The Wish List

The Wish List

Rating - PG-13 to be safe

Summary: Harry has a list of three wishes, three things he wants to do, or have happen before he dies. Hermione finds out about the list, and is determined to help Harry complete it. Little does she know what Harry's last wish is…

This story was inspired in part by Eoin Colfer's book with the same title.

Disclaimers: I do not own Harry Potter, and I am not Eoin Colfer, or JK Rowling, as much as I would like to be either of them.

Pairings: Harry/Hermione, slight Ron/Luna

Spoilers: Books 1-5

AN: This story should have a new chapter up each day, pending unexpected interruptions, so don't stay away too long! This is my second fan fiction story posted, keep a lookout for more. Eoin Colfer's story was published after I'd had my idea for Harry to have a wish list, so I guess that means we think alike! If any of you haven't read his story, I'd recommend it.

I'd like to thank all the people who reviewed my first story, Soul Schism, especially:

Dylan(Who has the honor of being my first reviewer)

SilverFoot(Who read my story VERY early in the morning, but still reviewed)

Alorkin(who likes my story enough to let his daughter read it someday)

Bluemoon( my very best friend, who understands my sense of humor and obsession with Sesshou)

Modge(Who agreed with me on my posting opinions)

Godsowndevil(Who followed the little link in Keeping A Promise)

Dancinwithangels(The first person who cried)

FanFicFranticFanatic(The second person I made cry)

Starlight 623(Another person who I made want to cry)

IssaBissa(I share your pain on having to go to class at inopportune times)

Romulus Lupin(one of my favorite authors)

Shawnpickett(who said my ending was “uggh” and gave me the push I needed to start a sequel)

Luna Tyler( my unofficial beta, after my dad)

Netherwood(who probably would have done something like this if I hadn't )

Destroyerdrt(Who advised me to ignore flames. Still good advice, by the way)

Gryffindork(Who inspired me to imitate Elvis when responding)

Maple Mountain (Hi, daddy!)

And all the anonymous and unmentioned reviewers!

Special Thanks to my dad, who thought that this story needed work, urged me to include the chapters where Harry visits Godric's Hollow (which I wasn't sure I wanted to include at first, but I'm glad I did)and reminded me to disclaim EVERYTHING that is not mine, including song lyrics.

Chapter 1: The Wish List

* * *

“Harry, what's this?”

Hermione's voice broke across Harry's musings on what was for dinner that night. He turned to face her.

Ever since Harry had told her about the contents of the Prophecy right before the beginning of their sixth year, Hermione had found she was spending most of her days with him—as if believing her very presence would serve to protect him…to comfort him as he faced his destiny. Today they were sitting at a small table in the library, side by side, studying for a Transfiguration test. Their books were quite spread out, discouraging anyone else from joining them. Harry followed the direction of her finger, and froze.

She was pointing at his diary.

Professor Dumbledore had suggested that Harry start keeping a diary, so he could organize his thoughts into it before bed, making it less likely for Voldemort to find an opening to enter Harry's mind.

Harry had decided to give it a try, and had found that writing his thoughts and experiences of the day down in the little leather bound book Dumbledore had given him actually did make his mind less confused and his dreams more restful during the night.

He had taken to carrying it around in his bag, writing down jokes, bits of information, and scribbles drawn during lectures. It was enchanted so it would never run out of paper while maintaining its original size, and had a charm placed on it so that if Harry ever lost it, it would return to him with a wish.

As Hermione stretched out her hand to pick it up, Harry quickly thought, I wish I had my diary and let out a relieved breath when it disappeared from the tabletop and reappeared in his hand.

Hermione looked shocked for a second. Turning to ask Harry where the book had gone, she saw him hastily stuffing it into the pocket of his robes.

“Harry, what…?”

“It's nothing, it's just a blank book, that's all, nothing to be concerned over.” he said in a hurried way.

Hermione didn't buy it for a minute. “If it's so unimportant, why are you trying to hide it from me?” she demanded.

Harry stared up at her, a pleading look in his eyes. Please oh please don't insist I show it to you he thought desperately.

Whether she could read his thoughts, or she was so offended at his lying to her, she turned back to her books.

“You don't have to show it to me, it's fine.” she sighed.

Harry immediately felt guilty. He crossed his hands on his lap, stared at his knees, and muttered, “It's my diary, all right?”

Hermione turned to him with interest. “Really? I didn't know you kept a diary, when did you get it?”

“Start of the year,” Harry said, relaxing. He had been afraid she would laugh at him.

“Professor Dumbledore said that if I get my thoughts out of my head more often, Voldemort might have a harder time getting into my head.”

“What a great idea!” Hermione exclaimed, earning herself a glare from Madam Pince. “And that way you don't have to remember things, you can just look them up if you want to know what happened on a certain day.”

Harry shifted guiltily in his seat. “Well, yeah, but that's not the only thing I write in there you know.”

“What else?”

“Pardon?”

“What else do you write down?” Hermione pressed.

“Oh, you know, jokes, scribbles, things I find interesting, lists…” He broke off awkwardly. “Maybe we should get back to work.”

“What kind of lists?”

“Hmm?”

“What kind of lists do you write?” Hermione pressed.

“Well, there's only one right now, but it's kind of a secret.”

“What kind of list?” Hermione asked again, laying her hand on his arm.

“A Wish List,” Harry blurted. He winced, as if he hadn't meant to say that.

Hermione was surprised. “A Wish List? What for?”

Harry squirmed uncomfortably. “Just the sort of things I'd like to do before, well, just in case, if I, you know, don't ah, make it. I'd like to have done them first.”

Hermione dropped her gaze. The list was the things Harry would like to do before-no if- he died. “Oh. I'm sorry I shouldn't have asked.”

“It's okay, I'm not mad at you for asking. I just wasn't expecting anyone to ask, that's all.” Harry reassured her quickly.

An awkward silence fell between them. Hermione was torn between the desire to drop the subject (as the idea of Harry dying at Voldemort's hands because of some stupid prophecy was a painful subject for both of them) and the desire to find out what Harry would wish for.

“What sort of things?” she asked softly.

Harry started, he'd been dreaming of dinner again. “Hmm?”

“What sort of things did you wish for?”

Harry sighed. Pulling the diary out of his pocket, he opened it, turning to a page he had folded down the corner on. “Here, you may as well.”

Hermione hesitated for a moment, but then her natural curiosity won out. She took the diary from Harry. Looking at the open page, she saw a heading,

THE WISH LIST

Or

THINGS I'D LIKE TO DO BEFORE I DIE

She was about to read on, but Harry gently laid a hand on her arm, stopping her. She turned to him.

“Most of the stuff on that list has been crossed out. It started out as a list of mistakes I'd made, things I didn't do when I had the chance, a lot of should-haves, could-haves, and might-haves. There was a lot more there originally, but I've narrowed it down to four.”

He removed his hand from her arm, staring at the table. Hermione looked back at the list. Harry had at least been honest when he told her there was a lot to go through; a lot of the page was one big scribble, parts of words and letters barely showing through. There were about thirty items crossed out, things that couldn't be addressed, things that couldn't be helped. But there, near the bottom of the page, were items circled in red ink, with the numbers one through five next to them.

Hermione looked over at Harry. He was still staring down at the table. She laid the book in front of him. He raised his head, looking where her finger was pointing. “I don't understand.” she said softly.

Harry did look at her then, looked at her with such a blazing intensity in his eyes that Hermione was taken aback. It was the same look he'd had during first year, when he had declared to her and Ron that he was going after Voldemort. It was the same look he'd had when he'd gone after Sirius in fifth year. It was the look he had whenever something was important to him, when he was set on doing something.

She hadn't seen that look in a long time.

He took the book from her, pointing to the items that were circled and numbered. “It's not too late for these,” he said insistently. “These can still be done.”

Hermione looked back at the list, then back at Harry.

“You can't be serious.” she said.

“Oh, but I am. The prospect of imminent death is a powerful incentive.”

“I don't even know what this list is talking about.” Hermione protested.

“Why does that matter?” Harry asked.

“Because I'm going to help you complete it, that's why.” she said simply.

“You're what?” Harry yelled. Madam Pince hissed “Shush!” at them. Harry lowered his voice. “Care to repeat that?” He demanded.

“I'm going to help you complete your list.” Hermione said again, smiling.

Harry looked dumbfounded. “Why?” he asked finally, staring at her in utter amazement.

Hermione sat back and put the tips of her fingers together, as she thought how best to answer him. “Several reasons,” she began. “One, if these things are so important to you that you felt you have to do them before you die, they must mean something to you. Two, we're friends, and if they mean so much to you, the least I can do is help you accomplish them. Three, I accept that there's a chance you're going to die, and you have too, or you wouldn't have made this list in the first place, so the least I can do is see that if you die, you go to your grave knowing you didn't leave anything important unfinished.” She meant the last part as a joke, but, on seeing Harry's serious expression, said, “Besides, what are friends for?”

Harry stared at her, a look of extreme gratitude spreading over his face. He opened his mouth to say thank you, but Hermione cut him off. “Just tell me two things, Harry. One, why is this so important to you? What do you think it will change?”

“Nothing,” he answered, “except my opinion of myself. And that has become very important to me lately, Hermione.”

Hermione nodded, “Fair enough. Next question: what on earth does, “Prank the Population” mean?”

-->

Chapter Two: The Greatest Prank

Hermione followed Harry as he walked down the corridors to the Gryffindor common room. She tried to keep up with him, but was having difficulty. Harry might have shorter than average legs, but he made up for it with his rapid pace. It didn't help that Hermione was carrying more books than he was.

“Harry, wait!” she panted.

Harry stopped and waited for her to catch up.

“You still didn't answer my question, you know.”

“Which one?”

“What does `prank the population' mean?”

“Exactly what it says.”

“You mean one of the things you want to do before you die is pull a prank?”

Harry turned to her, seriousness written across his face. “Not just any prank, Hermione. I want to pull the biggest, crudest, most outlandish prank that Hogwarts has ever seen. Better than anything Fred and George have done, better than anything the Marauders ever did. Heck, I don't even care if I get punished for it. And I want to do it on the entire population of Hogwarts.”

He stopped, waiting for her answer. Hermione realized she may have gotten herself more than she bargained for by agreeing to help Harry. Now was the moment of truth, was she going to try and dissuade him from doing this, or was she going to help him?

Aw, to heck with it. A promise was a promise.

*

Dobby the house elf was surprised, to say the least.

Harry and Hermione had come into the kitchen about an hour ago. They had with them several buckets, charmed with a Bottomless Pit charm, and demanded all the chocolate syrup, honey, molasses, sugar, chicken feathers, flour, water, and icing that the kitchens could supply.

Which turned out to be quite a large amount.

The two teenagers left with their buckets, smiling and giggling like two naughty schoolchildren with a secret.

Which is, of course, exactly what they were.

*

The stage was set.

Hermione had used her influence as a prefect to keep stragglers away from the Great Hall that night. They had chosen the time carefully, after dinner, and after the house elves had finished cleaning up for the next morning. Harry had slipped inside the Great Hall, under his invisibility cloak, while Hermione remained outside, warding off any couples looking to fulfill the latest challenge by snogging at the teacher's table.

Harry remained inside for well over an hour, setting up whatever prank he was planning. Hermione wasn't sure exactly what it was, only that it was going to be very messy (Harry had advised her to be ready to cast a repelling charm the next morning) and had also told her that she could expect not to see him first thing at breakfast tomorrow.

Aside from the buckets, he also had a large bag full of products from Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes. Hermione had looked askance at the bag when she first saw it, but decided not to press Harry for explanations.

When he finally emerged from the Great Hall, it was well past midnight, and Hermione was more than ready to go to sleep. Harry draped the cloak over both of them, and they began the walk back to Gryffindor Tower. Their bodies were pressed very close together as this was the only way that the cloak would cover them now that they had grown so much since first year.

“Thank you.” Harry whispered in her ear as they walked.

“What for?”

“For helping me, for not trying to stop me, for understanding why I need to do this, for being my friend, the list goes on.” he answered.

“Well,” she yawned. “As long as this prank doesn't involve anything dangerous, I don't suppose I have a reason to argue, and, after all, I did promise to help you. But I never got to asking you what those other cryptic things on your list mean.”

“You mean, `Crash Potions,' `Go Home,' `L.L. I. W. D.' and `F.L,' right?”

“Mm- hmm.” she answered sleepily.

Harry winked at her. “You'll just have to wait and see. Though I should probably tell you, you may want to sit near the teachers' table tomorrow, so you don't miss out on the piece de resistance .”

“And what might that be?”

Harry winked at her again. “You'll see.”

*

The next morning Hermione walked down to the Great Hall for breakfast. True to his word, Hermione had not seen Harry all morning. She arrived early, expecting to see the Great Hall in an uproar, and was disappointed when everything looked normal. Thinking that maybe Harry had decided not to go through with it, she took her place near the teachers' table, deciding that if Harry was waiting until the Hall was full to pull the prank, she should follow his instructions. She had cast a Repelling Charm on herself before leaving the dormitory, and now waited expectantly for something to happen.

Dumbledore entered with the rest of the teachers from a door behind the teachers' table. The teachers didn't sit down until Dumbledore made to do so, and as they did, several loud, wet and disgusting farts, belches and other less savory sounds came from their chairs.

The students looked up at the table and laughed. Some of the newer teachers looked embarrassed, the more experienced ones merely shook their heads, and Dumbledore chuckled as he sat on his chair and it let loose with a fart that started in like a foghorn and ended in a high-pitched whistle.

Hermione giggled, but was disappointed. Wonderful Whoopee Cushions were funny, but hardly constituted the biggest prank Hogwarts had ever seen.

At the precise moment she thought this, every male at the Slytherin table sat up with a jolt, as if something sharp had poked them in the bottom, and instantly found their trousers down around their ankles. The laughter was louder this time, as everyone else in the Great Hall (especially the females) enjoyed the Slytherin boys' predicament of trying to get their trousers back up where they belonged. Hermione especially enjoyed the fact that Malfoy had spilled pumpkin juice on his underpants in the process.

No sooner had the Slytherin boys sat down, when all the goblets at the Ravenclaw table started spouting flame. Several people drinking from them at the time dropped their goblets in haste as the flames rose higher, toward the ceiling. The Ravenclaws all rose and tried to scramble away from the heat, but fell down almost immediately. All their shoelaces had been tied together. Meanwhile, the flames spread over the entire table, until a waterfall fell from the ceiling, dousing both the flames and the Ravenclaws.

Hermione carefully lifted her feet as the tidal wave ran under the table. If this pattern continued, the Gryffindor table would be next. She was not disappointed, as all the pieces of bacon on the table raised themselves into the air, shaping themselves into little piglets, who turned to the people eating them and started crying “how could you?” many of the Gryffindors looked horrified, some were laughing. Hermione thanked the fates she had not chosen bacon that morning.

The Hufflepuffs were looking around nervously, wondering what the prankster had in store for them. At first, nothing happened, and a few people started laughing nervously, thinking that whoever had done this must have been a Hufflepuff. They were proven wrong, however, as all the food platters on the table rose up and started doing a huge `wave' which quickly turned into a fight between the scrambled eggs and the pancakes. The Hufflepuffs raised their arms to block the flying food, and everyone was so busy watching them, that they did not notice what was happening to the ceiling.

The buckets of sticky substances that Harry and Hermione had commandeered from the kitchen were floating near the ceiling, hidden by Disillusionment charms. As though on a signal, they all started to tip. Snape looked up to see where the chocolate syrup dripping into his hair was coming from, and received a face full of molasses. All over the hall, students were screaming in disgust and shock as cascades of syrup, molasses, icing and honey poured onto their heads. Even those people not directly beneath the buckets got some, as the floor received a goodly amount of the mess too, and people, blinded by the substance in their eyes, thrashed around, running into each other as they looked for something to wipe the mess off.

Hermione's charm had worked, and she was left standing on the bench, repressing a shudder as she imagined what it would have been like to try and wash molasses out of her hair.

But Harry wasn't done yet. With a bang, the doors of the Great Hall blew open, and in flew a mess of sugar, flour, and chicken feathers, which adhered immediately to the sticky mess coating the students. Hermione laughed aloud as Neville blundered past her, looking like a giant chocolate covered chicken, while being chased by a bacon piglet that was yelling “you heartless jerk!”

Aside from Snape, the teachers had all managed to cast Repelling charms, and they looked around cautiously while trying to restore order. Flitwick was trying to hand Snape a towel to wipe his eyes, when a pair of hands materialized out of thin air, pointer fingers dripping wet with ice water, and dug themselves into the tiny Professors' ears. Flitwick jumped at the shock of the `wet willie' and fell back into Professor Trelawney, who tripped over the hem of her overlarge shawl, landing face first in a vat of applesauce. Professor McGonagall stepped forward to help her, when a loud bang went off at her elbow, and several dragon fireworks shot out of her fork and flew around the Hall. Professor Sprout started doing a spirited version of Riverdance on the tabletop, controlled by her shoes, stepping in platters of food all the while. Snape had almost gotten the mess out of his eyes, when his robes suddenly transformed from their usual black to a long green dress, a hat topped with a vulture, a fox-fur scarf, and a red handbag swinging from his arm. Enchanted cameras flew around the hall, taking pictures of the carnage: students covered from head to foot in muck, Professor Sprout dancing, McGonagall trying to stop the fireworks, Snape in his ridiculous outfit, the look of shock on Flitwick's face, and Malfoy being chased around the hall by a blank-eyed Millicent Bulstrode, who was calling after him, “I just want to hold you!” Crabbe and Goyle were too busy to help him, as their bags were hitting them repeatedly over the head and shoulders. As Hermione watched, Marietta Edgecombe over at the Ravenclaw table clapped her hands to her face, as enormous purple and green pustules erupted across it, pus running down her face in rivulets.

Several other students got special attention from Harry too. The entire Slytherin team dashed around the hall, being chased by Bludgers, undoubtedly stolen from the Quidditch Pitch, and whacked over the heads with their own broomsticks, which had flown in after the feathers and flour settled. Hermione couldn't help but notice that the former members of the D.A, with the exception of Marietta, had managed to remain cleaner than almost everyone else. Looking over at the Hufflepuff table, Hermione noticed Susan Bones, Hannah Abbot, and Justin Finch-Fletchley grouped together under a large umbrella that had materialized over them, trying to keep out of the way of the mess still falling from the ceiling.

Another waterfall poured down from the rafters, too large for an umbrella to block, and the doors swung shut as the hall filled up like a swimming pool. People scrambled onto the tables, benches, even bowls, anything that would float. The water rose rapidly, until Hermione, crouching on her floating bench with Ginny, could clearly see the fishing line attached to the Disillusioned buckets. With a sound like a drain plug being pulled, the windows of the Great Hall opened, releasing the water. Most of the gooey mess washed out with it, and Hermione noticed a silver platter, being rowed by a group of bacon piglets with spoons, all singing “This little piggy went to market” flow out one of the windows.

The tables settled back on the floor, after the water below window level had flowed out of the now open doors and down onto the grounds. Hermione climbed down off the table, laughing so hard she could hardly breathe. This had to be the greatest prank she had ever seen!

But Harry still hadn't finished.

Professor Dumbledore raised his wand, presumably to clean up the remainder of the mess, when it gave a loud squeal and turned into a pig with white feathery wings, which flew around his head, alternately chirping and squealing. A pair of metal gauntlets and a helmet from a suit of armor darted around Snape's head, the gauntlets curling into fists and challenging the vulture on Snape's hat to a boxing match with cries of “Put `em up, you overgrown canary!” When the vulture didn't answer, the gloves and helmet lowered themselves to Snape's eye level, chanting “What about you, ya girly man? Wanna try your luck?” By that time, most of the staff was laughing too. A sopping Professor McGonagall was grasping the back of her chair, pointing at Snape with tears of mirth streaming down her cheeks, delighted at the chance to have a laugh at the dour Professor. Sprout was still dancing, but she was no longer alone; Flitwick had levitated himself to her level, and they stood shoulder to shoulder, step-dancing like there was no tomorrow, Flitwick's feet flying through the air as he shouted, “That's the way to do it, Sprout m'gel!” Professor Trelawney was left looking utterly scandalized after a clear glass pitcher filled itself up with smoke and floated before her, saying “I foresee loads of fog tonight. Beware!”

But perhaps the highlight of the evening was when Harry himself appeared, behind Dumbledore's chair. The cameras flew towards him, and he caught them all in a sack. Harry stepped up onto the table and a huge spotlight appeared, shining down on him. He was wearing a neon-orange t-shirt with the words `IT WASN'T ME!' written across it in huge black letters. Smiling at the entire flabbergasted population of Hogwarts, He tipped a huge rear admiral's hat, turned right and left to his shocked Professors, bowed, and said,

“Thank you Ladies and Gentlemen; you've been a wonderful audience.”

AN: I have no idea where I got the idea for most of those pranks, but it works.

-->

AN: If any of you have read The Chronicles of Chrestomanci, you may recognize where I got the idea for the windows.

It is 2:49 right now, so I've kept my promise as far as posting goes. This one isn't a big cliffie either, but those are coming up, so don't let your guard down!

Chapter Three: Crashing Potions

* * *

To say that Harry was in trouble would have been an understatement.

After receiving detention from four different professors, (including McGonagall) Harry also had to deal with the backlash from the other students.

The Gryffindors thought it was hilarious, and proved it by throwing a huge party for Harry in the common room that night. Even Fred and George attended, making a long speech about Harry that commended him for his ingenuity and bravery and made Harry go bright red (an interesting color combination, considering he was still wearing the neon-orange t-shirt.) The photographs that the enchanted cameras had taken had been expertly developed by Colin, and were passed around the room. Several people asked for copies: some even wanted Harry's autograph on the ones of Snape in his vulture hat.

The Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs thought it was childish, but amusing, and some had even turned up to congratulate Harry for pranking certain Professors. But the Slytherins were hopping mad. Especially Snape.

When Harry walked into his next Potions class the following week, it was to a crowd of fuming Slytherins and apprehensive Gryffindors. Everyone was waiting to see how Snape planned to punish Harry for inflicting such humiliation on him.

Harry took his seat next to Hermione, as usual. (Ron hadn't made it into Advanced Potions.) Hermione bent down to take her notebook out of her bag, and noticed a string slithering toward Harry's chair leg. She nudged him, and pointed out the string. Harry didn't do anything, only watched as the string wrapped itself around the chair leg, and attempted to pull the chair out from under him. Harry yawned very widely and obviously, reaching for his wand. The string caught fire, then flew through the air and dropped into Snape's cauldron. Snape just happened to walk through the door of his office at that moment, and caught a face full of the potion as it exploded. Since he could not prove that Harry had anything to do with the mishap he was unable to exact punishments, but he continued to look askance at Harry as he assessed the damage.

As a quick result of his survey, Snape announced that Potions class would have to be moved to another room in the castle. The contents of the cauldron had apparently reacted with the flame, and had spattered all over the dungeon, adhering to tabletops, walls, floor and ceiling. No amount of spellwork could remove it. It also smelled horrible, which was why Snape (his face partially covered in the substance) also announced that today's lesson would be theory, and led the students to a classroom that none of the students had ever entered before.

Hermione was surprised to see that the room contained a number of stained glass windows, all containing figures of lords, ladies, kings, knights, and priests. At the back of the room there was even a stone casket, with a stone statue of a troll on it, his club lying atop his chest. This room looked more like it belonged in a church, not a school. She looked around at Harry to see what he thought of the windows, and was slightly disturbed to see a look of fiendish glee on his face.

Snape had obviously suspected that Harry was the one who set his potion aflame, but he didn't have the proof. Hermione had hoped that the exploding potion would satisfy Harry's desire to crash a potions class, but after seeing the look on his face just now, she knew this wish was far from over. She only hoped he wouldn't give Snape any hard evidence to incriminate him.

Snape conjured a blackboard and started to write notes, droning on in his sneering voice. There were no tables in this classroom, only desks. Harry was seated one seat behind Hermione in the row to the right of hers, so she couldn't see what he was up to. As Snape paused and turned around to make sure all of the students were writing down their notes, Hermione, long since finished, laid down her quill and looked at the windows again. One of the lords in the stained glass windows yawned.

Hermione looked around at Harry. He had his head down, but she could see his wand in his hands below the desktop. He was not looking at her, Snape, or the windows, but she could see his lips moving silently.

The lord looked over at his neighbor, a lady who was dozing in the sunlight shining through her onto the floor. He lifted his cane and poked her on the shoulder, waking her up. She did not like this. Lifting her transparent, colorful skirts slightly, she walked over into his pane and started scolding him, shaking her finger an inch from his nose, with never a word escaping her glass lips.

The lord raised his cane and hit her over the elegant, horned headdress she wore. She gave back as good as she got, slapping him soundly on both cheeks, back and forth. Meanwhile, the priest next to them, who looked more like a thief than a priest, made a run for his neighbor, a snooty looking king, who was holding a golden sword. The priest attempted to steal the king's crown. The king dropped his sword and fled for safety, in a sparkle of glassy feet. He hid behind the robes of another lady, while the lord gleefully grabbed the sword and began chasing the slapping lady from window to window.

All the windows came to life then, as the lord and lady ran through them, the lord trying to chop the horns off the lady's headdress. Almost every person turned and fought the one next to them. Those who were alone in their panes and had no one to fight, sat in their respective panes making faces at the students, or pointing and laughing at Snape, who took no notice as he droned on at the blackboard. The lord drove the lady out from behind the robes of the priest, who knocked the king down as he strove to behead her.

By that time, all the students had noticed the show going on around them, and were watching in amazement, some with their fists stuffed to their mouths to stifle their laughter. This was entertainment! But they knew that if Snape noticed, it would all be brought to an end.

Or so they thought.

By the time Snape noticed that something was amiss, the windows were in a state of utter disarray. He grabbed his wand, and started marching around the room, casting cancellation spells on the windows. As he passed, the windows immediately froze in place. The lord paused in position over his lady who was kneeling on the ground. He was about to sweep her head from her shoulders, while she cowered in fear. As soon as Snape passed, however, the lady sprang up and kneed the lord in the groin. He doubled over gasping, and she grabbed the sword from him and started chasing him with it, laughing maniacally all the while. The king was stuck halfway across the wall, but as soon as Snape turned away, he began to run again, and the free-for-all resumed more violently than before. A second priest, this one more worthy than the last, went from window to window, urging the others to stop. He was not having much success, particularly since another lord was following close behind him, mimicking each gesture and expression the priest made behind his back.

Snape finally returned to the front of the classroom, having had enough. He raised his wand, closed his eyes, and whispered something. Hermione felt a kind of chill run down her spine, and all the stained-glass people immediately returned to their correct windows, in their original positions. Snape turned back to the blackboard.

Harry's head came up indignantly, but then he looked back at his desktop and shrugged. The stone troll at the back of the room sat up. With a sound of crunching gravel, the troll thumbed his nose at Snape, who did not see him as his back was turned. Malfoy, undoubtedly hoping to prevent anything else from happening and gain favor with Snape, walked quietly back to the stone troll and attempted to exorcise it. The troll merely looked annoyed. It grabbed Malfoy's wand from his hand and stuck it up its nose for safekeeping. Raising the huge stone club, it prepared to swing down.

But at that moment, Snape turned. He brandished his wand. With a thump that shook the room, the stone troll lay back down on the lid of the casket, Malfoy's wand still stuck up the bulbous nose.

*

“I thought you said you were going to crash potions!”

Hermione and Harry were sitting at the Gryffindor table at dinner that night. Hermione, along with the rest of the class, had been cracking up at the antics of the windows when they left potions. But Hermione had been expecting something to happen to Snape, or at least a minor repeat of what Harry had done in the Great Hall.

Harry turned to her, chewing a mouthful of steak-and-kidney pie. Unlike Ron, however, he swallowed and cleared his throat before answering, for which she was very grateful.

“I did say that. So what?”

Hermione grumbled, “I thought you were going to do something to Snape,” she admitted.

Harry grinned wickedly. “Don't think the thought didn't cross my mind, Hermione, but I thought crashing a lesson meant making it impossible for students or teacher to accomplish anything, and that's what I did. All the students were too busy looking at the windows to take notes, and Snape was too busy trying to get rid of the distraction to get any real teaching done.

“Besides, don't you think Snape's been humiliated enough already?” He said jerking his thumb towards the teacher's table.

Hermione looked at the table, and cracked up.

Snape was back in the vulture-topped hat and green dress, fast asleep with his head on the table, while the vulture ate the food off his plate.

-->

AN: The story so far has been humorous, but this is where it takes on a more serious nature. It also starts to live up to the Action\Adventure description I gave it. This is also where the cliffhangers start, so I'm going to post the fifth chapter now, instead of tomorrow.

* * *

Chapter Four: The Third Wish

“Hermione, can I ask you something?”

Harry and Hermione were sitting in the common room, two days after Harry had disrupted potions class. They were supposed to be doing their homework, but neither of them was bothering to pretend that they found History of Magic essays more interesting than their own private thoughts.

Hermione snapped out of her reverie, turning to stare at Harry.

“Sure,” she said, yawning. “What's up?”

Harry turned to look out the window, a distant look in his eyes.

“When I was a little boy, growing up at the Dursley's, I watched the neighborhood grow up around me. Privet Drive was a fairly new subdivision, and Number Four was one of the first houses built. I remember a time when I could see all the way to the play park on Magnolia Crescent, without a house to block the view. Now there isn't a single empty lot in the area. But for all that, I hardly know my neighbors. I could tell you most of their names, and pick out their faces from a crowd, but they don't know me.

“I used to wonder if it would have been like that if my parents had lived, and I had been able to grow up with them in Godric's Hollow. That's were Hagrid said we used to live. He also said it was almost destroyed. But even if it's barely standing, I'd like to see it.

“That's what my next wish is: See Godric's Hollow, or in other words, `go home.'”

Hermione chose her words carefully. “But when would you go? Do you know where it is? Do you have permission to go there?”

Harry looked at her in mild surprise.

“Are you trying to stop me?”

“Well, no,” she admitted. “But you can't just go gallivanting off trying to find the place either. It'll take proper planning if you don't want to blow it.”

Harry stood up. He reached down and grabbed her hand.

“Come with me.”

*

Hermione followed Harry up to the boys' dormitories. He led her inside and shut the door. Walking to his trunk, he opened the lid and started rummaging around through it.

Hermione could hear him muttering under his breath.

“I know I put it here…somewhere…aha! Got it!”

He turned and sat cross-legged on the floor, with his back to his trunk and several pieces of parchment in his hand.

He beckoned her closer, and she knelt on the floor next to him, looking at the pages in his hand.

The first appeared to be a map, but the only landmarks Hermione could see were Hogwarts, and quite some distance away, a few buildings drawn under the heading “Godric's Hollow.”

The next was a page copied from a book on flying, with details on long broom journeys, what to do in emergencies, and ideal weather conditions for cross-country trips.

The last was a letter of pardon from Dumbledore, stating that the bearer of this letter had permission to go outside of school for a day and a night, at any time the bearer chose to use it.

Hermione was starting to get the gist. She smiled at Harry.

“You've certainly thought this all out, haven't you?”

“Look at it this way Hermione. Godric's Hollow is only about half a day's journey from Hogwarts by broom. I know the regulations for cross-country trips, I'm smart enough to stay away from Muggle inhabited areas, and Dumbledore himself assured me I wouldn't get in trouble for this trip, even if I decided to leave in the middle of the night during the school week.”

“When did Dumbledore tell you this?” Hermione asked, pointing to the third page.

Harry grinned ruefully. “When he took me to his office to lecture me after the Great Prank, he demanded to know why I'd done it. I explained to him about the Wish List, and he gave me this then, and some other information about Godric's Hollow that I'll need to know when I get there.”

“What sort of information?” she asked.

“He says that Godric's Hollow is sort of a wizarding village, like Hogsmeade, but it has the largest concentration of Squibs in Great Britain. The house where I used to live is known as Potter Manor, and had been in my family for quite some time. There were no other living relatives to keep an eye on it, but the current caretaker is a Squib by the name of Sean Xavier. Apparently many of his family served the Potters as butlers, cooks, and maids until my parents ordered them to leave for their own safety, when the house was guarded by the Fidelius Charm. Sean is still paid from the family funds for his work though, so it's not like he's a slave or anything.” Harry said hastily, seeing the look on Hermione's face. “Dumbledore sent a letter to Sean by Owl Post, telling him to keep an eye out for me. He even sent me a letter in reply, here.”

He handed her a fourth piece of paper, which Hermione had not noticed before. She smoothed it out and read,

Dear Mr. Potter,

I can't tell you how pleased I was when Albus told me that you would be visiting soon. I am sure you are eager to learn more about your family's home, as well as the history of your family in the area.

I knew your parents very well, and was deeply saddened when your father, James, dismissed the staff to keep us safe. I knew he was only doing it because he cared about us, and he did promise us monthly pension for our trouble. Even so it broke my heart to leave the Manor, which was like a second home to me.

I have in my possession the keys to the house, the family vault, and your mother's diary, though heaven only knows where she put that! The house is still standing, though in accordance with your parents' wishes, which they imparted to me before they died, I have not touched anything in the house, nor has anyone else in the village. You will find everything exactly the way it was on Halloween night fifteen years ago, perhaps a little dustier, but I was ordered not to touch anything, much less clean anything.

I look forward to meeting you; the last time I saw you, you were only a baby, smiling at me as I walked out the door of the Manor for the last time. I have not entered the Manor in all these years, even when Ministry representatives arrived to collect your parent's bodies. They were the last people to set foot inside the house, and I don't think they stole anything. I hope not anyway.

I look forward to seeing you soon.

Best wishes,

Sean Xavier

Hermione looked up. Harry was watching her expectantly. Another choice: should she let him go by himself, or should she go along for moral support?

She cleared her throat.

“Look, Harry, if you don't want me to come, it's all right, I'll understand.”

Harry stared at her blankly. “I thought you promised you'd help me.” He said quietly.

Hermione took a breath.

“Look's like I'm going, then.”

-->

Chapter Five : The Journey

Hermione was seriously starting to regret this.

She and Harry were both seated on his Firebolt, flying towards Godric's Hollow. It was about 5 a.m., the wind was chilly, the sky overcast. Their only light was a lantern Harry had fastened to the shaft of his broomstick. Hermione sat behind Harry, her arms around his waist, moaning softly while her head rested on his shoulder.

“Did you say something?” Harry asked, half-turning to see her better.

“WHY DID I AGREE TO DO THIS?” she yelled.

Harry winced and turned to face the front again. Hermione realized that with her head on his shoulder, her mouth had been right next to his ear when she'd shouted.

Hoping to distract him from the likely ringing in his head, she moaned again and snuggled deeper into his back, repeating under her breath in an endless refrain, “I'm not going to die, I'm perfectly safe. Harry knows what he's doing.”

“Darn right I do,” Harry answered. “And I'd appreciate it if you could loosen your grip. I'm starting to feel a little light headed.”

Hermione loosened her grip slightly. She raised her head slowly and looked around.

To her embarrassment, she realized they were only flying about fifteen feet above the ground.

Her insecurity in the air must have seemed strange, even amusing to Harry. She thought he must be inwardly laughing at her.

She sat up straighter, putting as much distance between herself and Harry as possible, while keeping her arms wrapped around him.

“It's not so bad, once you get used to it,” she said haughtily.

*

Harry was confused, to put it mildly.

The journey had started well enough:

“What on earth?” Hermione asked, leaning out the dormitory window.

Harry hovered outside her window, mounted on his Firebolt, a lantern swinging from the front. He was dressed in a black leather trench coat, though where he could have gotten such a thing, she could only guess.

“Come on, let's go.” He said, beckoning her towards him.

Hermione shut the window and got dressed in a pair of jeans, a sweater, and her winter coat. She put a pair of gloves on, along with a woolen hat. Early December was no time to go on a cross-country broom trip, but she had promised.

She put one foot on the windowsill. Harry moved closer to the building, parallel to the wall.

“Get on.” He said calmly, as if mounting an airborne broomstick a hundred feet above the ground was the simplest thing in the world to do.

Hermione grit her teeth.

“Just pretend you're mounting a horse from a fence,” she told herself.

Just as she put out a leg to swing it over the back of Harry's broom, a strong gust of wind blew past the wall, knocking Harry off course just enough so that Hermione, already shifting her weight onto her outstretched foot, missed the target.

“AAAAAHHHH!” Hermione screamed as she fell through the air.

*

Okay, so maybe it didn't start off that well, Harry admitted to himself. He had managed to catch Hermione by her ankle twenty feet above the ground. He landed gently, and sheepishly suggested that maybe she would have better luck mounting from the ground.

Hermione, white to the lips and obviously trying not to scream or faint, had shakily mounted the broom with Harry's assistance. Harry himself had climbed on then, and muttered to her to hang on before kicking off.

Now the trip was progressing smoothly, apart from when Hermione had a grip around him so tight that he could feel his ribs crack when he breathed. Yet, that didn't bother him as much as he expected. If he was to be entirely honest with himself, he actually enjoyed having Hermione pressed up against his back, and it gave him a strange thrill to know that in her mind, he was the only thing that could possibly make her feel safe.

But if that was true, why was she - literally-- acting so distant now? He missed her warmth, and couldn't figure out why she seemed not to trust him very well all of a sudden.

Harry looked at the horizon. As the map had said, there was a forest coming up. The guidelines to safe broom trips had advised flyers to avoid forests where possible, to go around or above. The forest was several miles wide, and there were towns on its outskirts, so Harry opted to go over it. The only problem was, there was dense fog above the treetops. He could only hope his lantern was strong enough to get them through it.

He checked the compass Hermione had given him the summer before third year. As long as the needle didn't move, he knew he was going the right way. He pulled the broomstick up to fifty feet. He reasoned that if there were any unusually tall trees, that would be high enough to avoid them. He also noticed (however much he tried to ignore it) that Hermione once again had him around the ribs in a death grip, and he knew that she wouldn't release him for any price until they were clear of the fog.

Ever so carefully, he reduced his speed. Hermione, from a combination of fear and the confusing effect fog has on distance perception, didn't notice the change in speed. She merely clung to Harry even tighter and shivered.

Harry smiled to himself. The slower he went, the longer she would hang on to him.

He suddenly wondered why he saw that as a good thing.

* * *

AN: I know this is a short chapter, like chapter four, but I have a choir party to go to pretty soon. Chapter six will be added before 3:00 tomorrow, so don't stay away too long!

-->

Chapter Six: The Village

The village of Godric's Hollow had long been known as a sort of haven for squibs. As such, it had a petrol station, grocery store, a single screen cinema, and a small community pool. Most of the population owned cars, with a few broomsticks here and there. Although it was legal for Squibs to fly broomsticks, most of those at Godric's Hollow seemed to prefer the ways of life that they had been raised to know; that is to say, they acted more like Muggles than wizards in most respects.

Sean Xavier was one of these Squibs. He had been raised as a Muggle, even though his mother was a witch and all of his brothers were wizards. His father was Muggle-born, and had enough common sense to realize it would be better for Sean to grow up without a dependency on magic, since he couldn't use it.

Sean, like many of the Squibs in the village, some of whom were in his extended family, had been employed as part of the domestic staff at Potter Manor. In Sean's case, he was hired for his culinary skills. Although Sean's mother could never understand how Sean managed to make better desserts than her, when she had the benefit of magic and he did not, she did realize that her son had a gift, and sent him of to culinary school to learn to be a chef.

Sean had returned home from school just in time to celebrate Bonfire Night with his family and the rest of the village. Bonfire Night was marked by the occupants of Godric's Hollow by an all-day picnic, games, and fireworks.

It was at the party that Sean met the Potters.

Lily and James Potter had been happy to present their new baby son, only three months old at the time, to Sean. James had been friends with Sean when they were younger, but then James went off to Hogwarts, and Sean to culinary school.

Their baby son, Harry, had been having a bit of a temper tantrum. James was shooting guilty looks at his wife while Lily berated him for passing Harry around to too many people. Apparently, Harry didn't care much for being fussed over.

Sean had offered to take Harry off their hands so they could get something to eat. They gratefully accepted, and Sean had spent several enjoyable moments playing with Harry, who kept trying to eat his fingers.

Lily and James had returned to Sean's table with plates full of food. James seemed to be particularly enjoying a trifle that Sean himself had made that morning, as an offering for the buffet.

The talk turned to their activities of recent years, and Sean laughed aloud at the stories James told of his adventures with the Marauders. Sean then told James of his experiences at culinary school, and Lily mentioned that their cook had retired recently, and she had little time to cook, being so busy with the baby.

James had chosen that moment to say, “Well, if Sean can make a trifle half as good as whoever made this one, we may just have to hire him as a replacement.” He gestured at his empty plate.

Sean turned red. “Actually…”

*

So Sean had been hired that very night. He was happier than he could have ever hoped; his family was close by, the work wasn't hard, he was paid handsomely, and he particularly enjoyed the time when Harry started eating solid food, and he made up his own recipes for the baby's enjoyment.

Sean could remember vividly the night it all ended.

Albus Dumbledore had showed up at the Manor one night, unannounced and with a face so grave it could only mean bad news.

Sean had showed him into the library, before going to rouse James, who had retired early that night.

James stayed in the library with Dumbledore for several hours. Sean had paced outside, wondering what was going to happen. His own principles forbade him from eavesdropping, so he settled for chewing his fingernails instead.

Just when he thought he might have to start on his toenails to keep from losing his mind, James emerged from the library, his face pale.

Dumbledore had left in a hurry, as if ashamed to be there any longer than he had to be. James started off down the hall to his and Lily's room. He staggered and fell against the wall. Sean hurried to help him, and was surprised when James waved him away.

“Gather the staff in the drawing room. I'll be there in five minutes time.”

Sean had hurried to do as he was bidden, wondering what had happened.

Fifteen minutes later, he found out.

“I have just been told that the Dark Lord, Voldemort, has marked myself, Lily, and Harry for death.” James told the assembled staff.

Several of the maids gasped and started crying. Thomas Manning, Sean's cousin and the gardener for the estate, stepped forward.

“He'll have to get through me first.” He growled, brandishing a pair of pruning shears that no one could remember ever seeing him without.

James glanced at him sternly over his glasses.

“You'll do no such thing as what you're thinking, Thomas. The same goes for all of you,” he pronounced, looking at the assembly.

“I know that he will kill you all without a second thought if you stood in his way. I cannot allow that to happen.”

He took a deep breath, and Sean could tell that it was taking all his willpower not to break down before he finished.

“The Manor will be protected by the Fidelius charm, and I already have someone in mind for our secret keeper.” He smiled, and Sean knew immediately he was referring to Sirius Black. “The restrictions of the charm are such that once it is placed into effect, not even the villagers will be able to see the Manor or tell anyone where it is. It will simply be as if our house disappeared overnight.

“However, if Voldemort manages to get through it, and I wouldn't be surprised if he found a way, you all would also be in danger. Therefore I see fit,” his voice broke, and he looked at the floor, composing himself before finishing. “I see fit to dismiss you all, until further notice.”

The maids broke down in tears then. Thomas was staring at the floor, his shoulders shaking. Sean knew there were tears on his face too, and James was openly crying.

“You may serve me and my family, yet I've never thought of you as servants. I've always thought of you as friends who just happen to wait on us. I will miss you all dearly, and who knows, maybe someday…” He couldn't finish. It would only have been a promise that, if broken, would be that much more painful to bear.

So Sean had left, his last image of the Potters was Lily standing in the front hall, holding Harry, who was smiling and saying, “Coo” over and over. (he couldn't say “Cook” yet.) while James held the door for him. Sean had turned to James as he left, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. James tried to speak, found he couldn't, and held out his hand. Sean took it, and pulled James close for a brotherly hug. Then he turned, and stepped out of Potter Manor for the last time, the sounds of Harry's laughter in his ears.

*

Now, fifteen years later, Sean stood at the gate to the Manor. The Fidelius charm had been removed by the ministry officials. There were some of the opinion that the Manor should be made into a kind of museum, and Sean had been disgusted to hear one official describe in great detail the money that could be made from people who wanted to see the place where the Dark Lord met his downfall. Sean, luckily, had been appointed by the Potter's in their will as caretaker, at least until Harry came of age, which meant he called the shots as to what would happen to the house. He had promptly locked the place up, and spent the next few weeks stationed outside the gates, chasing off souvenir hunters with a pitchfork, some from as far away as Australia.

He had hid the keys to the manor in a strongbox under his kitchen floor, put the key to the box on a chain around his neck, and hadn't removed it, not even for a minute, for fourteen long years.

Until a few days ago.

He had awoken to the sound of an owl rapping on his bedroom window. Sean could count the number of times this had happened on one hand, so he had leapt out of bed immediately and dashed to the window. The owl had almost taken flight at the sight of a middle-aged, half-dressed man rushing headlong at it, but Sean had managed to get the letter of its leg before it hastily took off.

Sean had been amazed at the contents of the letter. He could hardly believe that he was going to see Harry again. He had followed Harry's life, (by and large) by Daily Prophet subscriptions, but hadn't believed most of it, until he saw the Quibbler article. Dumbledore had included in his letter a true account of Harry's activities at Hogwarts over the past six years, and Sean couldn't help but imagine what James's reaction would have been if he knew what his son had been up to.

Immediately after reading the letter, Sean raced to the kitchen and pried up the wooden floorboards. The box was still there, as he knew it would be. With shaking hands, he unlocked it and removed the ring of keys from within. Fingering the set of ancient keys, Sean felt relieved and grateful that he finally had the chance to return them to their rightful owner.

He sat at the table, and began to write a very special letter, to a certain boy he had not seen for so long…

*

Harry was first to spot the village.

This was hardly surprising, since Hermione had her face buried in is back once more. She was breathing deeply, and if she had not had him in such a tight embrace, he might have believed her to be asleep.

He shrugged his shoulders to get her attention. Hermione looked up and gasped. She knew that the village was largely populated by Squibs, but she hadn't expected the village to look so, well, Muggle.

Harry landed on a grassy area near the petrol station. He inhaled deeply and stared around, pushing his hair away from his eyes. Hermione noticed he looked thoughtful, and she had a pretty good idea of what was going through his mind.

This place might have been his home, if… She didn't need to finish the thought.

Harry looked around. They were on the very edge of the village, the petrol station being the last building lining the road that stretched off into the distance. Along this road there was also a grocery store, an ice cream parlor, a clothing store, and a building that looked like it may have been either a church or the town hall, because it had a steeple and a bell tower.

Harry mounted his broom again, and, before Hermione could say anything, kicked off, rising into the air until he could see over the rooftops.

The village of Godric's Hollow lay spread out before him. Aside from the street he had just taken off from, there were many others, lined with houses and smaller shops. He could see a large flat building off to the east, with a sign that he could read even from here, proclaiming G.H. Community Pool.

There was only one building he couldn't see.

Harry landed gently and turned to Hermione.

“Where's my house?”

Hermione stepped closer to him.

“You couldn't see it?”

Harry shook his head.

“Sean said it was a manor, so I expected it to stand out in some way. But the only houses I saw look just like the ones on Privet Drive.”

Hermione turned on her heel and started toward the petrol station. Harry followed her, clearly bewildered.

“Hermione, where are you going?”

She half-turned to answer, but kept walking.

“Why is it men never stop for directions?” she said in a very superior fashion.

*

The inside of the petrol station was nothing like either of them expected.

Half of it was actually a restaurant, and several people were sitting at tables, sipping hot coffee, reading the newspaper, or staring out the window as they waited for their orders to arrive. Two teenage girls were working behind the counter, cooking something that smelled like fish on the grill. The other half was lined with glass cases full of bottled and canned beverages. A second counter stood near them, topped with a 1950's cash register and several jars of pickled onions. The only thing that denoted that this place was part of a community of people with knowledge of the magical world was the décor.

The walls were covered with posters of Quidditch teams, antique broomsticks, moving photographs, chocolate frog cards, and miniature cauldrons hung from the ceiling. A rack of magazines nearby sold stacks of Muggle periodicals, but issues of The Daily Prophet and Witch Weekly were also among the rows. The racks of candy displayed packs of Hershey's chocolate alongside Droobles Best Blowing Gum. There was butterbeer as well as soda pop, firewhiskey as well as Guinness in the glass cases.

A man who looked to be about forty called out from behind the cash register, “Welcome to Godric's Hollow, strangers, anything I can do for you?”

“Yes, thank you.” Hermione said, glancing at Harry. He had the hood of his trench coat pulled up over his head, so she couldn't see his face, but she could tell he was looking around the room from the way his head was moving.

Hermione rolled her eyes and turned back to the man.

“We're looking for Potter Manor, if you could tell us where it is?”

The effect Hermione's simple question had on the inhabitants of the station was not that dissimilar from a police officer's entrance into a gangster hangout.

Everyone went completely still, staring at the two teenagers. The only sound was the hiss and spit of the grill in the background.

Hermione looked around in surprise. All the people were looking at her in suspicion, as if she had just asked them something highly improper.

The man behind the counter looked at her sternly. “And why would you be looking for Potter Manor?” He said quietly.

Hermione's mouth suddenly felt dry. “Umm…” she had no idea what to say.

“I can answer that sir,” said Harry's voice from behind her.

The man turned to Harry, his stern look growing sterner still at the sight of the hood that hid the boy's face.

“Well then, answer. Why are you looking for Potter Manor?”

Harry stepped forward, raising a hand to his hood.

“Let's just say I'm trying to go home.” He said, throwing his hood back.

There was dead silence in the station. You could have heard a pin drop, but the silence was broken by the sound of a frying pan falling to the floor. One of the waitresses had dropped the fish.

Harry looked around, slightly nervously.

“Umm, well it was my home anyway, but I haven't actually lived there for over a decade, so…”

Whatever he might have said after that, Hermione never knew. There was a great scraping of chairs, and suddenly she was shunted away from Harry as everyone in the room crowded around her slightly bewildered friend.

“Got Lily's eyes, he does…”

“…my, doesn't he look handsome too! Florence, come over here for a second…”

“…I thought he was James come back to life when he took off his hood…”

Hermione climbed onto a stool to see over the heads of the crowd. She could see Harry in the midst of everyone, having both of his hands shaken simultaneously, while trying to respond to all those who were trying to talk to him.

“I've been told so often, sir….nice to meet you too, Florence… Did you know my dad, then?..”

The clerk shouted “QUIET!” and waved his arms at everyone.

“All right everyone, please sit down again, and we'll get through this like civilized human beings, all right? Now, come sit here, and tell us all about why you're here.” He insisted, pointing to a two-person bench against the wall.

Harry took the proffered seat, but sprang up almost immediately when he noticed Hermione still standing on the bar stool. He hurried over to her to help her down. She placed her hands on his shoulders and he lifted her as effortlessly as if she had been a sack of feathers.

Harry couldn't help but notice that, as he helped her down, her hair brushed across his face.

She smells good. He thought, then blushed.

Hermione noticed the color in his cheeks.

“What is it?” She asked anxiously.

Harry turned his head, embarrassed.

“I just wasn't expecting this sort of welcome, that's all,” he lied.

The clerk interrupted them. “Now you two just sit here, and I'll bring you something to eat.”

“There's no need…” Harry began, but the clerk was already hurrying off to the grill.

Everyone else had taken their seats again, and they were all staring openly at the two teenagers.

Hermione felt very self-conscious and suddenly realized that her hair, unmanageable anyway, was probably looking worse than usual from the wind on the trip here. She looked over at Harry and had to fight down the urge to laugh. She thought her hair was messy! Harry's was sticking almost straight up, except for a few spots where his hood had rested. She realized, without meaning to, that he looked good that way….very good indeed…

The clerk came bustling back over, interrupting her pleasant train of thought. He was carrying two mugs of cocoa, which he offered to them with a slight bow.

“Well now,” he said, dragging a chair over and sitting in it so quickly it creaked in protest. “What brings you to Godric's Hollow?”

Harry took a sip of his cocoa and began. He told them of his Wish List, and of his desire to see his parents home. He told them of how he was to meet Sean Xavier and learn more of his family. He told them everything, except the reason that he was doing this was that he might die.

He had scarcely finished his narrative when everyone broke out in talk again, each trying to relate their own stories of Harry's parents, what they knew of the Potter family, and, for some reason, of how Sean Xavier was considered to be a bit of a fanatic when it came to the Potter's property.

The clerk (who introduced himself as Desmond Sullivan) had to resort to a piercing whistle that Hermione truly believed could have blown the fleas off a dog, to restore order. He then went around the room, pointing to each person in turn, so that each got a chance to tell their story.

Harry sat in absolute silence, intent on the speakers, listening to story after story of his family. Not just of his parents, but of his grandparents, great-aunts and uncles, how his family had been among the first to settle Godric's Hollow, how his parents were loved by everyone.

A middle-aged woman with a young daughter told how his father had personally paid for University tuition of half the population, including her husband, because most were too poor to afford it themselves. He learned from an elderly man who was sitting at a table nearby that his mother had once stayed up most of the night with him, waiting for the ambulance that was to take him to the hospital after he suffered a heart attack. He learned that every year, whenever someone celebrated their birthday, they could expect a present from the Potter's. He was told of how his grandfathers from ages long since past, had always been generous with their people, never overtaxing, even in the days when lords had absolute power over their lands. He felt, too, the sadness that overcame the assembly when they discussed the night of the Potter's death.

“We were all in shock, when we woke up to see Ministry officials crowding the town, all saying that they were dead.” Desmond said sadly. “They came to eat in this very place, they did, all talking of how great a tragedy it was, and them not even knowing Lily an' James, most of `em. They had no idea just how great of a loss it was.” He shook his head.

Hermione was listening almost as intently as Harry. She felt a fierce sense of pride, when she recalled everything that Harry had done over the past years. If these people only knew what Harry had accomplished, how kind he was, giving the Weasley's his Triwizard winnings, how brave he was, facing what he had over the years.

How loving he was…

As this thought occurred to her, Hermione suddenly realized that her hand and Harry's had somehow become intertwined, and he was rubbing his thumb back and forth over the back of her hand.

She also realized that he was shaking.

With a jolt of guilt, she realized how hard this must be for him, to listen to complete strangers talk about his parents in such detail, while he, their own son, had never had the chance to know what they did….would never have the chance…

She gently disentangled her hand from his, and raised it to his face, brushing back his hair from his temple. He turned to look at her, an expression of such sadness, pain and longing in his eyes that she suddenly wanted nothing more than to hold him close, protect him from whatever the future might hold…protect him from his death…

But before she could move to do so, Desmond interrupted.

“Well, I'll just go see how your lunch is coming, if you'll excuse me.”

Hermione suddenly felt vastly annoyed with the friendly clerk.

Harry leaned forward and put his head in his hands. The other patrons hurriedly looked away, pretending to be engaged in other important conversations, while stealing glances at the pair all the while.

“Harry?” Hermione said gently, leaning forward until her head was next to his again.

“Harry, are you all right?”

Harry quickly wiped his hand across his eyes, trying to hide this action from her. He was obviously hoping to pretend nothing was wrong, and she might easily have gone along with it, if his glasses hadn't fallen off.

They clattered on the tile floor, and the sound made her jump slightly. Feeling embarrassed for Harry, and not knowing what else to do, she reached down to pick them up. As she did so, she noticed that the lenses were extremely dirty.

How can he even see through these? Hermione wondered, raising them to the light and inspecting them with a critical eye.

She breathed on the lenses and rubbed them on the hem of her sweater. That's much better. She thought, before handing them back to Harry.

Harry reached for them, but because of his poor vision, missed and ended up with his fingers against Hermione's cheek instead.

Her breath caught in her throat. She was suddenly very glad for the fact that Harry was legally blind without his glasses, because if he wasn't, she wouldn't be having this leaping feeling in her stomach right now, and because Harry wouldn't be able to see her blushing either.

“Here, let me.” She whispered, turning the black frames around and putting them where they belonged. It was impossible, she discovered, to put a pair of glasses on another person without touching their skin, and very impossible to guide them to their proper place without running your fingers through their hair.

As she started to pull away, feeling a thousand conflicting emotions run through her, most of which she never thought she would connect to Harry, he raised his hand and placed it over hers, pressing her palm to his cheek.

“You always have to take care of me, don't you?” he said softly.

Hermione was staring directly into his eyes. She had the impression of drowning in green, before Harry leaned forward.

She closed her eyes. She had seen enough romance movies to know what this usually led to, and was trying to decide whether she would welcome it or not, when she felt his lips brush against her forehead.

He pulled back, smiling slightly.

“Thank you.” He said.

Hermione looked at him intently, searching for some sign, anything, that would show her he had meant more by that gesture than he was letting on.

What if he did?

What if he didn't?

Before she could decide which option she would have preferred, he looked at her in some concern, raising a hand to point at his head.

“What, do I have something on my face?” he asked teasingly.

Hermione, realizing she had been staring, but not about to give up such a good opportunity, smiled back.

“Yes, just there.” She raised a finger to his face, touching it to the corner of his eye, and tracing it down to the corner of his mouth. She noticed he shivered slightly.

She rubbed her fingers together, as if trying to get rid of whatever it was that had been on his face.

“What was it?” he asked.

“Oh, nothing much.” She answered lightly.

“Just a bit of fluff, is all.”

AN: Get it? A bit of fluff? Hee hee, dumb joke.

-->

Chapter Seven: The Return

Sean was dreaming.

In his dream, James was standing in front of him, pointing out towards the hills that hid the Manor from sight of the village, and vice versa.

“He'll come from that direction, you know.” James said.

“Are you sure about that?” Sean answered jokingly. “Seems to me the last time you tried a guess like that you lost fifty galleons to me in poker.”

“All the same, he'll come from that direction.” James said firmly.

Sean sighed and leaned back. “I wish you could be here to see him. I bet he wishes that too.”

James smiled lightly. “The loved dead never really leave us. I have been watching my son from afar for many years now. Lily has too, and Sirius could do nothing but talk about him when he arrived. The first words out of his mouth were, `you've got one heck of a kid.' I'm very proud of my son, and he'll know just how proud before the day is out.”

“What, are you going to tell him?” Sean asked, only half seriously.

“Not really, but you are.”

“How? I don't think Harry would like anyone trying to take the place of his father as far as man-to-man talks go.” Sean snorted in disbelief.

James started to fade away, his last words to Sean blurring, and fading into nothingness.

“You must not turn your back on what you've longed for all your life. Have courage, Harry, and face your destiny with courage.”

“Tell him, Sean. Tell him.”

*

Harry touched down on the path. As his feet touched the gravel he straightened, staring at the Manor.

The front of the building was an early Victorian style, but that strayed and blended into brick, then stone. It had obviously been added to over the years. The wall surrounding it was a hodgepodge of boulders cemented together, brickwork, and stone so ancient Hermione could easily believe it had been there for a thousand years.

A flood of memories poured in on Harry, each clamoring to be recognized. Every feature, from the iron gate, the fountain in the front garden, even the roses and ivy growing up the walls of the house, looked familiar to him.

Turning to Hermione, Harry spoke in a hoarse whisper.

“I was born here. I know this place!”

Dismounting, he walked towards the gate.

Hermione hesitated. Did she have the right to follow him? Shouldn't this be his, and his alone?

You promised him. Said a voice in her head.

No, she answered it silently. It wouldn't be right to intrude on him now.

Follow him. He cannot do this alone. The voice insisted.

Hermione dimly registered that the voice sounded male, before she started after Harry.

*

Striding up the path, Harry kept his eyes fixed on the gate. It seemed to pull him towards it like a magnet. There was a letter P worked in wrought iron at the apex of the top curve.

At first he thought his eyes were deceiving him. Pausing, he stared at the light coming from the stone obelisk that was the frame for the gate.

It was a light. Someone had lit a fire there recently, in the small guardhouse where might have stood an armed guard in days gone by.

The smoldering fire was outside of the guardhouse, and it had died to embers. The feeble light it cast was not enough to illuminate the space in the obelisk, but Harry could see the outline of someone sitting, huddled in a cloak.

Drawing his wand from the inner pocket of his coat, Harry walked towards the space silently. He entered the alcove, crouching slightly. He paused just inside, looking around until his eyes became accustomed to the gloom.

Covered by a long leather cloak, a man sat dozing, his back against the wall, head on his chest. He reminded Harry strongly of Remus Lupin, in that he looked older than he was, in a world-weary fashion.

Harry sat cross-legged in the tiny space, across the dirt floor from the man. This must be Sean Xavier, he reasoned. Harry had written him a letter by Owl Post telling him when he would be coming, but Sean had not had the chance to reply. It was obvious he had received it though, for here he was, sitting in the guardhouse.

Harry leaned forward, extended his wand, and tapped the old man's hand lightly. He did this once again, and the man stirred, raising his face to Harry's. The man spoke in an awestruck voice. “James, is that you?”

Wordlessly, Harry pointed his wand at the dying fire, muttering an incantation as he did so. The flames leapt higher, and light flooded the alcove. Harry leaned back until his back touched the wall. He set his wand to one side.

A slow smile of pure joy stole across Sean's face.

“James! It is you! But how…?”

Harry spoke gently, so he wouldn't startle the man. “I'm Harry Potter, son of James and Lily Potter. You must be Sean Xavier.”

Rising slowly, the man shuffled around the fire. Sitting next to Harry, he reached out and touched the boy's face. Harry watched in silence as tears ran down the man's cheeks.

“So many years. So many years ago I came here, happier than I could have ever hoped. But it ended too soon, far too soon…”

Tears overcame further speech. Harry awkwardly placed his arm around Sean's shoulders, patting his back and feeling very wrong-footed.

Sean pulled away, searching Harry's face.

“You are Harry. So like your father, so like him. You probably don't remember me, but I remember you. Such a funny little baby, with that wild hair from your father, always trying to eat your toes. You liked my recipes though, I'll have to give you some, see if you still like them.”

Harry coughed to cover his embarrassment. I wonder what Hermione would think if she heard that! He thought.

“You're right about one thing, I don't remember you, nor do I remember being that attached to my feet. But I'll tell you one thing Sean, if you insist on telling me embarrassing stories from when I was a baby, please do them out of Hermione's earshot.”

“Hermione? Isn't she that girl that the Daily Prophet said you were dating?”

Before Harry could answer, Sean said hurriedly, “Not that I necessarily believe that, mind you, it's just that the articles were very detailed, and Dumbledore himself said you were very close friends. Not that that would mean anything other than friendship of course, but I…” realizing he was babbling, Sean trailed off in embarrassment.

Harry said nothing. Sean's words had given him pause for thought. He knew Dumbledore would never lie about Harry, but did he really see them as very close friends? What about Ron? Wasn't he Harry's friend too? Why would Dumbledore say that about Hermione, and not Ron?

Sean cleared his throat. “Well, I suppose you'd like to see the house?” he prompted.

Harry shook his head, as if trying to scare away a fly. “Yes, please. You said it was locked?”

Sean pulled a ring of ancient keys from his pocket as they left the guardhouse.

“Indeed it is. And it has been for fifteen years. Not a single soul has entered in all that time, unless they were ghosts. Ah, you must be Hermione.”

Hermione stepped forward with her hand extended.

“And you must be Sean. Harry told me that you used to work here?”

Sean grinned cheekily at her. “Aye, miss. I did, and I tell you, if you are Harry's girlfriend, he could not have chosen a prettier girl.”

Hermione turned to Harry, who covered his face with his hand.

“YOU TOLD HIM I WAS YOUR GIRLFRIEND?!?” she yelled.

Harry reached out a hand toward her, pleadingly. “Hermione, I never said that. He was just asking me if the rubbish Rita Skeeter wrote about us was true, and I didn't really give him an answer.”

Hermione felt as if she had been punched in the stomach. She herself had told people that Rita's articles had been rubbish, and not thought twice about it. Why should she feel so different now? Did a part of her wish they had been true? Did she wish it could be true?

Harry was looking at her with a worried expression on his face.

She closed her eyes. She had not really meant to yell at Harry for what Sean had said. When he had made that comment, a part of her had leapt for joy at the thought that Harry had told someone they were together. Of course it would have been nice if she had been informed first, but she was willing to take what she could get. Then she had remembered all the snide comments made as she passed, when people thought she couldn't hear her. Especially during fourth year, after the articles had been published. People, mainly Slytherins, had actually told her to her face then that she was too ugly for anyone to be interested in romantically. She had never told Harry this, though. He was already worried enough over the Tournament then, and she didn't want to add her personal troubles to his already heavy burden, especially when she knew he would take it seriously. She had cried herself to sleep many times that year, sometimes over Harry, sometimes because she couldn't shake the horrible feeling that what all those people had said about her was true, that no one would ever love her, no one would ever want to be with her, least of all Harry…

Her thoughts were interrupted by a pair of strong arms wrapping around her. She knew it was Harry without even opening her eyes. Only Harry had that scent, of leather and parchment and grass from the quidditch pitch. Only Harry could ever make her feel this safe, this…loved.

Before the implications of this thought had fully registered in her brain, Harry ran his fingers through her hair gently, driving all thought out of her mind as completely as the wind blows away dust.

“I'm sorry I didn't explain it to him. But I was thinking of something else at the time and, well…” He trailed off.

“It's all right. I didn't mean to yell at you, I was just…” She couldn't finish her sentence either.

Sean coughed to get their attention, and they broke apart, though Hermione noticed that Harry's hands lingered on her arms for perhaps a second longer than necessary before dropping to his sides.

Harry turned to Sean, reaching out his hand.

Wordlessly, clearly still embarrassed at what he had said, Sean handed the keys to Harry.

Harry stepped up to the gate. The largest key had a monogrammed letter P on its end, and it was this one that Harry inserted into the keyhole of the gate. Slowly, he turned it to the left. The lock clicked, and the gate swung open, creaking as though caught in a high wind.

Harry stepped inside the grounds, and headed for the front door, Hermione and Sean following close behind.

*

It was the saddest thing Hermione had ever seen.

Harry had paused outside the front door, reaching out a hand to touch the roses twined around the lintel. He found the key to the front door, though how he knew which one it was remained a mystery to Hermione, as all the other keys aside from the one to the front gate, and a smaller one that looked like a diary key, were all alike. Harry had lit his wand, and walked inside.

The first glance around the hall revealed more about his family than Harry could have imagined.

The walls were lined with portraits, paintings and photographs of people whom Harry had only seen once before, in the Mirror of Erised. His family, the Potters and the Evans's, all together on the wall.

Harry could tell immediately which side of the family each person belonged to. Those with green eyes or red hair were obviously from his mother's side, and those with unruly black hair from his father's.

He walked down the hall slowly, looking at each face, blowing away the layers of dust that coated the glass on the photographs, reaching out to touch the paintings.

It took Hermione several minutes to notice that none of the portraits were moving.

This surprised her. Half of Harry's family had been wizards, and yet none of the portraits moved. All the people stayed in their places, like in Muggle pictures. She wouldn't have been surprised if the only ones that were motionless had been those of the Evans's, but not a single one moved.

Harry continued down the hall. There were two doors on either side of the hall, but it was to the one at the very end of the hallway that Harry headed. He opened the door, and walked inside, not waiting for the other two.

“That was the kitchen.” Sean whispered to Hermione.

She knew why he whispered. As soon as Harry had disappeared from view, the eyes in all the pictures seemed to shift to them, as though they had no right to be here. Though that may have been because neither she nor Sean had a light, and the glow from Harry's wand had disappeared with him.

Just a trick of the light, that's all. She told herself, following Harry's footprints in the thick dust that coated the floor.

Inside the kitchen she paused, feeling like her heart would break.

Harry had stopped next to the table. It was an enormous slab of carved wood that stretched the length of the room, so long that its far end could not be seen in this dim light.

Harry stood at the head of the table, on which rested two sets of dishes, set out for a dinner that would never be eaten. His hand rested on the back of a baby's high chair that stood in between the seat at the head of the table, and the seat just around the corner of it. On the tray was a bottle, lying on its side, its contents long since dried up.

Harry reached out a hand and picked up the bottle. He handled it as if it had been made of the most delicate glass, turning it over in his hands. His mouthed moved silently, as if he was trying to remember something, and it would help to say it aloud.

Hermione stayed in the doorway. Why had she come here? She asked herself angrily. She had no right to be here, this was private! If Harry had known, he would never have asked her to come, of that she was sure.

But then Harry turned to her. He walked towards her, still holding the tiny bottle in both hands. Hermione was motionless as he came nearer, not knowing what to expect.

What Harry did next, she would never have guessed would happen.

Harry reached out, and took her hand in his. He opened her fingers, which she realized had been clenched in her fury at herself. He placed the bottle in her hand, and wrapped her fingers around it, encompassing her hand with his own.

“Hold on to this for me, will you?” he whispered, not looking at her.

*

The next room they explored was the living room.

A doorway led off the kitchen, opening into a room so dim and dusty that Hermione at first mistook it for a storage room of some sort.

Sean reached around her and flicked a light switch.

The chandelier in the ceiling burst into light, and the effect was so startling that Hermione put her hand over her eyes, giving them time to adjust to the abrupt change.

When she did venture to open her eyelids, she saw Harry standing near the window looking down. Hermione followed his gaze, and saw an old rocking chair, lying on its side on the dusty floor, knocked over, as though whoever sat in it last had left it in a hurry. Harry bent down and wrapped his fingers around the headrest, pulling it upright and sliding it closer to the window.

“She always put it there, so I could see outside.” He whispered to himself.

He turned in a circle, taking in the rest of the room.

A claw-footed sofa upholstered in dark green stood against the wall, large enough to seat at least six people. Red cushions decorated it, and a handmade quilt done in shades of blue was draped across the back.

The other wall was dominated by a fireplace, a richly carved mahogany mantelpiece and lintel encircled it, meeting black marble tiles on that section of the floor prone to soot.

Above the mantelpiece was a portrait, depicting three people, a man, woman, and baby.

This picture, like those in the hall, was also not enchanted to move, yet the figures it portrayed were so lifelike Hermione wondered that they didn't come to life and leave the painting altogether.

The man looked like Harry, except his eyes were hazel. He was sitting with his arms around a beautiful young woman with bright red hair, and emerald eyes. Her eyes were mirrored in the baby she was holding, a baby wrapped in a white blanket, smiling as he reached up to touch his mother's face. Both the man and woman were looking down at their child, smiling, completely oblivious to whoever the artist was that portrayed them so beautifully, lost in their own happiness.

Harry stepped closer to the fireplace, his eyes never leaving the portrait.

Something was struggling inside him. A memory, long since forgotten, rose to the surface of his mind.

“He has your hair. I told you I would never forgive you if he had your hair.”

“It's not like I had a choice. Besides, he has your eyes. Doesn't that make up for it?”

“No it doesn't. Some poor girl is going to fall in love with him and their children are going to have your hair. I'll be the grandmother of a bunch of unkempt little raven haired children who have inherited the Potter's legacy of unruly hair.”

“Aren't we getting a little ahead of ourselves? Besides, whoever he marries might have wonderfully straight hair, and it'll even out.”

“I hope so. I don't want to be the grandmother of a bunch of untidy Elvis Presley look-alikes.”

“Better Elvis Presley than Albert Einstein. Now that guy had messy hair.”

Harry was interrupted by a hand on his arm.

Hermione had watched as Harry stared at the portrait, never blinking, never looking away. She watched as his eyes filled with tears. Knowing what must be going through his mind, she walked over to him and touched his arm.

He looked back at her without really seeing her, lost in whatever memory had made itself manifest to him. She raised a hand to his face, wishing he would blink, as his stare was starting to unnerve her.

As her fingers touched his cheek, he released his breath in a shuddering sigh and closed his eyes.

“Is there anything I can do?” she asked gently.

“No.” he answered.

She nodded. Slightly hurt, and started to turn away, but Harry caught her hand in his.

“You've already done so much for me.”

-->

AN: Some people were offended by my request for 30 reviews. I really don't understand why, because:

A: I did not do it in a `fishing for compliments' attitude, nor for any attention seeking reason.

B: The reason I did do it, was because my story has a lot of hits, but it's the same people who review. I wanted to update two chapters today, instead of my customary one, and I wanted to find out if it would be worthwhile.

C: The only reason I could think of that would make it worthwhile, is if enough people would appreciate two chapters being uploaded, so I had to find out how many people would appreciate me breaking my one chapter daily stride.

I apologize if anybody took offense, and I won't request reviews again.

*

Chapter Eight: Discoveries and Revelations

Hermione stood by the window of the living room later that afternoon. Harry had gone to look upstairs, and in the other rooms off the hall. Sean had suggested that he should go alone, and Hermione, not wanting to be more of an intruder than she already had been, quickly agreed. Harry had looked at her oddly, but acquiesced with a shrug of his shoulders. He then left through another door that led into the hall. Sean had excused himself, saying he was eager to get to the village for some lunch, and that he would be back by dinnertime.

Hermione had paced the room at first, but this disturbed the dust and made her sneeze, so she returned to the kitchen for a broom. Cleaning was a bit of compulsive habit of hers, and she was just about to start sweeping the living room when a thought stopped her.

Would Harry be angry with her? This house had been undisturbed for over a decade, and it wasn't her house. Was it her place to clean it?

Yet the feeling of neglect was so strong that she reasoned this room could do with a sweeping. Harry should have come home to a happier place than this, and the dust made it so gloomy.

So she swept the floor.

It was a nice floor, she noticed, wood with a large intricate rug in the center. The dust lay so thick on the rug that it was easily picked up by the broom. She used a vanishing charm on the pile and looked around the room. The clean floor looked so out of place with the rest of the room, she noticed.

She wondered if the mantle over the fireplace would look better clean.

So here she was, two hours later, the room completely dust free, the rug cleaned and the furniture polished by a blend of charms and elbow grease. She had left the rocking chair until last, knowing that if Harry would be angry with her for cleaning anything, it would be that. But it looked so forlorn, sitting all alone by the window, she found she couldn't just leave it like that. If Harry got angry at her, so be it, she thought fiercely, scrubbing at it with a rag. (The kitchen had more cleaning supplies than the broom)

When she went into the kitchen to put the broom away, she noticed that its floor was very dirty too.

After she finished cleaning the kitchen from top to bottom, except for the dishes on the table, she moved to the hallway, cleaning the glass of the picture frames with a wet washcloth, polishing the frames. She noticed as she was sweeping the hall floor, that the eyes of the portraits no longer looked so judgmental.

She returned to the living room, wiping her sweat damp bangs from her eyes. She went to the window and opened the linen curtains, sliding the window up a crack, standing in front of it and letting the breeze blow across her flushed face. She could easily understand why Lily would have chosen this spot to rock her baby. The scent of the roses gave the room a pleasant fragrance, and the sun shone on the floor at her feet. The view was of the front garden, and the fountain which was still very popular with birds. Lily would have rocked her baby to sleep with the smell of roses and fresh air in his nose, birdsong in his ears, and sunshine on his face.

Without realizing what she was doing, Hermione sank into the rocking chair with a sigh, letting her arms drape across the armrests. In her left hand was the bottle Harry had asked her to keep for him. She laid her head against the back of the chair and closed her eyes in utter peace.

*

Harry had discovered the nursery.

The crib stood next to the window, a mobile with miniature broomsticks, snitches, and Quaffles attached hung from the ceiling above it.

Harry figured that must have been his dad's idea.

He walked around the room, opening the drawers of the dresser and marveling at the tiny clothes inside. He even discovered a set of small Quidditch robes on top of the dressing table, next to a photo of his dad on a broomstick, holding Harry in his lap, while in the distance Lily was running towards them across the grass, shaking her fist and yelling something obviously uncomplimentary. Harry laughed as he realized it must have been Sirius or Remus taking the picture. The marauders would have been frequent guests here.

He looked in the crib and caught his breath swiftly at what he saw.

It was nothing remarkable, but the memories it brought back overwhelmed Harry.

It was a teddy bear, dark brown and with one eye missing. Its fur was stiff and spiky in places from all the times its owner had sucked and teethed on it. Harry had a sudden vision of lying on his side, looking into a cloud of brown fur, and a ticklish feeling on his tongue as he chewed the bear's arm.

He reached into the crib and picked it up. Raising it to eye level, he stared at the thread poking out of the place where its eye must have been, and closed his own eyes as another memory besieged him.

“Where'd its eye go?”

“What do you mean where did its eye go? It's obvious he swallowed it.”

“Nonsense Lily, how could a baby swallow a button that big?”

“He inherited your big mouth, it doesn't surprise me one bit.”

“Ouch. How do you know it didn't fall off somewhere?”

“Go look for it then-- the next time you change his diaper. He swallowed it, you mark my words. You know he loves to chew on that bear, James.”

“Still, I'm going to keep an eye out for it.”

“Oh? You're volunteering to change his diaper for the next few days then?”

“Har de har har. I meant on the floor, it must have fallen off somewhere. Big mouth or not, I don't believe a baby could have swallowed something that big without choking.”

“Shows how much you know about babies, then. He swallowed it.”

Harry held the bear to his face. It smelled familiar, a mix of furry fabric and baby drool.

He looked around sneakily. No one was watching him, so he put the corner of the bear' paw in his mouth and bit down gently.

He smiled.

It even tasted the same.

*

The four poster bed was large enough to fit at least six people. It had black and red hangings, silk sheets, and the pillows were so large it would have required to complete donations of a dozen geese to fill just one of them.

A lacquered wardrobe stood next to the door, its doors open, filled with traveling cloaks, coats, boots, and a Quidditch uniform, meant for an adult male.

Harry fingered the robes as he stood in his parent's bedroom. It was a beautiful room, wooden floors, thick woolen rugs, comfortable furniture.

He took a pair of Quidditch boots from the floor of the wardrobe. His dad's feet had been a size larger than his, so he didn't try them on, even thought the temptation was strong.

A second wardrobe and dresser stood on the other side of the open wardrobe. Harry opened the doors of the second. This one had a mirror on the door, and was full of dress robes. A pair of dark green robes caught his eye. His dad must have looked good in green, too.

A box rested on the top shelf, labeled Wedding. Intrigued, Harry reached up and lifted it down. He carried the box over to the bed and opened it. Moving aside the layers of tissue paper, he slowly reached inside and withdrew a veil, a dried corsage and boutonniere, and blushed at the sight of a lacy garter lying at the bottom of the box. He replaced the lid and returned the box to its place in the wardrobe, turning his attention to the other clothes inside.

Apart from the pair of green robes, there was also a pair of red, black, navy blue, and white, that Harry guessed James must have worn at his wedding. All of his dad's robes were in a similar, functional style, while some of his mother's robes were obviously meant for fancy parties. Harry gawked at a set of royal blue robes that he knew his mother must have looked stunning in.

A sudden vision of Hermione in her dress robes at the Yule Ball came to him. It merged with the mental picture of his mother, until Hermione was dressed in royal blue robes, her hair framing her face, smiling…

Harry shook his head. He shouldn't be entertaining those sort of thoughts, he told himself sternly. If Hermione ever knew he had thought of her that way, even for a second…The blush that spread across his cheeks confirmed what he thought she would think of him.

The dresser contained everyday clothes. He lingered over his dad's t-shirts, the faded logos of Quidditch teams on their fronts. His dad had apparently been very fond of jeans, as there seemed to be more pairs of denims than there were any other articles of clothing. Harry lifted a pair out of the drawer and held them up against himself. His dad had been taller than he was, fatter too, thought not in the sense Dudley and Uncle Vernon were fat. Fat in the sense that he actually got his teeth around good square meals more then ten months out of the year.

The dresser top had a mirror attached to the back, and was covered with jewelry boxes, bottles of perfume, a mannequin bust like you would expect to see in a jewelry store, displaying a beautiful emerald and gold necklace and earrings. Harry could imagine his dad presenting them to his mother, probably commenting that they matched her eyes.

He opened the drawers of one of the jewelry boxes, picking up a locket that contained a picture of a much younger James than Harry had seen in the photo he had found in the nursery.

Maybe she did love him, even then, he thought.

He shut the drawers and turned his attention to the bed, feeling a lump rise in his throat. Dudley had often woken his aunt and uncle by bouncing on their bed in the mornings. Harry had always wondered what it would have been like, to go running into his parents room and jump on the bed until they got up to make breakfast.

Feeling a sudden urge, yet not wanting to fight it, Harry took a short run and leaped into the air. He came down face first on the large mattress, chuckling quietly to himself.

Another memory.

“Are you sure it's safe for him to sleep with us?”

“Of course it is. This bed's certainly big enough, and I don't like the idea of him being down the hall from us when he's been so colicky. What if he chokes?”

“If he didn't choke on that button, I don't think he'll choke on his own spit. But you're the boss. Put him here.”

Hands laying him down on a soft comforter, fingers tickling his hands and feet, giggles coming from his own mouth, interrupted by coughs and a burning in hi s throat, hands smoothing over his forehead, running through his hair, a feeling of complete and utter safety as he closed his eyes and yawned.

“I told you he inherited your mouth.”

“Shh. Let him sleep.”

The sun cast its light into the room, illuminating the face of a sixteen year old boy, lying in the center of a large bed, fast asleep. For however short a time, at peace with the world.

*

Sean hurried back up the path to the front door as quickly as he could without breaking into a run. Everything was ready, now all he needed was the guest of honor.

He was in such a hurry to get upstairs that he didn't notice the front hall had been cleaned, or that there was only one set of footprints leading up the stairs to the second floor.

He stopped outside the master bedroom, peering inside the door.

Harry was fast asleep on his parent's bed. Sean could tell from his footprints that he had looked in the wardrobes and dresser, then had apparently run and dove onto the bed, where he lay sleeping, completely unaware he was being watched.

Sean padded across the room softly and stopped next to the bed. Reaching down, he shook Harry by the shoulder.

Harry sat up, rubbing his eyes. He looked around, confused for a moment, before he remembered where he was. He smiled at Sean as the memory returned to him.

“What time is it?” He asked, stretching and yawning.

“About four thirty. Come on, I've got a surprise for your dinner. Where's your friend?”

“I'm sure Hermione's wherever she wants to be. I wouldn't be surprised if she went into the garden, I noticed her staring at it earlier. Can I ask you a few questions though?”

“Shoot.”

“First, what happened to my mother's wedding dress? I didn't see it when I looked in the wardrobe, and it wasn't in the box either.”

“Did you look in here?” Sean pointed to a carved chest at the foot of the bed that Harry had not noticed before.

“What makes you think it would be in there?” Harry asked as he climbed off the bed and headed towards the chest.

“That, my boy, is what is commonly referred to among muggle women as a `hope chest.' Girls often receive them in their teenage years, and they keep things in it for their future children, clothes and things. After they have children, it becomes a keepsake box, for photo albums, wedding dresses, that sort of thing.”

“And diaries?” Harry interrupted.

Sean grinned. “I suppose so, though don't be surprised if it isn't in there. Your mother went to great lengths to keep her diary hidden from your father.”

Harry tried to open the lid, but it was locked. He took the ring of keys from his pocket, trying each until he found the right one.

The lid opened without creaking, evidence of the care it must have been given when his mother actively used it. Inside was a leather bound book. Harry picked it up, opening the cover to find a picture of his mother when she was a baby. He turned the pages, watching his mother grow up. A little girl in red pigtails riding a tricycle; eating an ice cream cone; wading in the sea. A school-age girl wearing a plaid jumper and playing skip-rope; reading a book; dancing with her feet on top of her dad's. A teenager with curly red hair, posing in a fancy dress; on the hood of a car with her face to the sun, sitting under a tree with his father, his arms around her as she leaned back against him, both looking into the distance.

He set the album aside and looked at the other contents. With some surprise, he noticed some dresses, obviously meant for baby girls. Had she been hoping for a girl then? Feeling slightly strange, he moved these aside and discovered a silken package, tied with ivory ribbon. He lifted this out and laid it on the end of the bed. Untying the ribbon, he unwrapped the silk, layer by layer.

It was his mother's wedding dress.

Layers of white silk peeked from layers of velvet. Ribbon chased over the bodice, shoulders and sleeves. Beads worked in the shape of vines and lily's adorned the skirt, which ended in a five foot long train, decorated with more beads, lace, and ribbon.

Harry picked it up by the shoulders, letting the skirt fall to the floor. His mother could not have been much taller than he, for when the hem touched the floor, the shoulders of the gown were level with his own.

A pair of shoes fell out of the folds of the train, clattering on the floor. Harry laid the dress gently on the bed and picked them up, marveling.

His mother's feet must have been very small to fit in these. They were made of glass, decorated with crystals and pearls. They must have had some sort of charm on them to keep from breaking. He was forcibly reminded of the story of Cinderella, thought he privately thought her shoes could not have come close to matching these in beauty.

Sean backed toward the door. “I'll go look for your friend, shall I?”

“No, wait. I still have something else to ask you.” Harry stopped him.

Sean paused. “What?”

“Is there anything I should know about this place? Something my parent's may have mentioned in their will? I have a feeling you know something I should know.” Harry said.

Sean suddenly recalled the dream.

“Only this,” he began. “Your father would have wanted me to tell you this, so don't think I'm trying to take his place, I'm just telling you what he would have wanted you to know.”

Harry remained silent.

“You must not turn your back on what you've longed for all your life. Have courage, Harry, and face your destiny with courage.” Sean said.

Harry closed his eyes. Sean turned away, afraid he might have offended the young man, but Harry only said, half to himself, half to Sean,

“He must know what I'm facing, then, if he wanted you to tell me that.”

Harry turned back to the hope chest, his gaze lingering on a picture of his parents on their wedding day. Not the picture he already had, but a picture of Lily and James sitting together at a table, Lily's head resting on James' shoulder, while James looked at the photographer. His eyes seemed to bore into Harry's, reassuring, caring.

He must know.

*

Harry followed Sean downstairs, noticing what Sean, in his haste, had not.

The hall was clean.

Sean hurried out the door, to look for Hermione in the gardens. Harry however, knew from the second he set eyes on the sparkling clean hallway, that she wouldn't be there. He returned to the kitchen. It too, was clean, but the dishes were still on the table.

He walked through into the living room, and froze.

Hermione was sitting in his mother's rocking chair, fast asleep. The sunlight shafting through the windowpanes gave her hair a burnished, coppery sheen, and she still held the bottle. A breeze from the open window moved the curtains so they brushed against her leg. She sighed and shifted to a more comfortable position, still asleep.

Harry felt a sharp ache in his heart as he watched her. Had this ever happened to his dad? Had he ever found Lily in such a state, gently sleeping in that same chair, a bottle clutched in her hand? Had he ever felt what Harry was feeling now?

Harry blinked. What was he feeling now? He wasn't angry, even though Hermione was sitting in his mother's chair, after cleaning his house. He wasn't surprised either. It was almost as if he expected to find her here, thought why he should expect that was beyond him. Did she really have such a place in his life that he fantasized about coming home to a scene like this, coming home to Hermione?

He crossed the room until he was standing next to her. An errant breeze moved a strand of curly hair across her face. He reached out to brush it aside. When his hand touched her cheek she smiled, and leaned into his touch. He shivered, whether from shock or longing he didn't know.

Without consciously realizing what he was doing, he knelt on the floor in front of her. Taking the bottle from her hand, he laid her hand in her lap, palm up. Leaning towards her, he laid his cheek in her open palm, resting against it. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. He had the strangest feeling that his parents had also done this, that his dad had laid his head in his mother's lap, and she stroked his hair soothingly…

Like Hermione was doing now.

Hermione had woken up in time to see Harry lay his head in her hand. He looked exhausted, eyes closed, breathing deeply. She ran her fingers through his hair, hoping he wouldn't mind.

And Harry didn't mind. Neither of them said anything as they sat together, Harry on the floor at Hermione's feet, while she sat in the rocking chair, running her fingers lightly over his scar, through his hair, soothing him.

Hermione remembered the voice in her head earlier. He cannot do this alone. It had told her.

She promised herself that as long as she was alive, he wouldn't have to.

*

They arrived back at Hogwarts around midnight. Sean's surprise for dinner had turned out to be a party for Harry, which the entire village was invited to attend. Harry had spent most of the evening talking with people who were eager to welcome him back to his home.

Hermione watched Harry during the party, noting the change that seemed to have come over him. He was smiling more tonight than she had seen him at any other time since the beginning of sixth year. He laughed at jokes, shared a few of his own, learned a few dances from the villagers, and was even encouraged to relate the true account of his activities at Hogwarts. Hermione had helped in his narrative, putting things in perspective when he tended to get a little boastful, and joined in the villager's teasing when they learned the story of how Harry had stuck his wand up a troll's nose to save her.

Hermione ended up next to him when all the villagers formed a circle and tried to do the can-can. The undertaking wasn't very successful, and almost everyone ended up on the floor. Harry had ended up on his rear when Sean hooked a leg under him and tripped him up after Harry had laughed at Sean's own spectacular fall, and Hermione, laughing too hard to help either of them up, collapsed onto Harry's lap, where she put her arms around him and he wiped tears of mirth from her cheeks.

They had left about an hour after sunset. Harry promised to visit again over Christmas, and announced to all present that Sean would continue to look after the manor, (including cleaning) and that the next time he came, he would see to appointing a staff to help Sean in his duties. Several women and one man had come forward then, saying that they had been the maids and gardener of the estate, and that they would be only too happy to resume their duties.

Sean gave Harry the promised book of recipes, in return for Harry's promise that he would return to live at the Manor, once he came of age. This was a promise Harry gladly made, and Hermione could see how touched he was at the care shown him by the people he might have been a part of, had he been allowed.

So they left Godric's Hollow, the cheers of the villagers in their ears as they took off into the night.

Now Harry was once again hovering outside Hermione's window. She climbed inside the room without incident, and turned to say good-night to Harry, but he was already gone, heading toward the next window, the one belonging to the boy's dormitories.

The next morning however, she awoke to find a bouquet of roses in a vase on her bedside table, with a note in Harry's handwriting.

Please accept this pathetically clichéd attempt at a thank-you. Be ready for another one, to come soon, as part of my next wish.

Yours,

Harry.

-->

Chapter Nine: Live like you were dying

As promised, here is the next chapter. And it is the biggest cliffhanger I have done to date. Fortunately, you won't have to wait longer than tomorrow afternoon for the next one.

Disclaimer: The song does not belong to me, if it did, I'd be filthy rich, and that is definitely NOT the case.

“Okay, so what's next?”

Harry turned to face Hermione, a look of mild surprise on his face.

“Don't you think we've earned a break?” He asked seriously.

Hermione laughed. “But we're on a roll! We've already finished three! And I want to know what L.L.I.W.D. means too.” She added.

Harry smiled. “I'll tell you what it means, but we'll have to wait until the next Hogsmeade visit to do it.”

He took a breath. “L.L.I.W.D. means Live Like I Was Dying.”

Hermione was confused. “But isn't that what this whole list was supposed to be about? Do all the things that you've always wanted to do, but never done before?”

Harry explained. “In a sense, you're right. All the things we've done so far have been things I've wanted to do. But there are some things that, well…” he trailed off, trying to find the words. “Have you ever been asked to do something, or thought about doing something, then said to yourself, `I'd rather die than do that'? Well, there are a few things that I thought I'd rather die than do, that, now that I really think about them, I'd like to do before I die. Does that make sense?”

“What sort of things?” Hermione asked warily.

Harry smiled.

“Come to Hogsmeade with me at Christmas, and you'll see.”

*

December arrived, and with it the Hogsmeade visit. Ron and Luna Lovegood had a date together, so Ron had no problem with Hermione and Harry pairing off for the day.

Though `pairing off' does seem a bit off the mark, doesn't it? Hermione thought to herself. It wasn't like she was going on a date or anything. It would just be her and Harry, going for a nice trip through Hogsmeade, Harry would do what he wanted to, and she would be there to support him, just like a friend should do.

Right. Friend.

She couldn't explain why, but she felt suddenly sad.

*

She met Harry in the Entrance Hall; he came running up to meet her, slightly out of breath, carrying a backpack.

“What's in there?”

Harry followed her gaze toward the pack slung over his shoulder and grinned at her. “Just in case,” he said mysteriously.

*

It was very cold.

That was all Hermione could think of as she walked down the High Street with Harry. He had worn his black trench coat again, but all she had was a sweater. She folded her arms across her chest and shivered. A gust of wind blew in her face and she closed her eyes against the snow. She felt thoroughly miserable. Why did Harry have to go waltzing down the roads of Hogsmeade, effectively freezing her to death, when there were plenty of pubs right on this street, full of fireplaces and mugs of steaming hot cocoa and butterbeer…

Her train of thought was interrupted by a warm weight settling over her shoulders. Harry was standing behind her, and had wrapped his arms around her, pulling her partway inside his coat. She turned to face him and put her arms around his neck, hugging him and shivering. He tensed, though she wasn't sure why. She couldn't have been more relaxed here, with their arms around each other, her head tucked below his chin, his coat covering both of them and warming her inside and out.

“Would you like to get something to drink?”

She looked up at him.

“Mm-hmm.” She mumbled.

Harry smiled and kissed the top of her head. “I'll take that as a yes.”

He stepped away from her and removed his coat, handing it to her. She gratefully accepted it. It was made for someone with broader shoulders than she had, but she liked the way it fit. And it smelled…like Harry, she thought.

Harry took her arm and led her across the street, to a pub that had karaoke music pounding through the door. Hermione was so happy to get out of the cold that she didn't question Harry's decision.

They were the only people in the pub, apart from the bartender, a cheery-faced, red-haired lady that reminded Hermione strongly of Mrs. Weasley.

They took a seat at the table near the window, and the bartender came over and introduced herself.

“Hello, dears, I'm Josephine. Can I get you anything?”

“A butterbeer for me, and whatever she wants, too.” Harry answered.

“Ditto on the butterbeer.” Hermione said, smiling at Josephine.

Josephine ambled off towards the counter.

Hermione looked around the room, noting the stage, atop which there was a piano and several microphone stands, and what looked like a jukebox. Hermione hadn't seen one of those since she was a kid, and her parent's had taken her to an older restaurant. She had begged her father for coins to put in it, making it play her favorite songs.

When Josephine returned, Hermione asked her why she had a jukebox here, in a wizard pub.

“It's bewitched so that magic doesn't affect it,” Josephine explained. “It also doesn't include the lyrics. This is a bit of a karaoke bar, so if you put a coin in it, you're expected to sing the selection yourself.”

“Oh.” Hermione was disappointed. She had been hoping to play some songs on it, but not if that included singing.

She turned to talk to Harry, but he was gone. On the table in front of his chair, was a folded piece of paper. She picked it up and read it.

Hermione,

I've been thinking of all the things that I thought I'd never do, and out of all the ones I could have chosen to do, I never thought singing would be it.

I intended to go skydiving, from a plane, several thousand feet up, - but I knew you'd probably have a heart attack if I did that.

You're probably wondering why I chose to sing, instead of go skydiving. I can only hope that your relief that I'm NOT going skydiving outweighs your desire to know why I'm singing in a karaoke bar, but seeing as how it's you, there's probably not much hope for that.

Seriously Hermione, I can't begin to express how grateful I am to you for what you've done for me these past weeks. That's why I didn't want to show you my list at first. I thought you'd turn me in to McGonagall for even thinking about pulling a prank in the Great Hall, or crashing a potions' class. I especially didn't think you'd go along with my wish to see Godric's Hollow, and I can't find the words to express to you how grateful I am that you stood by me through it, especially on my trip home. You've always been there for me, even helped me do these things that by rights should have been seen as crazy, so I can die happy. I want to thank you for that, and this is the best way I can think of to do it.

I know you're probably going to ask me where I learned to play the piano, so I'll tell you now. Mrs. Figg taught me a little bit when I was younger, and I've been practicing in the Room of Requirement all week so I don't screw this song up too horribly.

I can't express to you how grateful I am with just words.

But maybe words AND music would accomplish it better.

P.S. Look at the stage

Hermione raised her eyes from the letter, and saw Harry on the stage, sitting behind the piano, a microphone angled towards him. He nodded at Josephine, and she slipped a Galleon into the jukebox, smiling.

Harry looked at Hermione.

“This is for a very special lady, who I've never been able to thank properly for all that she's done for me.”

The jukebox clicked.

“Hermione Granger, this one's for you.”

He started playing. Hermione recognized the song as “Everything I do” by Brian Adams. Hermione was shocked. She had no idea Harry could play the piano, let alone sing.

And, boy, could he sing.

“Look into my eyes, you will see,

What… you mean to me.

Search your heart,

Search your soul,

When you find me there, you'll search no more.”

Hermione sat there, entranced. The combination of the jukebox harmony, the piano, and Harry's rich voice washed over her, filling her with a strange emotion that she had only begun to connect to Harry within the past few weeks, ever since he asked her to help him complete his wish list.

Love.

She remembered the feeling of safety she had felt when he held her outside the gate to Potter Manor, the urge she had to protect him from the world when they first arrived at Godric's Hollow, the feeling of completeness that had come over her as he sat with his head in her lap, the promise she had made herself, that he would never have to face the world alone, if she could help it.

“Don't tell me, it's not worth trying for

You can't tell me, it's not worth dying for.

You know it's true, everything I do,

I do it for you.”

Hermione felt tears pool in her eyes. Of course, she thought. How could I have been so stupid? How many times had Harry fought for her? Had risked death to keep her safe, had comforted her? How much had he done for her, over the years? How stupid was she to never think that maybe, just maybe, she could find more than friendship with him.

He wasn't looking at her, but rather at the keys, as if forcing himself to concentrate on his music, and not be distracted by anything else.

“Look into your heart, you will find,

There's nothing there to hide.

Take me as I am, take my life,

I would give it all, I would sacrifice.”

He's embarrassed, she realized. Well he shouldn't be. I know a lot of guys who would kill to be able to sing like that.

Without realizing what she was doing, she got to her feet and started walking towards the stage, her mouth forming the words to the song.

“Don't tell me, it's not worth fighting for,

I can't help it, there's nothing I want more.

You know it's true, everything I do,

I do it for you.

Oh yeah.”

It was only when Harry looked up at her that she realized she was standing in front of the piano. And what's more, she was singing with him.

“There's no love, like your love,

And no other, could give more love.

There's nowhere, unless you're there,

All the time, all the way, yeah.”

They both stopped singing, but Harry continued playing, no longer looking at the keys, but at Hermione's eyes, watching, waiting for her to pass judgment.

Hermione stood stock still. What now? Here she was, singing a VERY romantic song with her best friend, who only a minute ago she realized she had feelings for, and he was watching her, waiting for her to do something, anything…

But what?

Harry sang softly,

“Look into your heart baby,”

So she did.

And she found him there.

“Oh yeah,” she sang back, just as softly.

Harry smiled, a genuinely happy smile that she had not seen on his face for longer than she could remember, not when he took his bow in the Great Hall, not after seeing Draco Malfoy trying to get his wand out of a troll's stone nose, not when he had been surrounded by the people of Godric's Hollow. It was not borne of mischief, but joy, the sort of joy that could only be brought about by love.

He sang louder, barely managing to contain his ecstasy.

“Oh you can't tell me, it's not worth trying for.”

She sang back, tears spilling over her eyelids.

“I can't help it, there's nothing I want more.”

Harry's expression turned serious once more. He sang the last part of the song, looking directly into her eyes, piercing her soul.

And she remembered then, he might die.

“I would fight for you,

I'd lie for you,

Walk the wire for you,

Yeah, I'd die for you.”

He stopped, reaching out over the lid of the piano, touching the fingers of his right hand to her face, while his left continued playing.

“You know it's true, everything I do,

Oh,

I do it for you.”

She closed her eyes. He brought her face closer to his, and, ever so softly, their lips met.

A loud sniff broke them apart.

Josephine was standing behind the bar, holding a handkerchief to her face. When she realized they were staring at her, she stooped below the bar. “Don't mind me, you just carry on.” She said, sniffling.

Hermione turned back to Harry. He was smiling.

“Shall we take her advice?”

Hermione bolted.

-->

AN: Fine, if you want the conclusion that badly…

Some people have said that the karaoke was a little out of character, but that's exactly why it fit so well with the whole `wouldn't do if I was dying' reasoning. Some people really liked that though, and so this update is especially for them, especially because I didn't think I'd ever catch myself writing anything remotely song-fic- ish.

Chapter Ten : The Last Wish

Harry stood on the stage, dumbfounded.

What on earth had just happened?

Josephine cleared her throat.

“You know, just because she runs, doesn't mean she doesn't want you to follow her.” She said pointedly.

Harry ran out the door as if Voldemort was on his tail.

*

Hermione dropped to her knees beside the iced-over lake.

“Why?” She shouted at the sky. “Why is this happening? Why does he have to die?”

She bent her head and cried, her tears melting the snow around her hands.

“I love him so much,” she said. “I wish I had realized just how much before I knew about the prophecy, because then I might have had more time to tell him, to show him. But now, he could die, and I can't stop it. How do you do this to me, Harry?” She screamed. “How do you get me to break rules for you, when I won't do it for anyone else? How do you make me feel so important, so needed? How do you do this to me?”

She sat back on her heels, looking out over the lake.

“Why did you do this to me, Harry?”

“Do what?” a voice asked.

She turned.

There he was, standing not two feet behind her. She had not even heard him arrive. She thought he was still back in the pub. And, from the look on his face, it seemed he had been listening to her for quite some time.

“Why did you make me fall in love with you?” She asked, despair in her voice.

“I didn't mean to,” he said, staring at the ground. “I didn't mean to fall in love with you, it just happened. Maybe if I had been expecting it, I would have been able to stop myself, before I hurt you. But I never expected anyone to love me, and maybe that's why I wanted you to so badly.”

He turned away from her, looking out across the icy expanse of the lake.

“I've never had that before,” he said softly, looking up at the sky. “You and Ron have, most people do, at some point or other, not me.” He looked out across the grounds. “You've never had a day where you doubt that someone loves you. You always know, no matter how far away you are from your family, that you're never far from their thoughts, and they love you so much. You've always lived with the knowledge that people love you, care about you, who would risk everything to keep you safe. `What did it feel like?' I wondered.” His voice was almost a whisper now. He turned to her, a deep and abiding sadness in his eyes, that, she realized with a pang, had always been there, unnoticed by her or anyone else. He took a step towards her, a longing, hungry look stealing over his face. “I wanted to know so badly, I wanted to know what it feels like to be loved. When you asked to see my diary, and you saw my Wish List, I expected you to try and dissuade me from doing it.

“But you didn't. And not only that, you promised to help me complete it. When I went to bed that night we got back from Godric's Hollow, I decided that if I ever did love someone, if I was ever asked who the one person I could ever love was, I would say it was you. You probably think I'm selfish, telling you all of this now when it seems like it's too late for it to possibly make a difference. But I tell you, Hermione, the entire reason I made a Wish List was so I could die without regrets, and if I died without telling you how much I loved you, I would always regret it.”

He took a step closer to her. She could see the sincerity in his eyes as he told her this, she started to answer, but Harry raised a finger to her lips, a question in his eyes.

“What does it feel like Hermione? What does it mean to you to know that you are loved?” His voice dropped, he waited for her to answer.

She took his hand in hers. Stepping closer to him, she pulled him into an embrace. She inhaled deeply, concentrating on what she felt.

She raised her head and looked into his eyes.

“What do you feel?” she asked, softly.

“I don't know how to describe it. I only know that, if I had to die now, I couldn't think of anyplace I'd rather be, than here with you, your arms around me. I feel as if I could take on ten Voldemort's and win, if it meant I could be with you again afterwards.”

He raised her hand to his face, pressing her palm to his cheek. His skin was warm under her fingers.

“I would die with your hand in mine, clasped tightly to make it clear that we will not be separated. But most of all, Hermione, I want to live. I want to live to see you every day of my life, in a world where I don't have to worry about dying unexpectedly, on the whim of madman. I wish I could say that I thought I was going to win, I wish I could tell you that I'll be returning to you when the fight is over. But I can't. I have no reason, really, to live. I've done everything I've wanted to do before I die, I've even told you how I felt about you, but even that is not enough. I though that if I confessed my feelings to you, it would give me the reason I need to survive, but it hasn't.

“I know it's probably hard to believe, but I can't remember anyone telling me they loved me, not as long as I've lived. I know my parents must have said it, but I can't remember that. My last wish was Find Love. Not necessarily romantic love, but I want someone to tell me they love me, so I can die knowing I was loved, in this life.”

Hermione felt like crying. She couldn't imagine living without her parents telling her they loved her, at least once a day, at the end of every letter they sent, the last words they spoke to her at night. How could Harry have survived, never having heard someone tell him that?

Harry was still looking at her, a pleading look on his face. “Say it Hermione. Say it and mean it.”

He pulled her closer, his breath tickling her face.

“So I can remember,” he whispered.

“I love you,” she said, tears coursing down her face. He closed his eyes, drawing back slightly, a smile spreading across his lips, as if he had never heard anything so wonderful in his life.

She raised her other hand to his face, pulling him closer. He opened his eyes to find hers inches from his own.

“I love you so much, Harry.” She sobbed, closing the gap and kissing him tenderly.

Several minutes later, they broke apart, gasping for breath. Hermione laid her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat as he held her tightly, running his fingers through her hair.

Harry was first to break the silence.

“I'm not going to die,” he said simply.

Hermione looked up at him. He smiled down at her and said,

“After that, how could I possibly lose?”

*

Later that evening, Harry and Hermione walked through Hogsmeade, Harry's trenchcoat draped over both of them. They had returned to Josephine's bar to retrieve Harry's backpack and pay the bill. Josephine had smiled and winked at them a lot, and they left the pub blushing as she called, “Let me know when the wedding is! I'll let you have your reception here for free!”

Hermione kissed Harry's cheek, and said, “So, what was in your backpack?”

Harry laughed. “Just something I'd need if I chickened out of singing.”

“What is it?” She asked.

Harry removed the backpack and handed it to her. Grabbing her suddenly, he kissed her full on the mouth, and said, “See for yourself.” before tearing off down the street as if You-Know-Who was hot on his tail.

Still dazed from the kiss, Hermione opened the backpack with fingers stiff from the cold. She looked inside, not realizing at first, but then she gave a shriek of laughter and tore off down the street after Harry.

Inside the backpack was a skydiving parachute.

-->

AN: So many people have reviewed under the impression that the story is OVER that I decided to break my rule and update early in the morning. So THIS is the ENDING, not chapter ten.

Enjoy my somewhat short conclusion.

Chapter 11: I could not ask for more

Or, Epilogue

*

Hermione Potter stood at the window in the living room at Potter Manor. Her husband was upstairs, still asleep. She smiled as she remembered how she had left him a few minutes ago, lying on his side, his fingers wrapped inside the hand of their baby son. Sirius James Potter had come down with colic, and Harry had not wanted to leave him in the nursery all by himself. Hermione said Sirius would be fine, but knew better than to try and argue with Harry. He was very protective of their son, and, if truth be told, a little in awe of him. She would often catch Harry rocking little Sirius, staring at his face in wonder, as if he had never seen, or hoped for, anything quite so wonderful.

She took a sip of her tea and sank into the rocking chair that had once been Harry's mothers, but was now hers. She remembered vividly a scene from several years ago, when she had stroked Harry's hair as he sat with his head in her lap, when he had returned here in sixth year.

Then, he had been trying to find a way to leave this world without regrets. Now, he was happier than he had ever been, remaining in it.

For which she could not be more grateful.

She remembered that night, almost three years ago now, when Voldemort had kidnapped her, intending to force Harry to stand down if he didn't want her killed. She remembered the fear before Harry had arrived, fear that she would never see him again, and a small part of her wished she could stop loving him, could hate him for being the cause of this.

But only a small part, which she quickly silenced.

She knew then, that even if she died that night, that Harry would always know she had loved him, and that would be enough for her.

But neither she nor Harry died that night. The only one who died was someone who should have been killed years before. Tom Riddle had left this world cursing Harry's name, while Hermione knelt beside her fallen lover, trying to find the heartbeat in his neck, and felt her own heart stop when she couldn't feel it at first.

But then Harry took a breath, and Hermione knew she would never hear a sound so wonderful again in her life.

And she didn't, although she had to admit that Harry saying “I do” came pretty darn close.

She had worn Harry's mother's wedding dress, to save money, and because her own mother's dress was so plain in comparison, and because she could not have found anything better in a store. She had also worn a pair of glass shoes, which, despite being lovely and fitting well, hurt her feet after several hours.

Although, Harry pointed out as he took them off her aching feet later that night, he had a feeling they were probably designed for that.

Now Voldemort was dead, Harry was a hero, they were married, and Harry at last had a family.

A loud knocking interrupted her thoughts, and she went to answer the front door.

It was Sean, with his weekly load of firewood for the living room hearth.

“Good morning, missus. How's the little pit doing?”

Hermione smiled as she led Sean into the living room. Sean had nicknamed Sirius the `bottomless pit' because no matter how much he was fed, he always seemed to have room for more. Not that Sean had any real reason to complain, as this guaranteed there would never be leftovers at the Potter's house, and therefore a continuous need for his services. Even if Sirius couldn't finish everything by himself, Harry and Sirius together could.

“He's fine, just a little colicky. Harry let him stay in our bed last night. I think he's inherited Harry's mouth though, he's always burping up stuff.”

Sean laughed. “Well, he had to get something from his father, Sirius ended up with your hair, so I think it all evens out.”

“Unless you take into account that he has Harry's eyes.”

A deep male voice interrupted. “But he has your adorable little pout, if you want to get technical.”

Hermione turned to face the newcomer.

“Well, look who's finally decided to grace us with his presence.” She said, grinning slyly at her husband.

Harry, dressed in a dark red bathrobe, was holding Sirius over his shoulder, while Sirius nibbled on his dad's hair. Harry winced.

“I'll go bald before my time if he keeps doing that.”

Hermione took the baby from him and carried Sirius to the rocking chair. She pulled a bottle from the pocket of her own robe and gave it to Sirius, who sucked at it greedily.

Sean turned to leave. “I'll see you at dinner.”

“Don't forget the trifle.” Harry called to him, his eyes on his wife and son.

Harry stood in the doorway for several minutes after that, watching.

How different it was from when he came here years ago, looking to make his life complete before he died. He realized now how naïve he had been, to think that his life could possibly have been complete without this, his family. The girl, now a woman, whom he had known since he was eleven, was now his wife. His son, with the curly brown hair of his mother, and the emerald eyes of his father and grandmother, they were the most important things in his life, and he knew he would not trade them for anything.

Hermione, realizing she was being watched, looked up.

“Is something wrong?”

“No,” Harry answered immediately. “Everything's perfect.”

“Oh really?” she sounded skeptical. “Nothing missing? Everything just as it should be?”

He realized she was teasing him, but he answered seriously.

“Believe me, love, when I tell you this, because it is the one truth I have that makes my life perfect. I could not wish for more than what I have,” he walked closer until he was standing behind the rocking chair, looking down at his son, and Hermione's face tilted up to him.

“And I could not ask for more than what you've given me.”

FIN

-->