there to help her if she faltered or flinched, or even if she so much as groaned. But as soon as he realized the source of her pain, he'd be reminded of the battle in the Department of Mysteries… and of Sirius's death. She'd avoided all reminders of that night until now.

Would he grow angry and shout at her? Feel even guiltier and turn away from her? Hermione felt sure that once Harry started reacting to his surroundings, once he could actually hear her words, she could lead him by reason through his problems.

All right, that hadn't worked when he'd had the vision of Voldemort holding Sirius – but this was different. His mind wasn't being lashed into an angry frenzy – rather the opposite. She could help him if she could just reason with him…

But it's a huge risk, she warned herself. In trying to draw him out of his shell-shock, I could cause him to withdraw deeper into it.

And she didn't, she truly didn't want to admit to him how badly she was hurt. But what else could she do? She had to do something!

The air had grown warmer… they were nearly to the ground now. Buckbeak had again found an isolated woodland area… he'd certainly enjoy returning to the Forbidden Forest. Had they passed through Yorkshire? The landscape looked hilly enough…

Buckbeak's landing this time was smoother than his last one… he trotted for a ways before coming to a halt. Hermione dismounted quickly, tugging on Harry's sleeve for him to follow. Swinging the pack off her shoulders, she knelt and began to rummage through it for the jar of salve. Maybe after treating Buckbeak's wounds, she'd have a chance to eat some of the food Mrs. Weasley prepared… maybe she could persuade Harry to eat some, too…

Maybe you're putting off having to follow through on your plan.

With a start, she realized that Buckbeak had begun walking again… heading for the trees, again! This was getting repetitious. She stood up, prepared to confront him once more – and in the most ungraceful possible manner, she tripped over her own knapsack.

The stab of pain through her chest nearly caused her to cry out… for an instant she was dizzy, disoriented. She pushed herself to focus past the pain, focus on the task at hand… she scrambled to her feet as quickly as she could, looking around for Buckbeak…

But Harry had already moved to stand squarely in the hippogriff's path. Like her, Harry'd forgotten to bow... or, perhaps, didn't bother about bowing. Neither did Buckbeak seem to care, with his attention on the woods behind Harry.

And then, miraculously, Harry spoke. "He's not here, boy…" he said in a voice hoarse from disuse. "He's not here…"

He raised his hands and placed them gently on the hippogriff's breast. Buckbeak stopped looking at the woods and turned his attention to Harry as he continued, "He's… he's gone, Buckbeak... I'm sorry, but he's gone…"

Comprehension struck Hermione so forcefully that she almost cursed aloud. How could I have been so blind?! He's not trying to escape – he's looking for Sirius! He misses Sirius just as much as anyone else, but he doesn't understand...

Oh God. Maybe he does.

Harry's hands were still on Buckbeak; Buckbeak was still staring at Harry. Neither had moved. After a tense pause Harry spoke again. "I'm… so sorry. He's gone, and it's my… I'M SORRY!" he suddenly screamed – not at Buckbeak, but at the sky. "I DIDN'T MEAN… I'M SORRY!!"

Whatever else Harry might have shouted was drowned out – as Buckbeak gave a long, loud guttural shriek, painful to hear. He reared on his hind legs and expanded his wings, and furiously slashed downward with his forefeet. "Harry!" cried Hermione in a panic, too late fearing for his safety.

Harry ignored her cry. He ignored the razor talons. He stepped closer, within their sweep, risking disembowelment as he addressed Buckbeak more quietly. "I know, boy, I know. He's gone… he's not coming back… I'm sorry…" Buckbeak came down on all fours again… Harry's speech broke apart and stopped. After a moment Buckbeak began to keen, an ugly hraak, hraa-a-ak that was obviously a hippogriff's cry of sorrow.

Even as Hermione ran as fast as she could to join them, Harry wrapped his arms around Buckbeak's neck and buried his face in his breast feathers. Buckbeak lowered his head over Harry's shoulder. Hermione though she saw tear tracks on Buckbeak's face… the poor beast was crying. And Harry…?

But Harry never cried. Even after Cedric's death, when Mrs. Weasley comforted Harry in the Hospital Wing, Harry hadn't cried – he looked like he needed to, but he couldn't. And, though Hermione had her suspicions about events in Dumbledore's office, she hadn't seen Harry cry the night Sirius died… or any time thereafter.

Nor was he crying now. He was gulping for air, taking great heaving breaths as though he'd been hit in the stomach by a Bludger – he was shivering uncontrollably, so that his teeth chattered – but there were no tears.

Without pausing to think, Hermione rushed up behind Harry. She spread her arms and, as Harry had, wrapped them around Buckbeak's neck, embracing him… and embracing Harry between them. "Don't cry, boy," she told Buckbeak, more gentle and soothing than Harry. "It'll be all right, don't cry, shhhh…" And then, with no change of inflection, she continued, "It's not your fault, you can't blame yourself… it's not your fault…"

She continued in that vein for a long while: no rational arguments nor fancy spellwork, but simple words of comfort, straight from her heart. It took a long, long while for Buckbeak's sobs and Harry's shivers to subside, and she stayed there the whole time, her arms around them both, whispering to them what they needed to hear.

Eventually, Buckbeak lowered himself onto the ground and lay there, his head on his front legs. As he let himself down, Hermione released her hold on him… while Harry kept his arms around Buckbeak's neck. He was drawn down to his knees, still breathing raggedly, with Hermione standing just behind him.

She was thoroughly confused. Her so-clever plan had proven totally unnecessary: it had been Buckbeak's pain, not her own, that had broken through Harry's fugue. And in the end, a few heartfelt words from her… had done more than any arguing could have done. Not just tonight, she suddenly realized. All last year! Ron was right, I argued with Harry – no, honestly, I nagged him – when all the time he needed something simpler.

Better late than never.

Tentatively, she reached out and stroked his hair. "Harry?" she said softly.

He nodded. He didn't speak to her, but at least he responded.

She waited a moment. "What are you feeling?" she finally asked.

After a pause so long she wondered if he'd heard her, he answered. "Tired."

She continued to stroke his hair. He made a movement to stand, then suddenly fell back to his hands and knees. She started to cry out his name before she saw what had happened: Harry couldn't stand because Buckbeak had snagged a talon on his jumper. The great beast was trying to pull Harry down and cuddle with him, like a toddler with a favorite blankie. Hermione smiled and tried to make a joke of it. "I think he wants you to stay with him, Harry."

His head came up, and she stopped breathing. For the first time that night, his eyes shone with a spark of life. Those brilliant green eyes saw her.

Once more she gave herself no chance to think, no time to overanalyze and possibly decide against it. She sat down with her legs curled under her… right next to him, bumping elbows. She eased Harry into a sitting position, and together they leaned back against Buckbeak's good shoulder.

As usual, it was Hermione who broke the silence. "Buckbeak needs to rest before we finish our trip. We should try to get some sleep."

He shook his head.

"I thought you said… Harry, you do look tired." She caught herself at once. Don't pressure him. No more nagging. Let him find his own way. At least he's responding. The image came to her mind of Harry steering Buckbeak, controlling him in his flight… not through brute force, but with hands carefully pressing his neck, gentle but steady.

Gentle. Steady.

So she waited patiently through another long pause, while he tried to recall the techniques of human speech. "I can't sleep," he said at length.

"Oh." Hermione gave him a chance to say more. When no more seemed forthcoming, she said, "I'm sure Madam Pomfrey could arrange for you to have some Sleeping Potion…"

Harry shook his head with more energy than he'd shown all night. "No! I can't sleep. I… mustn't." He fell silent and bowed his head wearily.

He's never been a sterling conversationalist, thought Hermione with a touch of impatience, but this is like pulling teeth. With a great effort she contained all her questions. There would be time for questions later… what Harry wanted now was a confidante, not a critique.

"Because… when I sleep… he comes," Harry whispered. He sounded ashamed, as though confessing a mortal sin.

"Who comes…?" Hermione started to ask, then realized She Knew Who. "Lord Voldemort?"

His head snapped up as he looked at her full on. "Yeah. He still… wants the prophecy. He attacks… in my dreams. He…" Harry drew a deep breath… he seemed to recognize that, if he didn't say it now, he'd never say it. "He made me relive the fight in the Department of Mysteries. Every night since leaving school, I had to relive the whole fight start to finish… always ending with Sirius dying. Again and again."

"Oh Harry," she murmured.

He shook his head dully. "Wasn't that bad. No worse than my memories during the day. It went on for about a week, and I thought I could handle it… I really thought…" His words stumbled and fell silent.

She waited a moment, then asked gently, "Then what happened?"

Harry grimaced in pain. "Dudley… killed a stray cat."

Her surprise must have showed in her face. Harry squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. "HCouple of weeks ago. It was only a stupid stray, but it looked… it looked just like Crookshanks." He opened his eyes and looked at her with the most agonized expression she'd ever seen. "And that night, the dreams started changing. They didn't just replay the fight – they showed what might've happened. At first I watched Neville die under Crucio – then I saw Ron die from the brains. Then I had to watch you…" He swallowed convulsively. His throat constricted and his voice grew tight. "I've watched you die from that curse. Every night, again and again and…" The words were choked off.

"Oh," was all Hermione could say. She was very glad now she'd not followed through with her original plan.

When he spoke again, he'd regained some control of his voice… it now sounded totally flat and uninterested. "And every dream ends with the prophecy smashing… and I know, I can tell, that's when Voldemort's really listening, I can tell. He wants to hear what it said." Harry looked at his hands, which were lying in his lap, deceptively relaxed. "So I had to stop sleeping. That's all."

So many questions crowded on the tip of her tongue: How can you talk so casually about deliberately going without sleep? How long has it been since you've slept? How have you managed to stay awake all this time? And far and away the most important questions: Why didn't you tell someone?! Did you think no one would care that you're being tortured?! She kept her peace. Time for questions later, she reminded herself…

"Neville said there was too much noise," she said instead. "No one could hear the prophecy when it smashed. It was lost. Voldemort's been wasting his time."

Harry said nothing to this. He wouldn't meet her eyes. Hermione immediately knew what he was trying so hard not to say. "Except it wasn't lost," she added softly. "Was it?"

Instead of replying, he turned away from her. His breathing had gone rapid… he was beginning to shiver again. She was half-expecting a reaction of this sort – the physical signs of shock – and acted at once: She took him by the shoulders and pulled him over to her, so that he partially lay on top of her. She cradled his head between her breasts and held him, tight enough to feel even through his numbness.

Gradually his trembling died down. His breathing became less labored… his skin no longer felt clammy under her hands. Hermione began to gently stroke his hair again… it seemed to calm him. Or maybe fatigue is finally catching up with him, she thought. After that cathartic scene with Buckbeak, I shouldn't be at all surprised.

"Dumbledore had a copy of th' prophecy," Harry murmured eventually. "Played it for me."

When? Hermione wanted to ask. But she could answer this one for herself: there was only one time it could have happened. The morning after the battle – about an hour after Sirius died! I can't believe the Headmaster would be so… so callous!

"And…?" she prompted gently.

"It predicted my birth," he mumbled. "Said I'd have the power to defeat him, power he doesn't know about. And then it said…" His voice took on a cadence, reciting from memory: "'And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives.'"

Her breath caught in her throat. Divination was a woolly subject, and even genuine prophecies were notoriously hard to interpret – but there seemed to be only one way to read those words. Dear God… on top of everything else that happened that night, to have this dropped onto his shoulders!

Hermione wanted desperately to dissect the prophecy word by word and discover all its interpretations; she wanted to ask what else Harry knew or suspected about Voldemort, about his links with Harry, through the prophecy, through his scar. A myriad logical points raced through her mind, ready to be argued… and she put them aside.

For any argument would, at this moment, be too much like confrontation. At worst, it would send Harry back into his shell-shock, and at best only make him stubborn. She could debate her logic points later: right now, amazingly, logic wasn't what she wanted. She took her time, choosing her next words carefully. Gentle but steady…

"Voldemort has all his Death Eaters."

"Uh huh," he mumbled.

"He's got all that help."

"Yuh."

"Did the prophecy say neither of you could have help?"

Once again there was a pause. Hermione knew the answer, of course, but he had to reach it for himself…

"No."

She continued stroking his hair. Even more softly, she asked, "Did it say you had to face him alone?"

A longer pause. "No," he finally whispered.

Her smile showed in her voice. "Oh good," she said. She nestled his head to her breast and held him there. For tonight, Hermione wouldn't argue. She would assume the prophecy was true… and that anything it didn't forbid was permitted. But she wouldn't argue that she be allowed to help Harry, or to stand with him to the end. If she argued the point, after all, he could argue back.

No, instead of arguing the point, Hermione would simply treat it as fact. By acting as though it were a fait accompli, Harry perforce would have to act that way too.

Eventually he'd allow others to help him, she knew. She was certain Ron would stand with Harry, and probably others would as well – possibly the whole of Dumbledore's Army – but Hermione could only speak for herself, and tonight she swore she'd stand with him. She'd never leave him, never.

A gentle snore interrupted her thoughts. She looked down to see Harry asleep, his head still cradled between her breasts. She almost laughed… any other teenaged boy, lying in that position on a teenaged girl, certainly wouldn't be sleeping. They'd be drooling, perhaps, or… or something… she blushed in the darkness. But then, no other teenaged boy would ever have survived what Harry had.

At least for tonight I can be your pillow. I'm glad. Tenderly she ran a hand through his hair… stroked his face with a fingertip. Sleep now, beloved. I'll be here… when you wake up. In repose his face no longer sagged… it was, in fact, seraphically peaceful now. He was actually smiling slightly. She hoped that meant no bad dreams tonight.

And as she too slipped into slumber, she couldn't help but notice: for a wonder, for the first time in a month her scar didn't hurt.

*

Hagrid always rose with the dawn, even in summertime. The longer days meant that much more for the Keeper of Keys and Grounds to do. This morning he was busy spreading jarvey bait in the vegetable gardens (couldn't have jarveys about when the students returned, after all – rude li'l buggers, they were), but he couldn't help looking up in the sky every few minutes, hoping to spot Hermione and Buckbeak when they arrived.

In the end, though, he heard her calling his name before he spotted them: "Hagrid! We're here!" He scanned the sky and quickly spotted Buckbeak's silhouette, with Hermione on his back, waving. Hagrid strode quickly back to his hut, arriving there just as the hippogriff touched ground.

"Beaky!" he cried happily, ruffling his head feathers. "Ah, Beaky, 'sgood ter have yeh back! Thanks fer bringin' 'im, Hermione… er, and Harry?" He stopped, puzzled, as he noticed Harry's presence for the first time.

"Harry joined me at the last moment, Hagrid," Hermione said, holding out her arms to be lifted down from Buckbeak's back.

"Oh. Oh, yeah… On'y I was wonderin' why Professor McGonagall didn' mention it…" He turned to Harry, still mounted on Buckbeak, quietly watching them. "How yeh doin', Harry?"

Harry nodded. After a second, he seemed to realize that wasn't enough of an answer. "Better," he said raspily.

"I'll bet yeh are. Soun's like yeh're getting' over a summer cold there. Well, anythin' that gets yeh away from those Dursleys, righ'?" Hagrid chuckled as he pointed to a paddock behind his hut. "Harry, I've made a place fer Beaky over there – why don' yeh take 'im there an' throw 'im some ferrets? An' then we can all go inter the hut fer a bite ter eat, eh?" He smacked Buckbeak's rump, and the hippogriff trotted over to the paddock.

"Actually, we should get back soon," said Hermione. "Harry's aunt and uncle don't know he's left, so we need to slip him home as quickly as we can."

Hagrid looked at her sharply. "They don' know he's here? But… but wha' 'bout the pertections?"

"If we can get him back soon enough, they won't have been breached," she assured him. She wasn't looking at Hagrid as she spoke, but at Harry and Buckbeak. They'd arrived in the paddock, and Harry was in the process of sliding off Buckbeak's back. Not that Buckbeak was cooperating; he kept raising his wing at just the wrong moment, almost like he wanted to keep Harry on his back.

"Buckbeak will bear watching for a while, Hagrid," said Hermione. "But he should be all right soon enough. Mrs. Weasley sent some ointment, but I suppose you'll have some medicine of your own…?"

"If Molly's med'cine's bin helpin', I'll keep on with it," Hagrid promised.

"It seems to help his wounds, yes." She continued to watch Harry as he finally managed to dismount. "Of course, he misses Sirius… I don't think any of us understood how much. And he's been acting oddly..." She stopped a moment, then continued slowly, "He hasn't been very responsive since Sirius died."

"Well, tha's on'y ter be expected," Hagrid said with a knowing nod. "Bin grievin', I reckon – we all have. He'll recover. Takes time, is all. Time, an' knowin' he's not alone." He was watching Hermione out of the corner of his dark eyes, and the corner of his mouth twitched upward. "Long as he understan's how much he's still loved, he'll do all righ'. Takes time, is all."

"Yes," said Hermione. "Of course."

"Mind, the ruddy great brute's pretty thick. Had a mort o' work trainin' him when 'e first came 'ere. Gettin' him ter pay attention t'me." He chuckled again. "Yeh jus' gotta stay wi' him, tha's all. Don' leave 'im alone ter brood, d'yeh see?"

Harry had fetched a couple of dead ferrets from the fencepost by now, and had brought them over to Buckbeak. He didn't offer them, though, and the hippogriff didn't seem interested in them. They stood facing one another, Harry stroking Buckbeak's neck with his free hand, Buckbeak nuzzling Harry's head. Hagrid kept expecting that the beast would knock Harry's glasses off, but somehow that never happened.

"Never stop lovin' him… and never leave 'im. Yep, tha's the ticket," finished Hagrid. "That'll bring Beaky outta 'is funk right 'nough."

"Beaky?" Hermione gave a start and finally looked at Hagrid. "Oh… oh, yes, Buckbeak." She looked back at the paddock, but not before Hagrid could see her blushing. He kept his amusement to himself. "Yes, um… yes," she said. "I imagine that's just what it will take. You're right, Hagrid." She glanced up at Hagrid and gave him a shy smile. "Thank you," she said softly.

He nodded, then raised his voice. "Oi! Harry! Are yeh comin' or what?" He turned to Hermione as Harry gave Buckbeak a last pat and left the paddock. "Well, if I can' talk yeh inter stayin'…"

Hermione slipped the knapsack off her shoulders as Harry came up to them. "No, we really have to get back. I've a Portkey here that'll take us back…"

"Wait," said Harry, his brows suddenly furrowed. She looked at him curiously; he returned her look. "Back?" he asked after a moment.

"Yes, back to Grimmauld…" She stopped, her mouth open in dismay. "Oh no! Malfoy will have taken possession of the house by now! We can't go back to Grimmauld Place!"

"Whoops," Hagrid said expressively. "Well, yeh'll have to see Dumbledore 'bout some new Portkeys. Come on, you two…" He started for the castle, saying over his shoulder, "Maybe yeh can get summat ter eat after all!"

Harry maintained his unblinking look at Hermione. It no longer disconcerted her as it had during their trip to Hogwarts – at least now she could be sure that he was seeing her. She gave him a smile and took his arm. "Shall we?"

He hesitated. "Dumbledore?"

"I imagine he's the only one the Ministry will allow to make new Portkeys. Don't worry, Harry, at the moment I'm none too eager to talk to Professor Dumbledore either. We'll keep this brief."

He nodded. Together they followed Hagrid up to the castle. "I am sorry you have to go back to the Dursleys, though," Hermione continued. "Maybe the Headmaster will give you permission to leave early this year. As a birthday treat." She tilted her head, considering. "The Burrow, or a room at the Leaky Cauldron – anyplace other than with those dreadful people. And I… we could visit you there…"

He didn't respond immediately, but she wasn't concerned. She'd learned her lesson…

"I'd…" Harry cleared his throat. "I'd like that." Was that her imagination, or had he squeezed her hand with his arm? They continued in a silence far more companionable than when they'd left London.

They were halfway to Hogwarts' front steps when, unexpectedly, Harry spoke again. "Will we have to tell about the prophecy?"

"Ron and Ginny deserve to know," said Hermione, thinking aloud. "And probably Neville and… and, all right, Luna too. More than that… no. No, I don't think anyone else needs to know. Do you want me to tell them for you?"

He shook his head. She could read his thought in the way he held himself: My problem, my responsibility, it's up to me to tell them.

Well, if he can tell everyone about the prophecy, the least I can do is come clean about my scar. "I, um… I have a few things to tell you, too. You and them, I should say. We can do it all at once, if you like…" She smiled encouragingly. "We'll deal with it, Harry," she assured him.

"We will?" he asked, and there was actually a ghost of a smile on his lips. It came to Hermione that, while she'd only meant they'd talk to their friends, in the long run she could have meant so much more.

And he understood that.

"'Course we will," she replied, and for once found her next words perfectly appropriate. "We're Gryffindors, aren't we?"