Lucky You by Bowles

Rating: PG13
Genres: Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 15/06/2005
Last Updated: 15/06/2005
Status: Completed

It takes the death of a loved one, a secret party, and a long talk with his best friend for
Harry to realize how lucky he is, but in the end, he finds that all he needs is someone to lean on
every now and then.




1. Lucky You
------------



**Disclaimer:** Not mine, don't sue.


**Lucky You**




Life didn't deal you the best hand of cards. True, you were born into a wealthy family, and
your mother and father were some of the greatest witches and wizards of their generation, but you
only had one year with them. Then, luck turned for the worse.


Lord Voldemort decided you were the one who could threaten him, not the pureblood son the most
famous Aurors of the age. You, the half-blood baby with too much hair for his own head. Of course,
you wouldn't wish your fate on anyone. At least, that's what you always tell
yourself.


But all things aside, you had some pretty shaky rolls of the dice. By Voldemort's own stupidity
(and your mother's love, of course) you survived your first encounter, and thus the prophecy
was thrust onto your shoulders. Your genius future headmaster decided to send you to your
wizard-hating Muggle aunt and uncle. You'd be safe there, he decided.


Safe obviously meant you had to be a punching bag for your obese whale of a cousin, but hey, it was
better than the Killing Curse. And so were the letters that attacked your living room that one
summer.


But then, you were sent to Hogwarts. You were with people like you - well, not like *you*. You
were a special case. And you made friends, friends you'd always dreamed of. True, they had
their faults, but who didn't?


And you survived again against Voldemort, but again only because of your mother's love, that
lingering protection. Imagine the taunts you would have heard if Malfoy had come to know this.
Mommy dearest coming to Harry's rescue, straight from the grave.


The next year, you faced a crazy house elf, an incompetent professor, and a basilisk, not to
mention dear old Tom Riddle once more. But you would win again. In a matter of speaking.


Another year passed, and you met your godfather, the escaped convict. You freed him, and it felt
glorious, even though that mouse Pettigrew escaped. That was a pesky inconvenience, it was.


Your fourth year proved more dangerous. A Triwizard Tournament, a minion of Voldemort teaching you,
and a quarrel with your best friend all occurred that year. But no worries: Voldemort would return,
and you would escape. Of course, Cedric died along the way. That cost you many good nights'
sleep.


And then, year five. Everything came full circle, and you came to realize why Voldemort wanted you.
Suddenly, you didn't want to know, though. And Sirius had to go and get himself killed,
too.


Luck just wasn't on your side.



**-**





*Why won't it rain?*


It was dry (again) in Little Whinging, and the already poor atmosphere of Number Four, Privet Drive
certainly didn't help matters. It should rain. You want it to rain.


He won't be recognized, ever, except for a select few. People remember what you did as a
worthless baby. But no one will remember him, except for you and the Order. He'll be a distant
memory, the insane psychopath murderer feared by the wizarding world. He'll be a ghost.


It's not fair, but then again, when has life ever been fair? Not when Voldemort killed your
parents. Not when you were stuck with relatives who loathed you. Not when your cousin beat you up
every day. Not all of those times you faced Voldemort again.


You'd been an okay person, you think. You didn't deserve this.


The fact is, no one deserved this.


Not Ron, not Hermione, not Dumbledore, not the Dursleys, not Voldemort - alright, maybe Voldemort
did. That much you'll concede. But it just wasn't fair.


You poke at the food Aunt Petunia slid under your door timidly, still not taking a bite. You'd
only been here a week and a half, and already the Privet Drive blues were upon you. Maybe someone
would come and take you far away. Maybe Sirius would come, come back to get you to live with him
like he'd promised.


Fat chance.


There's a rapping at the door, but you don't budge an inch. So far, you'd seen a
minimal amount of Aunt Petunia's horse-like features or Dudley's great blob of a body, and
that's how you liked it. You were perfectly content to not see them at all, and in fact, you
even lower your head a bit behind your bed, just in case they were to peek through a crack in the
doorway.


“Harry?”


Wait a minute- huh? You may be out of it, but that is *definitely* not the voice of a Dursley.
Maybe some gillyweed had gotten in your food, no doubt from one of Dobby's attempts to save
you.


“Harry?”


Nope, definitely not the Dursleys. None of them are that persistent.


The door creaks open, and you can hear someone - actually, maybe two someones, judging from the
shuffling around in the hall - put their foot in the room carefully. They tread across the floor to
where you're sitting, but you don't look up. Actually, you're a bit annoyed they saw
you. Must be your hair sticking up. Stupid hair.


One of the someones sits down beside you while the other stands at the foot of your bed. Out of the
corner of your eye, you can see a bush of brown. Hm, wonder who that could be?


“Hermione,” you reply softly. “And Ron, too.”


You don't even have to look to realize that it's your two best friends in your room.
Normally, this would cheer you up, but you still wish it would rain. Then maybe everybody
wouldn't be so damn chipper.


The bush sways a bit as Hermione brings her knees to her chest, coiling into a tight ball. “How are
you doing?”


You glare daggers at the floor, as if that would teach her not to ask you how you're doing.
“Brilliant, actually. Sirius died, Cedric's been dead for a year, and Lord What's-His-Face
has sent all of his goons after me like I'm the Holy Grail. I guess it's better than
staying at the Dursleys' all summer. No, hold on, I do that already.”


You're a bit surprised you can even be so sarcastic when you'd prefer to crawl under your
bed and live with the dust bunnies. That or cease to exist. Either would be nice.


“That sounds fun,” Ron says a bit awkwardly from the bed.


“Trust me, it is. I've already had offers from six people to switch lives with me, but two of
them were the Creevey brothers, and I'm not sure if they count.”


Really, you are pleased with the way you've handled the situation. Lack of temper tantrums?
Check. No crying? Check. Scathing, witty remarks? Double-check. Advantage: Harry.


“I know you've had a rough summer,” Hermione begins, and you promptly stop listening. It looks
like those History of Magic lessons paid off in the long run. You don't want to hear her
sympathy. You don't want to hear anything. Funny thing is, you miss them when they're gone.
Maybe you should see a shrink.


“…Head on and get over it as soon as possible,” Hermione finishes. She glances at you wisely.
“Harry, were you listening.”


You keep your best straight face. “Absolutely not.”


Well, at least you're honest.


She sighs. “Well, at least you're honest.” You smile a bit, glad that the two of you are on the
same page. “But it would be a lot easier if you would try. I know I am.”


“Sometimes trying just doesn't cut it.”


You don't know why you said it. The words come out of your mouth, and for the first time in
what seems like forever, your heart is speaking, not your head. And Hermione and Ron understand
that.


“No, I guess it doesn't,” Ron agrees solemnly. “But that's why we're still here. To try
again.”


His words make sense. You don't really want them to for some odd reason, but they do. It's
just sense speaking now.


“We've already alerted your aunt and uncle that you're leaving,” Hermione says, standing
up. You can imagine what the alerting must've looked like, whether it was Floo powder or owl
mail or some other wizarding contraption, and the weight on your shoulders decreases a bit. “I see
you still haven't unpacked - ” she says this a bit irritably “ - so it should be easy getting
your stuff.”


She offers you a hand up, and you take it. You don't know where you're going; for all you
know, you could be going to Grimmauld Place, the Burrow, anywhere. Or you could just simply go
wherever the wind takes you.


And frankly, right now, that's fine with you.


**-**




The corridor is dark, illuminated only by the poor amount of light a torch gives off from the
corner. Hermione checks her watch one more time - an action that becomes almost as difficult as
moving a mountain under the small cloak - and makes a disapproving noise to herself. “Almost three
o'clock.”


Her words are whispered, but all of the students not fortunate enough to have an Invisibility Cloak
groan around you, having heard them loud and clear in the silence of the early morning. They're
tucked away in the corners of the hall, as they think you are, but luckily for you, you have the
cloak. You give your dad a little “thank you” in your mind and attempt to become more comfortable
in the confines of the cloth.


Finally, the door opens so that a sliver of light pours out from a lamp. “Any stragglers?”


“No,” comes a voice from a far wall. “Now let us in, you arse.”


“Fine.” The door opens completely and the lamp is covered as a large, mostly invisible group files
into the room, as do you and your accomplices.


The door shuts quickly and the cover is thrown from the lamp, revealing a tall young man with a
full set of shiny white teeth grinning at the entire group. With a dramatic bow, he acknowledges
the group. “I am Joshua Constable, or as those before me have been known, the Lamplighter.”


“What the hell?” Ron breathes out instantly.


“Good point, whoever that was,” Constable, or the Lamplighter, says. “I can't see you, so
I'm trusting that you're either behind a bookcase or appropriately hidden, but it's
very valid. All of you are here for one simple reason, but only half of you know what that is. What
is odd about this group?” His eyes dart around to the eldest members of the group. “No cheating,
seventh years.”


Finally, Ernie Macmillan speaks up. “We're all sixth and seventh years.”


“There we go.” Constable/the Lamplighter brings his hand to his mouth and coughs. “I suppose it is
time that I tell you of the great responsibility you must all come to bear.”


“It all started back in the early 1800's, or at least that is how it is told. An intelligent
seventh year, referred to in our ancient texts as the Torch, began a tradition that has lasted for
nearly two centuries. On the day before Christmas Eve, December 23rd for all you idiots in the
crowd, a party would be held for the upper students of Hogwarts. It would be open for all houses,
for the Torch did not believe in such segregation.”


“Then why is it only open to sixth and seventh years?” someone pipes up.


Constable/the Lamplighter shoots them a dirty look. “Because with great responsibility comes great
power, or something to that effect. Now shut up.”


“Anyway, the event planner would always be a seventh year (or in last year's case, two twins)
who would be known as the Lamplighter when talked about during conversations pertaining to the
party, or the Congregation. Everyone else would be known as the Followers, and so it has been done
for ages. Of course, there are the Wickers and the Waxers and the Candle-Burners, also, but
that's something we can talk about some other time.”


He stares out among the group and looks over all of you as if peering into your souls. “You do not
have to go to the Congregation if you do not wish to, but I must insist that you do not tell a soul
about it even if you do not attend. The Torch was a very powerful wizard and has several protective
charms over the party to keep its integrity, and I trust none of you will trifle with his
magic.”


The Lamplighter grins and backs into the corner of the room. “That is all. Good night.”


The lamp goes out and everything becomes dark, and just like that, the meeting never took
place.


**-**





It's cold. Very cold. The snow sticks to your boots stubbornly as you creep through the field,
the sun waning behind you. The Invisibility Cloak is not with you at the moment, as you have
decided that it will be no use. After all, your footprints in the snow will be visible
anyway.


Hermione coughs beside you. “I think that's it.”


She's pointing to a small shack, and Ron gives her an odd look. “Seriously? It's
tiny.”


“Maybe on the outside it is,” you suggest, very happy with yourself that you have even thought of
this possibility. “But it could be larger on the inside.”


“Oh. Like those tents at the Quidditch World Cup.”


“Yeah, basically.”


Hermione sighs and sticks one foot up onto the steps leading to the shack. “Might as well not waste
our time,” she says.


You follow her up the steps and through the poorly shoveled walkway to the front door, which
appears to be off one hinge. You pat the Marauder's Map in your pocket for comfort; somehow,
knowing that the Marauders are with you in spirit makes the burden on your shoulders a lot less
lighter.


A sharp knocking is heard as Hermione raps her fingers against the door. Finally, after what
must've been ages, someone answers. It's Seamus.


He grins. “Come on in, guys. The party's already begun.”




**-**





You are in a corner of the large living room, tucked away in the back near the food and drink so
that you see everybody but aren't constantly badgered by them. After all, you're not much
of a party person.


“Hello, Harry,” Dean greets you as he pours himself some punch. He lifts the cup to his nose and
sniffs it suspiciously. “It's spiked.”


“That's not good.”


Dean shrugs. “Oh well. Might as well have a good time. It would be rude to the Wickers and Waxers
(and the Candle-Burners, also) to not enjoy this. They worked way too hard.”


You struggle to remember who the Wickers and the Waxers (and the Candle-Burners, too) are as he
downs the drink swiftly. He cringes and drops the cup onto the ground. “Ah, it's laced with
firewhisky. Wasn't expecting that.”


Something - or someone, rather - tugs at his arm. Flickers of red bob against his arm, and your
mouth drops open.


“Ginny?”


She gives you an admonishing look. “Yes, that is my name.”



“But- but- ” you start in disbelief. “She's a fifth year, Dean! She's not *allowed*
here, Dean! It's tradition, it's honor, it's - ”


“Hell if I leave her behind,” Dean whispers so that Ginny can't hear him. “Honestly, the
woman's so clued into what's going on, she's practically a living, breathing replica of
Rita Skeeter. If I didn't bring her to this… well, let's just say that Ron would not have
to worry about me getting anywhere close to his little sister.”


Based upon the ardent glare Ginny is currently throwing at you, you decide this information is most
likely true. “Oh. Hold on, you two aren't sleep-”


“Hello, Harry,” states Hermione from behind you. She picks up a cookie and takes a bite out of it
nonchalantly. “Who were you talking to?”


You turn around quickly to point to Dean and Ginny but they're gone into the bustle of the
Congregation, and you shake your head. “Nobody,” you answer. “Just wondering aloud.”


“What were you wondering?” she asks. You stop. This hadn't occurred to you, to think of another
lie to back your first lie.


“Er… Galleons.”


Galleons? Were you serious? With such a random, pointless thought process, how on Earth had you
passed any class in your life? Yes, you were wondering about galleons. That makes perfect
sense.



“Galleons?” Hermione says doubtfully, echoing your thoughts. “What about them?”



“Uh…”


You've got about three seconds to think of something to back that up. Hopefully, your quick wit
won't let you down.


“They're pretty.”


Well, you tried.


“Oh.” Hermione looks as if she doesn't know what to say. *Welcome to my world*, you think
to yourself.


“Yeah,” you continue, now just trying to buy time until someone else can cause a distraction.
“They're pretty. You never really think about it, but I guess we all just take for granted the
design of our money.”


“Uh-huh.”


And just like that, when you can think of no more empty words to say to hold off the inevitable
`you're a liar, Harry James Potter' tirade, a miracle happens (in some shape or form). Your
distraction arrives, right on time, too.


And even better? It's Ron.


Better than that?


Well…


It's a drunken Ron.


Now, normally, such a situation would not be ideal. But with Ron being intoxicated in every sense
of the word, this actually is a very good thing. Hermione will forget all about your musing of
galleons and will instead be so concerned/infuriated with Ron. Also, Dean and Ginny will escape,
and even if Ron does see them, it's not like he could do anything. Hell, he could walk in on
Dean and Ginny doing… some things… and not know a thing (although that didn't make any sense at
all). Only three words could describe it, so you feel it is your duty to say them aloud.


“Whoa, you're wasted.”


It sounds American, and very pop culture-ish indeed, but it fits perfectly.


Hermione's eyes dart to you irritably and you shut your mouth. Any less and she is sure to bite
off your head, as she is rumored to have done to many unwary students that have interrupted her
study time.


“Ron,” Hermione says through gritted teeth, “are you drunk?”


Ron blinks. “No.” He loses his balance and falls against you, almost taking you down onto the
weathered floor beneath you. “Okay, maybe a little, teensy bit.”


Hermione's nose flares and you swallow the lump in your throat nervously; the calm has passed,
and now the storm is coming at full speed towards your location. Well, this is just great.


“*Ronald Bilius Weasley*!”


It's a dead-on impression of Mrs. Weasley, and Hermione didn't even mean it to be so.


“I can't believe that you have the nerve to go and- to go and get yourself intoxicated!” she
exclaims angrily.


Ron looks at her with lazy eyes. “I just had a little firewhisky, Herm-own-ninny.”


“Firewhisky?” *Alert the townsfolk*, you think. *Hurricane Hermione is at full force*.
“You were drinking? You're not old enough to drink! Are you insane?”


“It's all in the name of fun,” Ron argues.


Holy shit. What an idiot.


“All in the name of fun?” Hermione is exasperated. Any moment now fire should be coming from her
mouth, and a new dragon species will be created. “It's against the rules, you git! You are not
allowed - ”


She stops mid-sentence. “Luna!”


The blonde looks up at the three of you, dreamy appearance firmly in place. “Why, hello Hermione,
Harry.” She nods towards Ron and smiles a bit. “Ronald.”


“Did you know the Patils are twins?” Ron asks suddenly.


“What are you doing here?” inquires Hermione. She completely ignores Ron, deeming his question far
too stupid for any human to answer. “You're a fifth year!”


“Ginny told me all about the party and we decided to come.” Luna pokes a suspicious-looking
appetizer with caution. “Watch out, Ronald, these are some of your brothers' Putrid Pastries.”
She looks back to Hermione. “Don't worry, we didn't tell anyone else.”


“Who told you?”


Luna never gets a chance to answer, however, for Ron makes an unexpected statement.


“I must really be drunk, 'cause I really want to snog you right now.”


He leans over abruptly and does just that, and Luna looks surprised, but returns the favor
nonetheless. You nudge Hermione in the ribs and grin at her. “Come on,” you say. “Let's find
some politer company.”


She glances one more time at the unlikely pair before smiling back at you, previous quarrel
forgotten, and following you away from the two. After all, even a drunkard needs his privacy.


Even if he shares his privacy with a crazy girl.



**-**





The party ends in the wee hours of the morning. Afterwards, you and Hermione make your way back to
the Gryffindor Common Room with the aid of the Marauder's Map, although you do have a brief
run-in with Peeves, but Nearly-Headless Nick helps you out of that jam by drawing Peeves away. You
make a mental note to thank him later.


The two of you never were able to find Ron after you left him, and according to others, he and Luna
disappeared shortly after you last saw him. Dean and Ginny left before you, for you warned Dean of
Hermione's wrath, and from all indications, arrived to their dormitories safely.


The fire is still going in the Common Room, and Hermione sighs tiredly. “We'd better get to
bed. It's already Christmas Eve.”


“Yeah,” you agree. However, the two of you linger at the bottom of the stairs for a few moments, as
if there was still some unfinished business that needed to be taken care of. “Good party.”


Hermione nods. “Yes, it was.” She doesn't say anything before quickly walking over to you and
pecking you on the cheek. “I had fun. Thanks for keeping me company.”


She hurries off up the stairs to the girls' dormitory before you can even say another word, and
your hand travels up to your cheek impulsively. You lower it, shake your head, and walk up the
stairs to your dormitory in somewhat of a daze. Dean is fast asleep in his bed, although you could
have sworn you saw him give you a discreet thumbs-up sign, and you fall into your
four-poster.


You aren't able to get to sleep for some time, but when you do, your cheek is still warm and
moist, and this you do not forget.



**-**





You're sitting in the Common Room around noon when Ron stumbles down the stairs. He looks
terrible: his hair is astray, his clothes are wrinkled, and he appears sick to boot. The situation
is quite clear.


He has a hangover.


“Good morning, Ron,” you greet him with a blissful voice. You find this all quite amusing.


He glares at you. “G'mornin',” he mumbles back. He adds something that sound violent and
certainly not acceptable in a school atmosphere after that, but his words are low and
incoherent.


Hermione, who is sitting in the chair to your right, looks up at him with a smug look. “Well, I see
you're a bit under the weather. Do you think this could have to do with your choices - ” she
says this word with barely hidden venom “ - last night?”


Ron shoots her a glare as well, and she looks quite pleased with herself. You chuckle and return to
the copy of *Quidditch Through the Ages*in your lap, even though you've read through the
book so many times the binding has worn out.


The portrait hole swivels open and if it weren't for the indignant “hmph” that comes from the
general direction of the entrance to the room, you wouldn't have been concerned. However, that
voice is familiar.


“Hello, Professor McGonagall,” says Hermione, but your head had already spun to the side towards
your Head of House. She nods in response to Hermione, who is said to be her favorite student.
Fortunately, no one else knows of her promise to help you become an Auror even if it's, in her
terms, “the last thing I do!” You can just imagine the rumors that would be swirling around the
school.


“Mr. Potter,” states McGonagall briskly. “Just the person I needed to see. Concerning your recent
project over the effects of mistransf-”


She stops. Her eyes are looking far away, and she is cringing slightly. Without warning, she whirls
to face Ron.


“Mr. Weasley,” she says through gritted teeth, “is that alcohol I smell?”


Ron's face is blank. “Uh…”


“Mr. Weasley!”


Before you know it, the Transfiguration professor has grabbed Ron by the arm and dragged him out of
the Common Room and into the corridor, ranting about “minors trying to grow up too fast”,
“detention”, and something that sounded like, “on Christmas Eve, too!”


You look over at Hermione and wince.


“Ouch.”




**-**





You're still reading *Quidditch Through the Ages* a few hours later. Neville and Dean are
now playing chess over in a corner of the Common Room as the Creevey brothers let out low
*ooh's* and ah's whenever they feel it adds a dramatic flair to the situation. Ginny
has been flying around the Common Room ever since she woke up, which was only an hour or so ago,
and is currently trying to convince the girls in her dormitory to have a pillow fight, or at least
that is what she said she was going to do. Dean said he wouldn't want to come to that fight
unless the girls would wear no more than their underwear (bra optional) or swimsuit (top optional).
To everyone's surprise, Ginny just let out a hearty laugh and kissed him.


Hermione retired to her own little corner of the Common Room a while ago. She's studying, of
course, even during the holidays. That's just Hermione.


“Mr. Potter?”


It's McGonagall again, although you were so distracted you didn't even hear the portrait
hole open this time. She looks a little calmer than she had when apprehending Ron, which must
certainly be a good thing.


“Yes, Professor?” you respond. Hopefully you won't upset her.


“Professor Dumbledore requests your presence.”


She leaves via the hole directly after saying this, as if the message needs no more commentary, and
you are left with a blank face. Why would Dumbledore want to see you?


You shrug and put down your book as if in a daze, which you might just be in. Making sure that you
put your school robe on over your pajamas, you crawl through the portrait hole and into the
corridor. You look to each side like a Muggle before crossing the street and then hurry off in the
direction of Dumbledore's office.


You're thinking of why he wants to see you or what you could have possibly done wrong when you
arrive outside the gargoyle far too soon for your tastes. It is now that you realize you don't
know the password, and that you have that pink pair of slippers that were once Dudley's on your
feet, and you can only hope that Dumbledore will open the entrance for you.


The gargoyle leaps to the side suddenly and beckons you to enter the doorway. You smile to
yourself.


Wish granted.


You enter the doorway and ascend the moving staircase, but again, the time passes far too quickly
for your liking and you are at the door to his office. You are about to use the silver griffin
knocker, which you have always admired, when the door opens. Dumbledore is sitting at his desk with
a patient smile, and you wonder silently how on earth he did that.


“Please sit, Harry.”


You oblige and take a seat in the comfy leather chair opposite him, still wondering silently,
although this time it is why you don't come up here often just to sit in this chair. Well, you
could steal the chair also, but that might get you into a spot of trouble. Disregarding that and
moving onto other matters of business, you notice Fawkes is in his cage behind Dumbledore, who is
still bearing that same smile.


“Have you had a good holiday?”


You wonder silently once more, now curious as to why he cares about your holiday. “Yes,
Professor.”


“Very well,” the headmaster says. Is that smile nailed onto his face? “You may be wondering why I
called you up here.”


*You just read my mind*, you think. “Kind of.”


He prods one of the many instruments on his desk - you remember with a considerable degree of guilt
of how you destroyed a good amount of his items, and how collected he had been while you had done
so - before looking back to you. “I was wanting to know how you have been doing. Have you had any
dreams, nightmares; anything of the sort?”


“No,” you say, shaking your head. “Not that I remember.”


“That is good.” He prods the instrument once more, and your eyes drift to the cabinet that holds
the Pensieve, remembering how the form of Trelawney had floated out of it and changed your life
forever. “How are you holding up?”


You know exactly what this means: *are you still guilty about Sirius's death*?


“I'm doing alright.”


“Good,” he replies, and he is sincere. You can tell by his eyes: they do not waver. They are firm
and resolute, and you only wish you could have his honesty. “I heard of Mr. Weasley's `walk on
the wild side', as they call it these days.”


You nod. “Yeah. Got in a load of trouble from McGonagall about that one.”


“Professor McGonagall,” he corrects you, and you are reminded of how he did the same thing at the
end of last year when you referred to Snape as, uh, “Snape”.


“Professor McGonagall, I mean.” You respect her, but not Snape. Never will you respect Snape.


“That's better. I am curious as to where he got his drink?” There is a twinkle in
Dumbledore's eyes that you never would have expected. He is tired from the war and one of his
students was caught drinking, but he still had that twinkle in his eyes. Dumbledore is just too
cool. “It is quite a quandary.”


“I'm curious too, Professor.”


He smiles and nods. “Well, Harry, that is all. It seems you are doing well, which is good. You may
return to your friends, who are no doubt very anxious about how much trouble you have gotten
yourself into.”


You nod back, stand, and make a move for the door. Just as you are about to close it behind you,
Dumbledore stops you.


“Oh, and Harry?”


“Yes?” you say.


The twinkle is even brighter now. “Send Jonathan Constable my regards.”


At first, you are shocked, but then you smile back. “Of course, Professor.”


As you close the door, you can barely hear him chuckle to himself.


“The Torch is quite pleased. He's made me proud.”



**-**




“I claim this fort in the name of - ” Ginny thinks for a few seconds before continuing “ - in the
name of us!” She looks at Dean. “Hold on, do we have a team name?”


He shakes his head. “Not that I know of.”


Their conversation is cut short when a snowball hits Ginny in the mouth, and she falls from the
snow fort. “Not while I'm still standing, you aren't!”


Neville charges towards Dean with tremendous force, and Dean, who is too surprised to do anything,
falls over helplessly as another snowball hits him between the eyes. Neville smirks and leans
towards him.


“Ha! That's exactly what I thou- *oof*.”


Seamus hits him with not one but four of the snowy spheres, his wand pointed high. “Ha
yourself.”


However, he is not expecting someone to grab him by the waist and tackle him into the ground. He is
caught off guard even more when that someone is not a person.


The snowman you charmed to take him down crumbles into pieces as the two hit the snow, but his
purpose has been fulfilled. He has defended your fort, and now, no one is left to defend
theirs.


“I claim this fort in the name of Dumbledore's Army!” you declare.


Ginny's head snaps upward. “Is that seriously your name? That's stupid, unoriginal,
completely a copy of everything we established when - ”


“Quiet, woman!” Neville exclaims in an attempted powerful, overbearing voice. The last time
you'd seen him this riled up was the Department of Mysteries, but it still hurts to think about
that. Neville does seem to have developed a competitive spirit, though. “You are now the loser, and
therefore, you must be silent and let us mock you until you either buy us candy from Zonko's or
get us something equally good for Christmas!”


You nod. “Hear, hear!”


Ginny rolls her eyes at the two of you and gets to her feet. She wipes the snow from her body
quickly and professionally before helping Dean stand also. “Whatever. The sun's about to set,
anyway, so we should probably get inside.”


“Yeah,” says Dean as he puts an arm around her waist in as sly a manner as he can. “I think
we're going to call it a day.”


Seamus and Neville, who appears to have calmed down after his recent outburst, murmur their
agreement and begin to follow the two back to the castle, but Neville stops. “Are you coming,
Harry?”


You look from Neville to Hermione, who is reading a book over away from the previous carnage, and
shake your head. “No,” you reply. “I think I'll stay for a little while.”


He notices you looking at Hermione and grins at you one last time before nodding and turning to
catch up with the others. You decide to ignore his grin, seeing as you have no idea why he grinned,
and instead walk over to Hermione, who still hasn't noticed the end of the snow-battle.


Her back is pressed against the wall, the school's structure being her makeshift seat, and she
doesn't acknowledge you as you approach her. You plop down next to her and put your head over
her shoulder.


“What're you reading?”


She is startled by your question and looks at you as if you'd just sprouted an extra head.
“Oh,” she says softly, “hello, Harry.”


Your faces are only inches apart. You can feel her breath on you, and how it has rapidly
increased.


“Hello. You didn't answer my question.”


She sighs and closes her book. “It's a brief history of runes.”


“For class?”


“Actually, no. I just wanted to do some follow-up work.”


You cluck at her disapprovingly. “Hermione, Hermione, Hermione. Sirius would be
disappointed.”


You stop, just realizing what you have said, and her eyes widen. It's been a long while since
you've mentioned Sirius to anyone, and even when you did, it had been serious. It hadn't
been as a joke. Sirius was more than a joke to you.


After a few seconds, Hermione gets to her feet. “Come on,” she says, offering you a hand as Ginny
had to Dean. “Let's talk.”


Without any hesitation, you grab her hand and let her lead you over to the snow fort you and
Neville had made. You do not question her. You trust her completely, something you haven't
always done, but a few things have taught you otherwise, one of them being her viewpoint on your
vision of Sirius at the end of fifth year. She had been right, and you had been wrong. If you had
listened to her, Sirius would still be alive.


She lies down against the hill-like fort and you follow her lead. She smiles and looks over at
you.


“Have you ever just watched the Sun set?”


You blink. This was not what you were expecting. She wasn't probing your emotions and giving
you a complete psychological analysis. “No.”


“I used to,” Hermione continues, “but now I don't ever feel like I have the time. But it's
nice, really, just watching it set. The Sun is constant. It will always be there to wake us up and
be there to send us to sleep, as long as we live. It won't go away.”


You understand what she means, surprisingly, and the realization hits you like a runaway train. The
sunset is something you can grab onto, something permanent. Her words make perfect sense.


“Yeah.”


She flashes you another smile and her hand creeps towards yours. Her fingers intertwine with yours
delicately, and you turn your face to the side in a vain attempt to hide your blush. She giggles
beside you, and you blush even more. Her hands are warm, far too warm, and you can feel all that
heat rising to your face…


“Do you want to talk about it?” she finally asks, and you're almost glad for the topic, just to
divert the attention from your embarrassment.


You're about to say no when you change your mind. This is Hermione. She'll understand.
She's not a teacher, like Dumbledore, or someone who has little to no knowledge of emotions,
like Ron. She's Hermione.


“Sure, I guess.” Your words are reluctant, but you're determined to talk this time. You
won't screw this one up.


Hermione shifts her weight and the snow crunches beneath her. “Well… does it still… hurt?”


You know what she means. Of course it still hurts. She wants to know if it *hurts*, if every
part of you rings in pain at the mentioning of Sirius. You shake your head. “It's getting
better, but it still hurts,” you reply. Her statement reminds you of what Dumbledore had said just
hours before.


“I can imagine,” she says. *No, you can't*, you want to say, but she says it for you.
“Actually, I can't. Sirius was far closer to you than he was to me, but I know that you're
going through a lot.”


“Uh huh,” you mumble. There's a lump in your throat now and your eyes are all wet and you feel
like you don't know what to say anymore. This was a bad idea from the start, you decide, and
you shouldn't have ever agreed to this.


“You miss him.” It's a simple statement, but it strikes a chord within you.


“Yeah,” you say, “I really do.”


Hermione's hand tightens around yours and you wipe your sleeve across your eyes hurriedly. Damn
wetness. Damn eyes. Damn face, going and blushing like an idiot.


The fiery orb is getting lower and lower, sinking beneath the horizon. It's almost nighttime.
“You know,” Hermione begins, “that Ron and I - and not only us, Dumbledore and Lupin and the
Weasleys and everyone else - are here for you, no matter what.”


You don't say anything.


“Harry? You know that, right?” Silence. “Don't you?”


You turn your head back to her slowly. “Yeah,” you reply quietly. “I do.”


Guilt rises up in your chest, and you know you haven't been completely honest with everyone who
does care about you. You still haven't told Ron and Hermione about the prophecy, and what it
says, and that you know what it says, and how horrible it is, and how you wish it weren't true.
You should have, but you haven't.


“Good. I was beginning to worry.”


You still feel guilty and know that you must soon tell them of the prophecy. Dumbledore delayed and
it led to Sirius's death… No. You will not think about that again. Sirius lived life like you
would like to live life, and that's what you should remember. It doesn't take Hermione to
tell you this. Sirius was a good man, and wouldn't want you aching or crying or just hurting
because he died.


Footsteps can be heard near the fort, and you hear a voice say, “Well, detention sure was
fun.”


Ron. You and Hermione separate hands suddenly, and although you don't know why, both of you do
so anyway. He lies down on the other side of Hermione and sighs deeply.


“Six hours of McGonagall glaring at me like a hawk,” Ron comments. “Boy, I should do the same thing
next year so I can have another grand Christmas Eve.”


You smile and Hermione laughs beside you. Ron hasn't lost his sarcastic sense of humor. As he
jokes about detention and Hermione's hand drifts to yours just enough to skim it in between
fits of laughter, you savor the moment. They aren't fighting (for once), and you actually
opened up for the first time, and you will tell them of the prophecy in the near future.


Somehow, you just know that Sirius is watching all of this with a grin from wherever he is, and
he's probably with your mom and dad, just relishing the moment as you are. You've got great
friends, people who have died for you and people who will die for you, and right now, you feel as
though you could take on the world.


Lucky you.

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