Magic Never Dies

Lynney

Rating: R
Genres: Romance, Action & Adventure
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 6
Published: 22/07/2005
Last Updated: 28/01/2006
Status: completed

FINAL CHAPTER POSTED Seventh Year Fic. Begins with the end of HBP and carries through the final confrontation with Voldemort.

Chapters

1. Chapter One

2. Chapter Two

3. Chapter Three

4. Chapter Four

5. Chapter Five

6. Chapter 6

7. Chapter 7

8. Chapter 8

9. Author's Note Removed

10. Chapter 10

11. Chapter Ten

12. Chapter Eleven

13. Chapter Twelve

14. Chapter 13

15. Chapter 14

16. Chapter 15

17. Chapter 16

18. Chapter 17

19. Capter 18

20. Chapter 19

21. Chapter 20

22. Chapter 21

23. Chapter 22

24. Chapter 23

25. Chapter 24

26. Chapter 25

27. Chapter 26

28. Author's note

29. Chapter 29

30. Chapter 30

1. Chapter One

Official Fine Print: Nope. Not mine. The brainchildren of the mighty pen of JK Rowling. Just playing with them. Honest.

.A/N: Hi! To those of you who were reading Here With Me, I WILL finish it shortly. I knew I should have posted before I got HBP, because now I'm having Snape issues. The jinxes er… Hermione kept coming up with all seemed to result in disfiguring boils and painful death. I'm very on the fence about old Snapey - I'm pretty sure there's more going on there than meets the eye, but I'm just too pissed off at the moment to be kind.

So, for a distraction, this is my take on picking up right after Book Hex, um Six. I personally loved a lot of it and actually wasn't really all that bothered by Ron/Hr because 1) I like H/Hr's relationship better no matter who goes home with whom 2) No matter what JKR says, I LOVE my delusions, and I think I'm going to cry over H/Hr's relationship in the final book no matter what level it's on anyway - how could I not? And 3) it leaves the door even wider open for my own imagination, and I like my sandbox better anyway. JKR has to deal with the press, God bless her - I'd rather she throw R/Hr to the vicious navel-gazing literary critics of the world and keep H/Hr safe and happy on Portkey anyway! See, I'm beyond delusional. So there.

Before you get started - and this will likely be another long winded, 20-30 chapter type deal because that's just the way I am - I don't do dark, broody introspective Harry. I do blindly faithful, good hearted, trouble-magnet Harry, and usually take awhile to get to the, um, good parts because…stuff happens. I like to work with a liberal R rating. Harry has been known to get hurt. Hermione always makes it better. I only do H/Hr, so this may start out the way Book 6 left off, but it sure ain't gonna last long. No evil Ron - I LIKE Ron, I just don't like him with Hermione. I believe the trio need a healthy sense of humor to survive the Dark Wanker, and I do my best to see they get their daily dose. You are forewarned. Pats on the head and whacks on the bum are equally welcome in response - you live, you learn. I try to respond to all reviews, but given a choice between posting and catching up on reviews, I post first. If you still want to read, hope you enjoy!

[Magic Never Dies]

Chapter 1

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The wedding was okay. Maybe not the last, golden day of peace he'd hoped, but still nice, even life affirming in its own way, he supposed. Fleur had been predictably lovely, Bill predictably not, but clearly deeply happy despite the vicious scars that still marked him.

Mrs. Weasley had herself, according to Hermione, placed the promised goblin-made tiara from Great Auntie Muriel atop Fleur's fair head, and Harry hadn't heard a single Weasley slip up and revert back to `Phlegm'. Fleur's unquestioning acceptance of Bill's altered appearance and her undaunted support of his decision to continue on as an active member of the Order had at last won over the entire family.

Harry had tried hard to stay in the moment throughout the day, to imprint upon his memory the images of the people he loved most - the ones that were left - as they indulged in the happy traditions a wedding provided. Many of his friends and teachers from Hogwarts were there, most of whom he had not seen since Dumbledore's funeral. It had been a strange period for Harry, the brief time between leaving Hogwarts and arriving at the Burrow for the wedding. At times he felt himself floating, disconnected, replaying over and over again the events that lead up to Dumbledore's plunge from the parapet, dead already by Snape's hand. He knew he could not change them, had learned from Sirius the finality of his loss. He believed fiercely that the only way he could honor Dumbledore was to make sure he missed nothing, not the tiniest significant fact, of his last living moments. Dumbledore had been acutely aware that Harry was frozen, immobile and invisible, beneath his cloak those few meters away while he had brought Draco Malfoy to the realization he was unable, in the end, to carry out his Master's plan. Dumbledore had clearly known the outcome of that particular confrontation; but would he have still cast the spell on Harry if he had understood the true evil lurking in the heart of Draco's keeper?

It didn't matter, it would never change. But what exactly was Harry to learn from that betrayed trust? He shook himself, jarring the question from the forefront of his consciousness. There would be time enough to pursue those questions later; his time here was far more quicksilver and fleeting.

“Sickle for your thoughts.” Hermione said softly from behind him. They had all gathered to see Fleur and Bill off. The newly married couple could not go too far or for too long given the state of things but they were still clinging defiantly to normalcy and taking a weeks' honeymoon somewhere deliberately undiscussed but carefully planned not to coincide with the full moon. Bill had shown no signs of becoming a full-fledged werewolf; still what was the point of taking chances? Life itself now was uncertain enough.

“You'd be vastly overpaying,” Harry told her.

“Wouldn't get your money back on a couple of knuts with Harry,” Ron said darkly. “No mystery where his mind is.”

Hermione sighed and rolled her eyes and Harry gave her an apologetic grimace. They'd agreed not to discuss their plans until after the wedding was officially over but everything Harry said struck Ron the wrong way these last few days. Ron had been the first to say “We'll be there,” when Harry had verbalized his plan to return briefly to the Dursley's to renew whatever possible protection might be left in the shelter of his mother's family, then head to his parent's home in Godric's Hollow; he'd spoken for both Hermione and himself as they turned away from the final resting place of Dumbledore's remains. But as the reality of what that actually entailed had slowly dawned on Ron; he'd become less and willing to discuss the prospect.

Harry didn't mind Ron's reticence; he understood backing away from the swift and disturbing changes that were raising their troll-ugly heads everywhere they turned these days. Some part of Ron still clung to the hope of Hogwarts opening in the Fall, of riding the Express back to Quidditch games and classes and the snug familiarity of the Gryffindor Common room. If Dumbledore would be absent so would Snape; Ron could find comfort in the most unlikely places. Harry himself had moved irreversibly on; he was being drawn relentlessly away from his own mental havens by the siren song of the remaining Horcruxes. 'Find us and you can finish this,' they sang. `Find us and you can avenge Dumbledore, Sirius, your parents. Find us and fulfill your purpose. '

He'd never asked Ron or Hermione to accompany him. He'd planned to go alone, still planned on it. They were, however, his best friends, the ones he loved most. He did not want to sever that link or undervalue it; Dumbledore had seemed to feel strongly that his ability both to love and to inspire friendship was important. It had been hard enough to turn away from the pure normalcy of his sudden attraction to Ginny, a sensation inextricably linked in his mind with the joy of flying and being Quidditch Captain and winning. She'd been avoiding him all day, always on the opposite end of whatever room he'd been in. He was glad that none of the Weasley's save Ron had known about their brief relationship, that Mrs. Weasley's joy in Fleur and Bill had not been diminished by unhappiness or what-ifs about her only daughter. If Ginny minded deeply she was hiding it extremely well. Harry's pride stung but the rest of him knew only relief.

Fleur and Bill made their way from the Burrow to the center of the crowded circle of family and guests saying their goodbyes. Fleur wordlessly kissed both of Harry's cheeks, her eyes bright. Bill shook his hand, grinning. The red ponytail and dangling fang earring were back, and Harry reckoned the claw marks didn't diminish Bill's rakish aura of cool all that much. “Don't do anything Albus wouldn't do” Bill told him quietly. “Take care, Harry. And… thanks.”

Harry shook his head, his stomach clenching with grief and guilt, but managed to hold on to his own smile. Just. “Be happy, both of you. Have, er… fun.”

They made their way on, past Hermione and Ron and a happily sobbing Mrs. Weasley and broadly grinning Mr. Weasley, then turned to the assembled throng.

“We know that a speech is customary at this point,” Bill began. Fleur made a swift wrap-it-up motion with her free hand. “but we also know Fred and George have something up their sleeves, so we love you all, and thanks!” There were two soft pops, and a rain of too-late rice sprinkled the grass.

“Unbelievable!” Fred said, clearly affronted.

“How could he possible think…” George huffed.

There was a sudden series of soft booms, snaps and whizzes and “Good Luck Bill and Fleur - Don't Forget Those Special Charms!” whistled and spun through the air, spelled out in fireworks.

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They helped out with the clean-up, swapping round at making sure Mrs. Weasley was sitting down at the kitchen table with a cup of tea and nodding dutifully at her reminiscences of Fleur's loveliness and Bill's happiness. This worked like a charm until it was Harry's turn, and her mood turned inevitably darker. He seemed to have that effect on everyone now. He could feel her already red-rimmed eyes ranging over him, taking in the slowly healing gash across his cheekbone where Snape's rage at being called a coward had struck.

“Lovely wedding, Mrs. Weasley,” he said hopefully.

Two tears broke free and rolled down her cheeks.

Bloody Hell!, thought Harry despairingly. Even grown woman cry when I talk to them now! Should I tell her that Ron wants to come with me just so she can be pissed off and stop feeling sorry for me? It almost feels the kindest thing.

“He was so proud of you, Harry, so very sure of you. I can hardly bear to think what will become of you without Albus. It's simply not fair.”

“I'll be alright,” Harry said with an optimism he didn't entirely feel yet, but hoped to. Sometime soon. Or he was quite possibly screwed.

“How are those dreadful people treating you? I suppose it will come down to Minerva deciding when you can leave there now. Shall I ask Arthur to Floo her and see when you can come here? We're happy to have you, and with Fred and George sleeping over the shop now you could even have your own room to sleep in until term time.”

“They're not so bad this time, the Dursleys. Dumbledore explained to them last year about wizards coming of age at seventeen so they know they're going to be shut of me soon. Uncle Vernon's just looking for repayment now.” Harry told her, evading the question.

“Repayment!” Mrs. Weasley exploded. “The very idea!”

“They heard Dumbledore say that Sirius' will left me his gold and the Black family house. Uncle Vernon thinks he's entitled to something for all he's spent on me the last sixteen years. I've half a mind to take him over there. The shock of it would kill him.”

“What will you do with it? The Order might not need it anymore.” Mr. Weasley said, coming to sit beside his wife at the table with a sigh of weariness and glass of the wedding mead for each of them.

“So that's it then, Dumbledore dies and the Order dies with him?” Harry asked. He'd been afraid of this; it just hadn't seemed truly possible somehow.

“The current Order that took vows to help Dumbledore. But it is the Order of the Phoenix after all, Harry. It will rise again, reformed, from its ashes. Dumbledore made sure of that.”

“How is it going to rise without a leader? Who's going to take Dumbledore's place?”

“We'll know when the Phoenix chooses.”

“What Phoenix? Do you mean Fawkes? I wondered where he'd got to, I never saw him after that night when he sang…”

All three were silent a moment, remembering the golden bird's beautiful lament beyond Hogwarts' walls the night Dumbledore had died.

“We were always lead to understand, when we joined up, that if anything happened to Dumbledore the current Order would be dissolved for the safety of it's members,” Mr. Weasley said. “Fawkes was to appear to someone when the time was right, and that person would be his new master. We would all have the choice of rejoining the one he marked as leader, or not.”

“But anything could be happening while the Order is disbanded and waiting!” Harry said worriedly. “Voldemort knows we've lost Dumbledore, he'll be striking harder than ever now!”

“The Ministry is working overtime….”

“The Ministry is a pack of idiots,” said Charlie, dropping down into a chair next to his Mum and across from Harry.

“I mean, look at them, they employ Percy,” added Fred, settling beside Harry.

“Need we say more?” George took the seat next to his twin.

Mrs. Weasley sighed. “He didn't even make it to his own brother's wedding, the useless little prat.”

There was a moments silence round the table, which happened to be the same moment Ron and Hermione arrived.

“What?” asked Ron suspiciously. “You were talking about us, weren't you?”

“Not at all, dear. I was finally admitting that I had six wonderful children and one cuckoo in the nest. Where Percy went wrong I'll never know, he was certainly amongst the most fortunate of you in the brains department…”

“Shame about being born without a heart, though,” Charlie commented.

Ron and Hermione had remained standing, and Harry noticed Ron was giving him a… significant look. Either that, or he should really have that eye twitch looked at by a licensed healer. “Ready to go finish up the… er broom shed, Harry?”

“What, you guys take him snogging with you now too?” George asked with a grin.

“That's just wrong, by the way,” Fred added.

Mrs. Weasley sent well aimed ear-twisting hexes at her twins, and Mr. Weasley shook his head. “Never mind them, you three. Expect you've got rather a lot to chew over about now. Only natural. See if you can round up Ginny while you're out there, will you?”

Harry nodded gratefully and they fled the kitchen. The discussion picked back up behind them, thankfully about the wedding once more.

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Their shadows lengthened as they walked along the path to the orchard into the setting sun. Hermione still wore the long, gauzy blue dress she had brought for the wedding and even focusing on his own feet as they progressed Harry could not help but notice the way it rippled like flowing water as she moved between them. He wondered how there could possibly still be such beauty in the world when everything had so changed. Didn't it know what was coming? What was it thinking, with weddings and sunsets and Hermione in a blue dress? The Chosen One hasn't got a clue! he ached to shout aloud. Duck! Run!

“We can go sit over there by the goal trees,” Ron suggested, clambering over the fence. “It's pretty well blocked from the house by the broom shed. No one will bother us.” Harry offered Hermione a hand as she gathered her dress to follow and waited while she steadied herself on his shoulder before climbing after her. Ron and Harry both dropped down into the long grass with the still silent Hermione between them and the last of the sun ahead. Crookshanks appeared as if by magic to wind his way around them and two gnomes Harry hadn't even noticed scurried furiously away.

Silence settled around them, and Harry felt it start to smother him with all that was going unsaid.

“I'm going back to the Dursley's to get my stuff, and then on to Grimmauld Place. I've decided to use that as a sort of base camp for a bit, since it's unplottable and all. Until I get a better idea of how to find… what I have to find,” he said. “Then I think it's off to Godric's Hollow.” That ought to set things straight. The thought of Grimmauld Place was off-putting to him, he couldn't imagine Ron or Hermione would willingly choose to spend time there.

“Okay,” said Hermione. “We'll…”

“Talk it over,” Ron interjected quickly.

“Look,” Harry said. “You guys don't have to… just get on with your lives, okay? I'll keep up with you about what I find, if you want to do anything about it you can decide then, right? There's no need to…”

“There's every need,” Hermione said furiously. “Dumbledore is gone. No offense Harry, you've never failed to come through in the end, but you're running blind without him and it's a… a suicide wish to just start poking around looking for those Horcruxes on your own! We have to research the possibilities, make a plan, make a plan B…”

“I will. I have what Dumbledore gave me about the other ones to be starting off with, I'll have the library at Grimmauld Place to use…”

“You'll open a book, read three pages, close it and decide to go off and reconnoiter, Harry, and you know it!”

“Well, that's always worked for him before…” Ron volunteered.

“There was always Dumbledore…” Hermione started.

“To what? Save me?” Harry cut in. “He didn't always save me, Hermione. He didn't always have all the answers, either. I know it will never be the same without him, but I don't exactly have a choice anymore. Snape saw to that.”

“And Snape knows you, Harry. Have you thought of that? Whichever way his allegiance lays now, he's spent the last six years pointing out every one of your shortcomings, whether it was fair or not. It's time to change.”

“I do know that Hermione. I understand it's time to get over being predictably clueless saving-people Harry, honestly. I'm doing the best I can.”

“I know you think you are.” Hermione said wretchedly, staring fixedly at a piece of grass she'd been worrying between her fingers. It was crushed, her fingertips stained green. “But if you were, you'd accept our help.”

Harry let out a heaving breath and tore his eyes from her hands. “I am, Herms. I want your help. But what exactly does that mean? What are the two of you going to do now?”

His words were met with silence; he couldn't look at either of them. He felt in his bones that Hermione wanted them to come with him; he wished she wouldn't, for many of the same reasons he had broken up with Ginny. He sensed that Ron didn't want to, but he wished in a way that he would, he could use someone he trusted to watch his back. When it came right down to it, however, he knew Hermione would truly be the most help, but he didn't want to tread on her fledgling relationship with Ron. It was all such a bloody mess.

“Well, you know where I'm going to be,” Harry said, rising to his feet. “I'm heading for the Dursley's in the morning, and I should be at Grimmauld Place by noon at the latest. You can Floo me there anytime. You can just show up, the both of you, anytime. Anything I have is yours, you know that.”

He walked quickly away, almost vaulting over the fence in his hurry to leave them, his fear of hearing a single word of their conversation.

He made his way back into the house and said his goodnights, relieved that Mr. and Mrs. Weasley would think he'd left Ron and Hermione to a private snog rather than an argument over involving themselves in his miserable destiny.

“Did you see Ginny out there anywhere, dear?” Mrs. Weasley asked.

He'd have needed a night vision spell and pretty quick eyes the way she'd been avoiding him. Not that he blamed her.

“No, but we were down in the orchard. She's likely closer to the house somewhere, she was talking with Luna last I saw her.”

“Good night then, Harry. Sleep well.”

He climbed the four flights to Ron's room and made his hunched way over to the bed squeezed in by the window. The ceiling seemed to get lower each time he stayed here; he couldn't for the life of him think why Ron didn't just do an enlargement charm and be done with it. (`Well, I'm used to it, aren't I?' Ron always said. `Besides, this bloody house gets it in its mind to change back at the most inconvenient times. Like when you're standing straight up.')

Harry changed his clothes for pajama bottoms and brushed his teeth across the hall. He dropped in to bed at last, bone tired, and began his old occlumency routine. He no longer knew if it had any point but it had become a sort of habit, and the habit usually soothed him. Probably because it allowed him to delude himself into thinking he was at least doing something, that Voldemort didn't call all the shots.

The ghoul in the attic must have had a sensing spell on his bed; almost as soon as his head touched the pillow it began its nightly pipe-banging serenade. No wonder Ron could sleep through anything, it was simple self defense. He rolled to his side and stuffed the pillow over his ear. From this position he could see Ron and Hermione making their way back to the house up the path from the orchard. They were still talking animatedly, but that was conclusive evidence of exactly nothing. They could make an argument out of anything, those two. The moonlight glinted off of Hermione's hair; she had taken it down from its wedding pins. Harry reckoned if he were out there with a girl as beautiful and intelligent as Hermione he wouldn't waste it arguing. He rolled over in the other direction and determinedly closed his eyes.

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Harry still wasn't particularly fond of the sensation of apparition but he couldn't argue with the convenience of it; and it was certainly safer than broom travel these days. His seventeenth birthday gift from the Dursley's was the privilege of being expressly forbidden from revealing any outward sign of `all that unnatural stuff' to the neighbors on Privet Drive. He had been careful to apparate away to the Burrow from behind the garage; he returned now to the same place and made his way to the kitchen door rather than the front.

His knock was answered reluctantly by Petunia with a sighed, `oh, it's only you.'

He wasted a smile in her general direction and made his way directly up the stairs to what had been his room. His trunk lay open at the end of the bed with most of the detritus of 6 years at Hogwarts already packed inside. Spell books, cauldrons. Quidditch equipment, house robes. All pretty extraneous now. There wasn't much else in the room that belonged to him; there never had been. He crossed to the desk where Hedwig slumbered in her open cage.

“Wake up there, sleepyhead,” he called softly, and she opened one reluctant amber eye. “Off to Grimmauld Place, now. You'll likely find some lovely vermin for lunch there, it'll be well worth your while. I'll be along in just a bit to let you in.”

Hedwig hopped out from the cage, stretched her left leg and then her right in what looked to be an odd sort of dance, gave an experimental shake out of her feathers and then took off out the window without a backward glance.

“Just the way to do it,” thought Harry.

He pulled out his wand and shrunk down her cage, setting it into the trunk. His clothes and things from the stay at the Burrow went next, and his eyes ranged the room. His broom was already packed, as was the photograph of his parents he often where he could see it. He crossed the room, took down the drawing of Hedwig he had done the summer after his first year and laid it on top, then closed the lid. Another tap of his wand and the whole trunk fit easily into the pocket of his backpack. Done. He slung the strap over his shoulder and walked out the door. He left it open behind him; it was the multitude of locks and the cat flap he had hated most. He paused at the door to the cupboard under the stairs and opened it tentatively, but the mattress he had slept on and his little shelf were gone and it was filled with the Dursley's suitcases and out of season clothes. Things that actually belonged in a cupboard under stairs.

Unfortunately for Harry it was Sunday and the entire Dursley family was ranged around the dining table. Dudley was still glued to the television, Vernon still hiding behind his newspaper, Petunia still keeping up a running commentary to no one in particular about the goings on in the neighborhood she had observed from behind the imagined safety of the curtains.

“Well, erm… `Bye.” Harry said.

“Just a minute, young…man,” Vernon lowered his newspaper. “Is that all you have to say after sixteen years of this family's generosity to you? `Bye?”

“Um… thanks? Thank you for… well… maybe just thanks.”

“Is that all the gratitude you can show, after we kept you safe and protected from that Voldietort fellow? Gave you a place to hide while that school of yours was on break, kept you fed and watered? All that your Aunt Petunia did for you and the best you come up with is `thanks'?”

“Should I have sent flowers?” asked Harry, struggling not to laugh.

“Think you're pretty big now that your fellow freaks call you a man, or a wizard, or whatever you are now, don't you? Well, you still look like a skinny little runt to me. An ungrateful skinny little runt.” Vernon folded the newspaper and set it down with shaking hands.

“So I should be more grateful that you tried to starve me and kept me shut up in a cupboard? If I am a skinny little runt that's the only explanation. Both my parents were perfectly normal by wizarding standards.”

Harry knew the idea of his parents being perfectly anything was enough to elevate Uncle Vernon's blood pressure to dangerous levels; he was playing with fire. Really, he should just go.

“What about this Serious Black fellow, this godfather of yours. I never knew you had a godfather. Why didn't he take you in, if he's well off enough to leave you a vault of gold and a house?” Vernon questioned, eyes narrowing.

“He was a friend of his father's,” Petunia said, shocking Harry. “He was imprisoned shortly after James and Lily died, he was the one who betrayed them.”

“He didn't,” Harry almost whispered in his shock. “He was falsely accused. Why didn't you tell me you knew? That summer when he broke out of Azkaban before my third year, all the Muggle television stations ran his picture. Why didn't you tell me he was my godfather?”

“He was a dirty, filthy murderer,” she said matter-of-factly.

“No, he wasn't. It was Peter Pettigrew that betrayed them. He confessed right in front of me, I heard him!”

“Then why did you threaten us with writing to your godfather the next summer? You wanted Vernon to think he was a criminal then.”

Touché, Aunt Petunia.

“I'm sorry,” Harry said. “I thought…”

“No, you didn't. You're just like your father that way. Anything to get what you want.” Two spots of red shone on Petunia's cheeks; Harry had never seen her quite so angry.

“All I wanted was some food. All I wanted was to be treated like a human being, instead of a badly behaved dog. All I wanted was not to be beaten up by your bullying son and husband. I never asked for anything more than that.” Harry snapped, stung.

“All your father wanted was my sister Lily, my oh-so-special sister Lily, and then he went and got her killed and landed us with you!” Petunia snapped back. “Vernon's thinking too small calculating your room and board for all those years, when it's your very life you owe us! And now you think you're going to just walk out of this house knowing that your Dark Lord will come looking for you? Well I know where you're going. Albus Dumbledore himself sat in our front room and gave your hidey hole away. # 12 Grim Old Place. So you give Vernon whatever he asks for. We're moving.”

Vernon's mouth dropped open, he couldn't even manage a gasp. Dudley looked as if he'd swallowed something nasty.

“I'm not…”

“Shut up, Dudley.” Harry and Petunia both said, almost in unison.

Harry was floored. They had talked of Grimmauld Place in front of the Dursley's, Dumbledore had Accio-ed Kreacher into their sitting room to determine if the Order was going to lose the house to Bellatrix. Trust Petunia to remember the one thing that absolutely ensured her being tortured instead of a nice, quick Avada if the Death Eaters decided to come knocking for Harry in Little Whinging. Yet she seemed to understand the danger; moving quickly and quietly away from Privet Drive could literally save their lives once Harry was gone.

“How much do you want?” he asked.

“All of it,” she said evenly. “Not this Sirius's money, your parents'. I want every last galleon changed into real money and delivered here. We'll disappear, go where no one's ever even heard of magic, somewhere Dudley'll be safe from you…wizards.”

“You'll have quite a time finding it,” Harry told her tiredly. “It doesn't exist. Magic is everywhere, and magic never dies. Magical people are just like Muggles, some good, some evil. You've spent my whole life trying to squash it out of me and it didn't work, did it? It isn't the magic you should be afraid of, Aunt Petunia. It's Lord Voldemort. It always was.” He backed toward the kitchen door, watching her, not stopping until the door knob was in his hand. “You can have it,” he said. “You can have it all. I'll have it sent here, from Gringotts. Good luck. All of you.”

He closed the kitchen door behind him, walked dazedly behind the garage and apparated across London to a familiar patch of unkempt grass in the middle of a small square. Ahead of him, appearing to shoulder aside its neighbors to greet him even as he thought of how little he wanted to be there, was the battered door of #12, Grimmauld Place.

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2. Chapter Two

Official Fine Print: Nope. Not mine. The brainchildren of the mighty pen of JK Rowling. Just playing with them. Honest.

Magic Never Dies

Chapter 2

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Harry was dreaming. Not the old, wretched dreams where Voldemort would bring all his worst fears to vivid life; these were the new and improved version. Funny how it turned out that Harry's own conscience could churn out horrors that would do Voldemort proud all on its own. He was tied up; Harry deeply hated any hint of being trapped, he'd spent too much time locked up already. He knew somehow that his wand lay on the floor just beyond his reach, cracked in two and forever broken, but he could not see it. It was cold and dark; he was shivering, sightless in the pitch black. No one knew where he was, no one would come looking for him. He had so much left to do… but he was going to die cold, forgotten, alone.

Except for that voice calling Harry… Harry…

The voice that made his heart leap with hope. The voice that had always meant rationality and rescue from himself. The voice he should have listened to about that bloody potions text… He opened his eyes to find a blurry figure that could only be Hermione sitting on the end of his bed, watching him. He fumbled quickly for his glasses to make sure.

“Yes, Harry. It's me. Relax,” she said.

He pushed himself upright, rubbing his bleary eyes beneath their frames and yawning.

“What time is it?” he asked curiously.

“Nine am.”

“Er… what day is it?”

“Monday. See, this is why you have to go back to Hogwarts, Harry.”

“Mmmhmm. I mean, no. I'll be fine. Here's a question, though. What are you doing here?”

“You said this is where you'd be. We need to start planning our Horcrux strategy. I could make you some breakfast if you like, as a sort of housewarming.”

“No offense, Herms, but how about I make breakfast for us and you do the talking bit?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Fine. I'll meet you down in the kitchen. Take your time. I can at least make coffee you know,” she said, and flounced from the bed out the door.

“Just not so as anyone would actually want to drink it,” Harry muttered to Hedwig in her cage atop the dresser. She hooted her agreement and hid her head back beneath her wing.

He found a pair of jeans and a clean t shirt in his trunk, brushed his teeth in the Ancient and Most Filthy Bathroom of Black (Kreacher had never been much of a housekeeper. Something would have to be done in there and Harry himself was not looking forward to it) and padded down stairs. Mrs. Black snored behind her curtains, and Harry slipped past, careful not to wake her.

Hermione was waiting in the kitchen with a mug of coffee for him and tea for herself. Harry put his years at the Dursley's to good use, starting the bacon and tomatoes and eggs from Mrs. Weasley.

“Where's Ron?” he asked.

“On his way. He went on to Diagon Alley first to drop off some of the wedding leftovers for the twins. He had breakfast at the Burrow, his Mum wouldn't let him go until he did, but he'll be hungry again. You'd best make enough for him too.”

Harry doubled his quantities; Ron could still easily put away what he and Hermione might finish between them.

They were about half way through their meal and enjoying a rare, companionable silence when Ron apparated into the kitchen. His hands were over his eyes and he took a balancing step on landing, banging his head into a heavy cast iron pan dangling from the ceiling with a hollow gong-like sound.

“Ow! Bloody hell!”

Hermione sighed. “He still apparates holding on to his eyebrows. I thought passing the second test would cure him of it.”

Ron spun around. “It's not funny! That bloody hurt!”

“We're not laughing,” Harry said, although he had to work a bit to make it true. “Take it down, I'll put it somewhere else. You're a lot taller than Kreacher, or Sirius when it comes to that. Come and have some breakfast.”

Ron sat down beside Hermione, who was already loading his plate, and brightened considerably.

“Thanks. Fred and George send their best. Not sure what that's going to mean in the long run, but you might duck if you hear any loud noises and don't eat anything out of the fridge you aren't sure you put in it first.”

“I'm not totally stupid,” Harry said. “I took them right off the apparition wards when I added you two.”

Harry noticed that Hermione waited until Ron's mouth was quite full to start in. “So, Harry. We've decided we're with you. Even if it means not going back to Hogwarts next term.”

Ron made a vaguely dissenting noise but kept chewing until he could swallow. “Even though we think you're crazy, she means. How'd you think we'll get away with it?”

“No one can tell me what to do anymore,” Harry pointed out, “Not legally, and there's no one else to care. It's you two that need to worry. I can't see your Mum and Dad being happy about it, Ron, and I should think Hermione's parents would have kittens. That's why I never planned on you two coming with me.”

“We're all seventeen now. They may not like it, but they can't exactly stop us, can they.” Hermione said.

“So now I'll be the Boy-who-kept-the-Brightest-Witch-of-her-age-from-her-N.E.W.T.s, will I?” No sooner were the words out of his mouth than Harry realized the import of them; technically, that really ought to be Ron's fault now. “You're sure you want to do this, then? Both of you?”

“Of course, Harry,” Ron said. “No question. We're with you, we just aren't sure this is best way.”

Hermione seemed to bristle, but said nothing.

“If we went back to Hogwarts - assuming of course there's a Hogwarts to go back to - there'd be nothing but rules, more than ever, I'd wager. We'd spend so much time in detention we'd never get anywhere. Besides, you don't honestly believe that rubbish about being safer there?” Harry asked. “Not anymore.” The familiar wrench of Dumbledore's eternal absence reared up and stabbed at him; he concentrated hard on his coffee mug until it began to slip back down toward bearable.

Ron chewed thoughtfully. “No. And you have a point when you put it that way. It'd be hard to pull off. I'm just thinking of how to explain to Mum that I'm not going back to Hogwarts, and oh, by the way, I have to go Horcrux hunting with Harry tonight - don't wait up. It's not pretty.”

Mrs. Weasley's wrath hung between them, a palpable presence.

“Come live here then. Both of you. No parents, no rules. No one to ask where you're going.”

Harry could see Ron grasping the finer points of the idea. Hermione's eyes lit up, then took on a look Harry couldn't quite identify. She was throwing him for a loop these days; he'd always had a fairly good idea what was going on inside her head but just lately there were whole stretches where he felt lost even sitting right beside her. He'd written it off to her getting together with Ron at first, but he was fairly certain now that it was something else and that knowledge, or rather lack of it, vaguely disturbed at him. He wanted them both to be happy, he was sure that he did. Didn't he? It was just that he'd thought their arguing would die a natural death and things would even out between all three of them, something that had yet to happen. If it didn't, Harry had a feeling he'd actually start to welcome old Phineas' company more. Maybe even Mrs. Blacks'.

“This place has got to be safer than Hogwarts anyway, it's unplottable and it's still under a fidelius, isn't it?” Ron asked.

“I don't think so. I'm not sure, but when Dumbledore came to the Dursley's to collect me last year, he was concerned about whether the house would allow itself to be owned by someone who wasn't a Black. He was afraid it would go to Bellatrix, and Kreacher as well. How would Bellatrix have even found the house again unless there was a way around it? I don't really understand, but it must have been linked to the ownership of the house somehow.”

“But Kreacher obeyed you…” Hermione said slowly, and Harry could see her mind working bits of information over and shuffling them into place. He loved that particular look, the way her eyebrows drew together and her eyes took on the soft opacity that meant she was entirely caught up within her thoughts. At least that was still the same.

“And I sent him to Hogwarts to work with the other house elves so they could make sure he didn't run off to Bellatrix or Malfoy's mum. Unfortunately, Aunt Petunia actually remembers the whole thing. I think it stood out so much because she'd never had anything quite as filthy as Kreacher at Privet Drive, actually, but the bottom line is she told me she wanted all of my Mum and Dad's gold to keep it quiet, so that she could take Dudders somewhere safe.”

Hermione's face abruptly lost its dreamy thoughtfulness. “That… woman,” she sputtered, “wants all your parents' money after what she and that awful family of hers did to you? You didn't say she could have any?”

Harry nodded sheepishly. “She has no idea how much is in there, Hermione. I barely do. And now there's Sirius's as well. It's just gold, after all…”

“And you're not going to live long enough to need it?” Her eyes met his and he felt the full fury of her magic then in a way he'd never known before, pulsing off her in powerful little waves. Holy crap, was that what coming of age had done to her? Why was he just now noticing it?

“That's not what I…”

“Oh, it may not be what you said, but you know it's true. And in part it's true because of that woman and that family. You grew up thinking you were worthless because that's what they taught you. You were so grateful to be `saved' when Dumbledore sent Hagrid for you that you took on the baggage of the Boy-Who-Lived as if it was fair somehow. It wasn't Harry, it didn't have to be like that. They abused you, for pity's sake, it's time you accepted that.”

Harry blinked in surprise; Hermione'd never been shy about speaking her mind about the Dursley's, but she'd never actually given her opinion of the whole situation either, just sympathized that he'd had to return there and welcomed him back after. He felt suddenly…

“And don't go getting all broody and embarrassed by it either, no one's blaming you, but Harry… you can't give her your parents' money. You just can't. If you're going to be a total pig about it and live as if there's no tomorrow, at least do something worthwhile with it. Leave it in trust to start a decent place for magical orphans so there'll never be another Tom Riddle. Fund a retirement home for house elves, or werewolf research, anything but the Dursley's. Honestly.”

She's right, Harry,” Ron chimed in.

“I am not being a pig…” Harry heard himself sputter. Hermione's gaze felt as if it were literally burning him with its intensity. And once again, he knew it wasn't really about the money, there was some subtext he was forever not getting and he wasn't a step closer to understanding it.

“Not about that bit, Mate. You can't give Aunt Petunia that money. It's just… like… I dunno. Cosmically wrong or something.”

“Thanks for channeling Luna Lovegood there, Ron. Just what I need. Look, I could convert a quarter of it to pounds and I reckon it would be more than enough to move them somewhere safe. She's no idea what's in there, she'd be happy enough with that. I just can't let them die because of me, no matter how awful they've been. Nice or not they kept me for sixteen years. Voldemort will kill them before he ever finds out how much they have in common.”

“Okay,” said Hermione, suddenly far too agreeable. Harry's eyes narrowed. She smiled sweetly. He sighed.

“I expect you're going to want to come to Gringott's with me, aren't you.” It wasn't a question. She nodded. “And you're going to want a little time alone with the money before they deliver it?” She nodded again. It was fair, really. He would appease his conscience, and she would appease hers as well. “Nothing too disfiguring?”

“Just leave that to me. You don't actually have any residual fondness for them or anything, do you?”

Harry shuddered. “Er, no. But she is my Mum's sister, after all…”

“I'll remember that,” Hermione told him, carefully neutral. “That's that settled then. We need to talk Horcruxes now.”

Harry rose and began retrieving their dirty plates.

“Sit,” said Ron firmly, and muttered, flicking his wand. The dishes flew to the sink, which began to fill itself with a sputter and a squirt of dish soap. “You two need to remember you're not Muggles sometimes. You can do magic all the time now, no one's going to come take you away. Make the most of it.”

“Thanks,” Harry told him, bemused. He had a point. Harry could out-duel Ron more or less based on sheer nerves and reaction time, but Ron thought like a wizard because he'd always known and accepted he'd be one. As had most of the Death Eaters. And Snape. Harry really needed that perspective.

“So Dumbledore thought there were seven?” Hermione asked, steering them back on topic.

“Based on what Tom asked Slughorn. He'd always thought there might be more than one, but he never thought that many. To break your soul in seven pieces… there can't be much left. But it's only six horcruxes, really. The seventh bit is what's inside Voldemort now. ”

“Explains a lot, really,” Ron said. “One-seventh of a soul.”

“We know Dumbledore already destroyed one of the six; the ring had a crack right down the center of the stone and he told me he'd done it. That's when he hurt his wand hand. He told me that if it weren't for Snape's timely action when he returned to Hogwarts after destroying it he might never have lived to tell the tale. He was always going to tell me the whole story, he just never had… time.” Harry told them grimly. “That's probably when Snape told Voldemort that it was Dumbledore that destroyed it. And Voldemort decided to set his pet ferret a new task.”

“I wonder what old ferret boy's up to these day?” Ron wondered aloud.

“Probably running so fast and hard he's nothing but a blur. He's likely moved up to just below me on Voldemort's `to AK' list.” Harry laughed bitterly.

“The diary that possessed Ginny was another, wasn't it?” Hermione asked, pressing on. Harry nodded. “Well, we know that one's destroyed as well. That leaves us four more.”

“Dumbledore thought the snake that bit Ron's Dad fifth year, Nagini, was one too. He said that he thought Voldemort planned to make one when he killed me but when that backfired he was too weak for awhile to do anything about it. He thinks Voldemort used Nagini when he killed the Riddle's old caretaker three years ago.”

“Eww,” Ron said, thoroughly grossed out. “He put his soul in a snake?”

“It's not like putting a piece of yours in a spider, Ron,” Harry pointed out. “He likes snakes. They're some of his best friends. Maybe his only friends, come to that.”

“Three more,” Hermione counted.

“Well, Dumbledore reckoned he liked to use significant objects. He showed me a memory of when Voldemort worked for Borgin and Burkes after he left Hogwarts…”

“Voldemort worked at….” Ron started.

“Shh! Let Harry finish,” interrupted Hermione.

“The point is, he had access to lots of questionable artifacts, but two in particular Dumbledore knows he saw and probably murdered their owner to steal were a cup that belonged to Helga Hufflepuff and a locket of Salazar Slytherin's that had belonged to his mother's family, the Gaunts. She sold it before he was born.”

“That's the locket that's not the one you and Dumbledore found, right?” Ron asked.

“Right. So Dumbledore's theory…” Harry noticed Hermione's deep-thought furrow appear again and her eyes glaze over distractedly. She motioned with her hand for him to continue, though, so he did. “was that he was looking for something from each of the four Founders. He had Slytherin and Hufflepuff, he needed Ravenclaw and Gryffindor. Dumbledore was pretty confident that he never got anything from Gryffindor, because the sword's still safe in his office. That's why he had to use Nagini. We just don't know if he found anything of Ravenclaw's.”

“Harry…” started Hermione thoughtfully. “Do you remember fifth year, when we spent so much time helping Ron's Mum cleaning here?”

“Unfortunately without any visible effect for all that work. Of course I do. Doxycide at five paces.”

“Do you remember cleaning the drawing room in particular? There was all this horrid stuff in a glass cabinet; Sirius helped us. There was a music box that made us all really sleepy, and a creepy mechanical spiderish thing that crawled up your arm and tried to bite you?”

Harry absently rubbed his arm as he sorted through his memories of that day. Sirius had indeed been helping them; he'd flattened the thing with a copy of Nature's Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy. Beyond ironic, that. There'd also been an Order of Merlin First Class that Sirius figured his grandfather had bought by giving a load of gold to the Ministry and some old Black family seals… and a heavy locket none of them ever managed to pry open.

Harry locked eyes with Hermione. “Regulus Black. Sirius' younger brother. Sirius told me that from what he was able to find out after Regulus died, he'd joined the Death Eaters but only got in so far before he panicked about what he was being asked to do and tried to back out. What if he found out about the Horcruxes and that's what panicked him? Herms… do you remember what happened to it? Merlin, didn't Sirius throw it away?”

“He tried to,” Hermione said. “But Kreacher kept stealing all the family stuff back. He'd put it somewhere else in the house, Sirius would find it again…”

Ron groaned. “What are you two talking about?”

“But at Christmas you'd got him that quilt…” Harry started.

“And Sirius told me where he slept, and you and Ron and I went to deliver it…” Hermione finished for him. Light dawned on both their faces.

“I was there?” Ron asked.

Harry and Hermione crossed the kitchen as one and threw open a dingy door in the corner opposite the pantry. There, no less smelly or repulsive, was the jumbled nest of rags Kreacher had called home. The small glinting objects Harry's minds' eye had remembered in the far corner were still there, testimony to Kreacher's fierce familial loyalty and magpie tendencies. And there among them was…

Slytherin's locket.

“Don't touch it!” Hermione insisted, grabbing both Harry's hands in her own. “Not until we figure out how to destroy it at least. Remember Dumbledore's hand?”

Ouch.

Harry pulled Hermione close without thinking, filled with an elation unlike anything he had ever known. He had no idea what he was actually feeling, but it was primal and powerful to the point it almost hurt to contain. Three more. And then… Voldemort. And one way or another, it will be over! Finding them had seemed, despite his determination, hardly possible; the task beyond him without Dumbledore's help… but Hermione was still there. Hermione had been there all along. They'd found the first already! And right now he rather fiercely wanted to do something with her that was thoroughly frowned upon when done with the girlfriend of your best friend. Especially when he was staring at you like you'd grown horns and a tail from across the room right over there. Harry could vaguely feel her clinging to him as well; possessed, he was certain, by some entirely innocent intent.

Or, umm, was it? She was holding on so tight he could feel every inch of her. And she was sort of trembling.

Harry took a step back, turning toward Ron, which really would have been more effective if Hermione had let go, but would have to do for now. “She's done it, Ron. Look. Kreacher saved it. It's still here.”

“What is? What the ruddy hell are you two on about?”

“One of the Horcruxes! RAB must have been Regulus Black. He stole Slytherin's locket from Voldemort's hiding place and left it here before the Death Eaters caught him. Hermione remembered that we'd come across it when we cleaning the drawing room fifth year, only we'd no idea what it was then. We all tried to open it, but no one could. Sirius put it in the trash, but Kreacher stole it back and kept it in his nest all these years. We've already found a Horcrux, Ron. Only three more to go.”

Ron came across to the door and peered past them at Kreacher's domain. “Phew. You're telling me part of Voldemort's soul is in there?”

Harry moved again to pick up the locket, only to find Hermione still holding tight. “Herms, really, I think it's okay. If I remember right, last time Sirius used his teeth and Ginny tried banging it on the edge of the fireplace. Nothing bad happened. I'm sure Dumbledore had to use a spell to destroy the other one.”

She looked up at him somewhat dazedly and slowly loosened her grip. “Oh. Right.”

Harry stepped carefully over the amassed rags and gingerly picked up the locket. He felt nothing in particular; no jolt or spark. It looked so ordinary to contain something so deeply sinister. He came out of the boiler-closet and extended it toward Ron, who shook his head.

Hermione took it and examined it more closely, running a finger along the engraved “S”.

“Well, I found it. Which one of you is going to find the spell to break it? I can't do everything, you know.” She looked up and grinned at them both. “We can do this, can't we?” she said.

“We're going to do this. We have to.” Harry told her.

“Alone?” Ron asked.

“Together,” Harry said.

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3. Chapter Three

Official Fine Print: Nope. Not mine. The brainchildren of the mighty pen of JK Rowling. Just playing with them. Honest.

Thanks to JG for Indignant Harry and the pigtails.

And a SPECIAL thanks to all of you who read and reviewed chapters one and two. Wow! You guys are the best. Nothing gets past you and you've got some great ideas. JKR doesn't know what's she's missing.

Magic Never Dies

Chapter 3

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Hermione had thought she knew what it was like to live with Ron and Harry. She'd known them both since they were eleven, she'd spent the last six years in boarding school with them, eating meals, studying, taking classes. Yet somehow, nothing in all their years together at Hogwarts had prepared her for this.

Perhaps it was sharing the bathroom? But no, it couldn't be that, not entirely, that was a casual irritant, nothing more. It must be something else, something more far-reaching and, well, important.

Because all of a sudden, Hermione had found that she couldn't quite keep her eyes off of Harry, and Ron was seriously starting to drive her insane.

It wasn't Ron's fault, exactly. Hermione realized that if their relationship were still on the same footing it had been until a brief while ago, they'd've been fine. She still liked Ron. In fact, she still loved Ron. Just clearly not… that way. Because all of a sudden all of her that way was way too preoccupied with Harry.

And how, exactly, did that happen? The best explanation that Hermione's anxious brain could provide was the transition from the structured environs of the school to the entirely unstructured atmosphere of Grimmauld Place. Suddenly everywhere she turned there was the sight of sweaty Harry in trainers and soaked workout clothes dueling with Ron in the sweltering attics; half-clothed Harry emerging still damp and freshly clean from the shared bathroom after a shower; intent Harry, sitting cross legged with a map on the floor of the drawing room looking for some of the places Dumbledore had taken him in their pensieve travels.

Patient Harry, not in the least put out by Crookshanks plopping down on the map to get his tummy scratched.

Indignant Harry, reading the Daily Prophet and snorting to himself.

Sleepy Harry, fingers wrapped around his coffee in the morning, green eyes still drowsy and far away.

They were all Harrys she already knew fairly well (except perhaps the shower one, with whom she had particularly enjoyed becoming acquainted) yet she seemed to be seeing them in an entirely new light.

And she was desperately afraid that she loved them all.

Not could love, not might love. Not falling in love. Did love. Done deal. Maybe always had, from the force of their intrusion on her awareness. Because what had surprised her most about living at Grimmauld Place wasn't just the sudden influx of physical Harry moments, it was the deeply comforting sense simply that he was there, even out of sight. And the way he would glance up upon her arrival in a room with that look that told her that he welcomed her presence as well, aware she was there no matter how quietly she crept in.

And that, perhaps was the heart of it all. There had always been, long before Trelawney's stupid prophecy, the desperate knowledge that one day Harry might very well be... not there. Gone. It defied logic when she considered that they had remained best of friends and always faced whatever came together, but Ron seemed safe somehow, while Harry… well, Harry had a target indelibly scarred on his forehead. It had never stopped her from worrying about him when they were eleven and twelve. From hugging him, grabbing him, thrusting him behind her when she thought that Lupin and Sirius still meant to kill him when they were thirteen. But as they had grown older still and she had begun to be aware of it she realized she had distinctly different relationships with Ron and Harry. The connection with Harry had completely by-passed the teasing, shy, does-he-does-she phase that she had engaged in with Ron, and Viktor Krum. If she was kind to herself she would say it was as if there wasn't time to waste, but if she was honest she would have to say that she had removed Harry from the range of `boys' and into a little subsection of her mind designated only `Harry.' She had continued to worry about him, continued to consider him one of her best friends. But love him? He was Harry.

As if the very idea was mutually exclusive! She wondered now exactly when her subconscious had steered her toward Ron. Or was it the other way round? Surely her logical, conscious mind had been the one to choose Ron, while her involuntary heart was drawn to Harry? Either way, it hadn't taken long since moving in to Grimmauld Place to see the glaring flaw in her plan.

Actually, the worst of it seemed to date back to that first morning before they'd found the horcrux, when he'd been dreaming and she woke him. She hadn't thought twice about apparating into his bedroom then. Honestly, it was just Harry. But for some reason that particular morning, one look at him struggling despondently against the forces of his dream had jarred something loose deep inside her. She'd made light of it, waking him, and he had seemed relieved, responding in kind. Typical Harry, typical Hermione.

But she'd come to the realization, as she'd waited for him down in the kitchen sipping her tea, that she didn't want to play that game anymore.

If he was going to die, ignoring the fact that she loved him wasn't exactly going to make it any easier to take, was it?

Thankfully the relationship with Ron had not progressed much beyond their agreed upon acceptance of it and a couple of prolonged snogs that Hermione had found enlightening but sort of… flat. She had actually discovered herself once thinking `Is that really it? What Lavender and Parvati go on and on about? I get more of a buzz off just hugging Har...'

Should have been a dead give away, that.

Ron was… Ron. Maddening, endearing, brave, stalwart, goofy. He made her laugh, almost to the point of tears on occasion, and she felt carefree and glad to be young and alive and living on her own terms for once. Other times he skipped the laughs and she went straight to the tears. It drove her crazy how even now he relied on her for factual aid (`Herms, what was the spell that turns all your dirty socks right way out again?') only to moments later decry the source of her knowledge (` Dark Choices in the Dark Arts? Nice light reading, Hermione. Forget that and come play Snap with us.') Sometimes she felt like she was speaking a foreign language to him and he was placating her, nodding just to keep the peace. She utterly loathed that.

And then there was Harry and Ron together. Something else that she had taken utterly for granted at Hogwarts that had also caught her by surprise here. Perhaps because it was just the three of them; no teachers, no other students to diffuse her perception, it came to her how very much she loved their brotherly ease with each other. The give and take, the generally quick forgiveness and deliberate overlooking of established faults between them made her feel somehow… safe. Harry was clearly grateful for Ron's easy acceptance of him as just plain Harry and Ron seemed to enjoy the adventure intrinsic in being Harry's friend. They understood each other on a level she would never be entirely privy to, but she was still happy to share in it, dreaded doing anything that might damage their friendship.

So she loved them both. How had the balance between them all gone so profoundly awry?

`Because you tried to be safe,' her conscience whispered. `You tried to protect your heart. And it doesn't want to be protected from Harry anymore.'

Of course, that would mean telling them both. And she was still trying to come up with the right words for that.

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They'd slipped fairly easily into a comfortable routine on moving in to Grimmauld Place.

Harry tended to be the first up in the morning and last to bed at night. He made breakfast, fed Crookshanks, and poked through the Daily Prophet to see what news there might be of Voldemort's activities, in which there had been a most surprising lull. He then disappeared for the better part of the day, visiting as many of Dumbledore's old friends and colleagues as he could find to see what they might be able to tell him of the fate of the Hufflepuff cup, or any previously unknown item belonging to Rowena Ravenclaw or Godric Gryffindor. Hermione knew that the visits tended to be painful for Harry, as Dumbledore's acquaintances fondly recalled his greatness as a wizard and gentle barmyness as a friend. He often came home and shut himself in his room for hours. Other times he was simply spoiling for a fight and Ron would take him to the attics to duel it out of him.

Ron, now that he had his own room, slept in and usually appeared mid-morning. He would consume whatever Harry had left him, then make an enormous lunch and take his turn with the Prophet. After his meal he took off to spend time in Fred and George's shop and around Diagon Alley, keeping his ear to the ground and protecting his cover from Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, who so far thought he was simply keeping Harry company while working a summer job for the twins. It turned out that Ron would be a surprisingly excellent spy; he could be disarmingly easy to talk to. Anyone and everyone brave or stupid enough to provide a snippet of useful information found their way to the WWW shop and Ron. Most of them seemed anxious for Harry to prove himself against Voldemort and had the most outlandish ideas of what he ought to do to defeat the Dark Lord. The three of them had spent some very amusing evening meals hashing over the more absurd ones.

Hermione found that her own days were surprisingly full. She ate breakfast with Harry, but made it a point to remain low key and allow him to ease into the demands of the day after nights that were clearly etching themselves in his tired face. They were quiet, companionable meals, times with him that she deeply treasured. She spent the rest of her morning hours researching anything she could find about horcruxes and the magic required both to create and destroy them. It was a slow job, her knowledge ultimately gained from tiny snippets or mentions from a wide variety of sources. It turned out to be a very good thing that Sirius' family had been some pretty dark-minded witches and wizards; the library at Grimmauld Place actually outdid Hogwarts in the Dark Magic department. She learned the most important fact from the sheer lack of information available, however; they were dealing with the very depths of evil. Voldemort had sunk desperately low in his search for immortality.

Her afternoons varied. She occasionally visited Diagon Alley with Ron, although she tended to wander fairly quickly from the raucous, good-natured noise of the twins' shop toward the more soothing environs of Flourish and Blotts and her favorite used book store, The Twice-Told Tale. She made other forays as well, experimenting with disguises, to some of the most disreputable shops in Knockturn Alley. She knew that Harry didn't like it, but she was proud of the way he bit back his anxiety and displeasure and said nothing when she related what she'd learned. A year ago he couldn't have done that; he was growing to respect her and she found herself feeling both elated and newly powerful.

The same had been true of jinxing the money he'd duly sent off to the Dursley's. He'd taken her with him to the vault, and she had almost fallen over when she'd see the contents of it. The portion that seemed quite a small fortune when converted into Muggle currency barely made a dent in what Lily and James had left their son. “It's left to you and Ron if I go,” he told her. “Just so you know. Do what you want with it, anything. You can start your own old house elves home if you like. Just be happy. Don't let it get in the way of anything.” He hadn't second guessed her or resisted in any way when she'd cast the spell on the Dursley's portion, just let her get on with it with a trusting smile. She'd worked out an unending curse that provided for any domicile ever purchased with the proceeds to be eternally infested with vermin for as long as there were Dursley's to infest. A quick infertility hex should Dudders' fingers touch the money for his own purposes ensured that that day would come sooner rather than later. Her final touch was a nod to Hagrid - each year on Harry's birthday all three would sprout pig's tails for the day. She was quite sure the final effect would guarantee that house-proud Petunia lived a… busy life, and thought often of Harry and her sister Lily.

Evenings they mostly spent together in the kitchen or drawing room of Grimmauld Place, catching each other up. Hermione had enchanted the old Black family tree tapestry into a sort of bulletin board for the various diverse bits of information they felt might help them; fact and rumor and memory mingled on small pieces of parchment coded in different colored inks and stuck up with a sticking charm. She was constantly rearranging them like the pieces of a puzzle, hoping to find an illuminating pattern.

Ron occasionally went out to parties at the flat above Fred and George's shop, but Harry was never in the mood and Hermione used her research as an excuse to stay in as well. For the most part, however, the dark and gloomy drawing room took on the familiarity of the Gryffindor Common room for all three, and they were well content with each other's company despite the shadow looming over them.

“No bleeding Colin Creevey and his camera,” Harry noted happily. “Almost makes the sheer dismalness of it all worthwhile.”

They had ideas, starts, leads. What they didn't have was another horcrux, or a method to ensure destroying the first one. And Voldemort's silence was beginning to become… deafening.

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It turned out that Hogwarts was indeed to open in the fall, and Harry, Ron and Hermione all received their owls notifying them of enhanced security precautions and requesting they select their courses.

“What do we do now?” Ron asked, and Hermione could hear the traces of regret in his voice. She didn't blame him a bit then; even Harry appeared to be slightly white-faced, as if he felt ill. She found out why, of course, when he passed her hers. There was a familiar bump in the parchment and they both knew very well what it was.

“You can still go,” he said softly. “Herms, you worked so hard…”

And that was when she knew for sure. Because she understood now what all that work had been for, and it wasn't a stupid little Head Girl badge. What was being Head Girl compared to the chance to help your best friend cheat fate and destroy a merciless tyrant? And perhaps make sure he came back home alive in the bargain? She'd come down hard on Harry lately about what she believed to be his fatalism; but when it came to this choice she knew she had somehow traveled a little further down that particular road herself. She didn't want to die; she didn't want any of them to. But she didn't want to live a lie, either, and going back to the safe and familiar path of returning to Hogwarts and pretending nothing was wrong would forever diminish the sacrifices of truly great wizards and witches, like Sirius and Dumbledore and Madam Bones. And Lily and James Potter.

“Now we see what we're really made of,” she said firmly. “Now we write McGonagall. They've been deliberately ignoring us, you know. You know as well as I do that disbanded or not the Order's been keeping its eye on us all summer. The moment Hogwarts gets these letters is when all the rules of the game change. Voldemort's not made any big attempt to find Harry that we know of, probably because Snape told him about the protection of living with the Dursley's. When we don't show at Hogwarts September first they'll all be after us.”

She rose from the kitchen table and gathered parchment and quills, passing them round. “It's not going to get any easier.”

True to form Ron finished first. He passed it to her without thinking, as though turning in an exam.

Dear Professor McGonagall,

Thank you for your letter and the book list, but I have decided not to come back to Hogwarts this year on account of having to help Harry kill You-Know-Who.

Sincerely yours,

Ron Weasley

Short and sweet. Just like Ron. Except, of course, the short part.

Harry seemed to struggle with his for a bit then finally make up his mind and finish quickly. He followed Ron's example, passing his letter to her for approval.

Dear Professor McGonagall,

Thank you for your letter regarding my return to Hogwarts this year. I was glad to hear that the school will be re-opening despite all that happened last term. I think Professor Dumbledore would be pleased. I hope your first year as Head Mistress is a good (and relatively peaceful) one.

I am sorry that I will be unable to attend this year. I am sure you understand when I say there is something else I feel strongly about finishing first.

Thank you for all that you taught me over the past six years, and especially for the chance to be Quidditch Captain last year. I will never forget any of it.

Sincerely,

Harry Potter

Hermione was quite glad she would never have to see Minerva McGonagall read that letter.

Her own missive to her most favorite Professor required a record seventeen pages. Harry and Ron were both long gone by the time she finished it. She wished that she could explain fully about what they had found and were doing, but knew she could not by owl post. Harry wanted them to wait to tell anyone, hopeful each day that they would hear that a new leader had been chosen amongst the Order and that it would be someone they believed in and could trust, someone who would encourage them to join or work with the Order rather than trying to force them back to school.

So far there had been no word at all, a silence almost as disturbing as Voldemort's. She grimly hoped the two were unconnected.

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4. Chapter Four

Official Fine Print: Nope. Not mine. The brainchildren of the mighty pen of JK Rowling. Just playing with them. Honest.

Magic Never Dies

Chapter 4

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Harry and Hermione had established a pattern now of taking it in turns to make breakfast; the one who wasn't cooking had the job of climbing the five flights of stairs it took to check the post. The nature of the house being inhospitable at best to your average owl, they had devised a kind of drop box on the roof that Hermione had alarm-spelled to ring when an owl required personal delivery or a reply. The post-fetcher had the additional chores of cleaning and refilling water and treat dishes, but it was pleasant enough in the cool of the early morning, gazing over the still-sleeping neighborhood.

“You've had one from Professor McGonagall,” Hermione said, sorting through the pile of envelopes she'd retrieved along with the paper.

Harry set a plate of toast between them and a mug of steaming tea in front of her before accepting the letter. He dropped into his chair and laid the envelope beside his empty plate, choosing his coffee instead.

“She's written you already, hasn't she?” he asked.

Hermione nodded. “A few days ago. Go on and open it.”

He sighed. “At least it's not a howler.”

“She wasn't angry, Harry. Not really. More disappointed.”

“That was you. Her favorite student. Mine is going to be something else altogether, I assure you.”

“She always liked you. You brought back the House Cup and let her gloat over Snape for a…” Hermione voice faded as she thought of the apparent defection of the Head of Slytherin back to the company of the Death Eaters. “Just open it.”

He set his mug down and slit the flap of the envelope, his face still.

Dear Mr. Potter,

I am in receipt of your letter of the 26th of August. I confess that I have been reluctant to respond in the hopes I would receive another rescinding your decision prior to September 1st.

I am pleased to tell you, however, that as I sat down to write and question your sanity this morning a voice I have been greatly anxious to hear spoke out at last from the wall of my new office.

`For Merlin's sake, Minerva,' it said. `Leave the poor boy alone. He's got quite enough to be going on with and he knows what he needs to do.'

Yes, Harry, Dumbledore has spoken from his portrait at last. He seems very tired and immediately went back to sleep, but generally once the process has begun it does not take too long for portrait to become accustomed to it's new situation and keep more regular hours. I was certain that you would wish to know. Even though you have chosen not to attend Hogwarts this year I would be pleased to meet with you personally to discuss potential lines of ongoing study I believe might be of interest to you as you attempt to complete the task you mentioned. If I do not hear by return of owl that another time is preferable I shall expect to see you in my office at 10am on Monday September 20. I feel I should point out to you that this is the day after Miss Granger's birthday.

Yours sincerely

Minerva McGonagall

“Dumbledore's portrait talked to her this morning,” Harry related to her.

Hermione's eyes widened. “That's wonderful news! Maybe this means there'll be a new leader for the Order soon as well.”

“That would be a relief, depending on who it is,” Harry agreed. “I think you're right about things picking up soon.”

“Has your scar been troubling you?”

Harry shook his head. “No. I think he's pretty careful to block me right out these days. Much as he enjoyed how much it hurt me, he realized he was giving too much away with it.”

“Harry,” Hermione said carefully, “I think it may be time to tell someone else about what we're doing. Just in case something happens, you know. We don't want it all to go to waste and it would be a huge boost to Voldemort if no one else knew about it or they had to start all over again.”

Harry snorted. “All over again? We've got one horcrux we can't even destroy so far.”

“I think we should tell Lupin. And Tonks, of course.”

Harry was quiet a moment, thinking, aware she was watching him through her lashes despite her casual gaze at the headlines of the Daily Prophet. He knew Hermione could probably read faster than that if the paper had been printed in Ancient Runes.

“Is that really fair to Lupin?” he asked. “He's got enough complications in his life right now, including Tonks. I can't see as he'd want to be in the middle of this.”

`You can hardly call Tonks a complication!” Hermione said indignantly. “She loves him!”

Harry eyed Hermione dubiously, his feeling clear. At least he had the sense not to say it. “Look, Dumbledore told me not to say anything to anyone except you and Ron. Let's wait and see what his portrait has to say first, please?”

She nodded her acquiescence. “Alright. Did Professor McGonagall say when you could go and see it?”

“The twentieth of September. She erm… reminded me that it was the day after your birthday. Is there anything you'd especially like to do this year?”

Hermione's level brown eyes were watching him. He met them with his own, but felt the familiar sense of failing her somehow. What did she want from him? She was his best friend, he'd give her anything, if he only bloody knew what it was she was looking for…

“Surprise me,” she said.

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Hermione woke abruptly to pitch darkness. The house was silent, but Crookshanks' head was raised, ears pricked, at the foot of her bed and she knew somehow that it was a sound in the house that had woken her; familiar as Crookshanks was he didn't share her dreams. That she knew of, anyway.

She heard it again then, an abruptly stifled cry that sounded like an animal of some sort. This time it was followed by the soft sounds of footsteps on the stairs and the muffled closing of a door. She sat up and slid from her bed, reaching for her wand.

“Lumos,” she whispered, padding across her room and opening the door a crack, peering into the hall. Ron's door at the far end was closed but she could still hear the regular sound of his snoring. She was reminded more of a hibernating bear rather than the sharper sound she had first heard; clearly Ron wasn't the source. Checking the opposite direction she noticed a faint band of light under Harry's door. The house was quiet once more; there was no sign of an intruder, no movement above or sound from below. She crept across the hall and rapped softly.

“Harry?” She heard the soft sound of shuffling feet moving like something heavy was being carried and the muffled cry again, more urgent or pleading somehow this time. “Harry? Are you…” Footsteps came toward the door, lighter and more distinct, no longer dragging.

The door opened a crack and Hermione was met by the sight of Tonks, her bubblegum pink hair disheveled and her left cheek smeared with something rust-colored.

Hermione squeaked. She had opened her mouth to say something intelligent, like “Tonks! What are you doing here this time of night?” when her brain supplied the information that the rust colored something was blood and Tonks wasn't opening the door to Harry's room any further than she had to.

“He's going to be alright, I think,” Tonks said, correctly interpreting the squeak. “'Lupin's gone to fetch a couple of potions. Why don't you go on back to bed and come see him in the morning.”

To her eternal humiliation Hermione squeaked again, but this time it was with bitten back outrage at such a ridiculous dismissal.

“Open the door, Tonks,” she managed on her second try.

Tonks shook her head. “Go on Hermione. You don't want… this isn't the kind of thing you saw in the Hospital Wing at Hogwarts. It wasn't Voldemort, okay? He ran into a pack of Death Eaters dealing with Mundungus Fletcher. I don't think they even knew it was Harry until it was too late. Lupin and I will deal with it, you can hear all about it in the morning.”

“Open the damn door, Tonks!” She managed it with some authority on her first try this time, and saw that Tonks understood she was serious. She stepped back slowly from the door with a sigh, and was saved from being knocked over by Hermione's inward rush only by the fact that she herself tripped on the edge of rug and landed unceremoniously on her bum.

Hermione made to fling herself at the bed but stopped short when her brain caught up with the image her eyes had already taken in; it felt for all the world as if her heart kept going and ended up in her throat, lodged behind her tonsils.

Tonks was right; Hermione was forcibly struck by the reality of the sort of danger they were facing now. No one at Hogwarts was capable of the kind of brutality she saw before her; Harry might have always been accident prone but these wounds were meant to disable, maim or kill. They were magical in nature, clearly the result of spells rather than physical altercation, and gave off a heavy, discernable echo of the forces used to wield them. In other words, highly unpleasant.

And they were all over Harry, who shifted uncomfortably on the bed and made again the sound that had invaded her sleep. His eyes were unfocused but Hermione sensed that he knew she was there; she moved slowly the rest of the way to the bed and dropped down to her knees beside it.

“Harry, I…” He turned his head, gazing intently at her as if from a long way away, then suddenly lifted a shaking hand to the back of her neck and arched up from the bed, his lips meeting hers. Hermione froze for a moment in shock and then just as abruptly melted; his lips moved anxiously across her own and when she felt his tongue slide along her lower one she opened her mouth to him without hesitation.

And felt his tongue carefully transfer some small, hard object from his mouth to hers.

Mission accomplished, she felt his hand disentangle from her hair as he slumped back to the bed. His eyes sought hers again and the words `don't tell… don't tell…' skimmed across the surface of her mind like a gull over waves, although she was certain his lips never moved. She was keeping a close eye on those now.

To borrow a phrase from Ron… bloody hell! The boy could kiss.

“I, uh… gosh, I'm sorry, Hermione, I didn't know you guys were… I mean, I thought you were with Ron.” Tonks stammered.

“I… we, um. Haven't told anybody.” Hermione improvised, trying to speak as naturally as she could while her brain raced. She'd pushed the object under her own tongue but longed to spit it out; whatever it was, Harry was so intent on hiding it that she thought it must have something to do with the Horcruxes. The thought of having a seventh of Voldemort's putrid soul in her mouth, no matter how wonderfully it got there, was gag-making.

Tonks had her wand back out and she murmured an incantation over Harry; Hermione realized she was removing a muffling charm.

“Herms…” Harry said, his voice recognizable at last. “I tried to… son of a TONKS!” Tonks' name was followed by the unmuffled version of the sound that had first woken Hermione; this one caused the hairs on the back of her neck to prickle in sympathy.

His shirt was torn and charred and his chest and shoulders bore several unmistakable welts of varying sizes where spells had lashed their way across him. One in particular, running across his ribs, under his arm and round to his back seemed quite determined to bleed despite Tonks' best efforts to quell it so far. A long, jagged cut trailed up his wand arm from wrist to elbow and there was a still faintly smoking hole in the right hip of his jeans. What seemed to elicit the howl of protest was Tonks' probing of one of his shoulders; from the misshapen state of it Hermione guessed that he had either dislocated it, or lost some bones once again.

“No fears, Harry. Just checking to make sure it's all there. We'll have that fixed up in a jiffy.”

Hermione took advantage of Tonks' focus on Harry to spit the small object into her hand and place it carefully in the pocket of her pajamas. She vaguely heard another incantation as she removed her hand from her pocket; there was a faint squelching sound and she saw that Harry's shoulder had returned to its usual shape and Tonks had moved on to look with interest at the cut on his wand arm. Unfortunately Harry's face over her shoulder was now somewhere between deathly white and overdue-to-be-ill green.

“I can tell you he looks better then Mundungus at any rate,” Tonks said cheerfully. “Lost a bit of an ear, most of his hair and both eyebrows, he did. Harry yanked him down and a spell flew over his head. Owes Harry his life, according to Kingsley. You know how he's always got some dodgy bit of a deal on the side? Well, tonight, whatever he was selling was something a couple of Death Eaters just couldn't live without. According to Kingsley the DE's didn't get away with whatever it was, either. They're both at St Mungo's with a bad case of full body boils.”

“Tonks?” Harry said. Hermione thought his voice was unnatural, even given the situation. She noticed he was starting to sweat as well, his fringe grown wet and sticking to his forehead.

“Remus was on duty with Kingsley when it happened. He Flooed me from the Leaky Cauldron and I apparated right over for Harry. I think we managed to keep the whole thing quiet as possible.”

“Tonks?” Harry's teeth were gritted now.

There was a soft pop and Remus Lupin apparated directly into the room. He seemed taken aback to find Hermione there and looked reprovingly at Tonks.

“I though we discussed…”

“Hermione's with Harry now, Remus, I just couldn't,” Tonks informed him. “You know how I feel about people in love being together throughout the good and the bad.”

“TONKS! Take it back, just take it back or I swear to Merlin you won't live long enough to marry him,” Harry howled.

Tonks looked puzzled. Hermione could clearly see that something was wrong, but couldn't put her finger on exactly what. Lupin glanced from his intended to Harry and sighed.

“Dissuo Incantatum,” Harry's shoulder dislocated again with another squelch; to Hermione amazement his color almost immediately improved and the rapid breathing slowed.

“Tonks, my love, you are a menace. You put it back wrong, trapped a nerve or something. A good hint is when your patient threatens to kill you something's generally off.”

“Sorry, Harry!” Tonks exclaimed, looking genuinely stricken. “You should have said something.”

Harry muttered something in which the words `bloody' `word' and `edgewise' figured, the whole being thankfully unintelligible.

“We can't just leave it like that,” Hermione protested, thinking longingly of Madam Pomfrey.

Lupin went to stand beside the bed. “James had a wonky shoulder that he could slip in and out of joint almost at will,” he informed Harry. “Came in very handy more than once, convincing someone that he was hurt and then popping it back in and firing off a curse while their guard was down. Perhaps you've inherited the same sort of bone structure without realizing it up `til now. Will you let me try what used to work for him if he got it stuck out of place?”

Harry nodded reluctantly.

Lupin reached down and took hold of Harry's upper arm and elbow, placed one knee firmly against his side and without giving any outward sign of warning, pulled and twisted sharply. Unlike its magical counterpart the Muggle version of the operation emitted only a faint click; Harry's mouth opened for a moment as if to cry out but closed again without doing so.

“Better?” Lupin asked.

Harry nodded again and managed a “thanks, Professor.”

Lupin laughed, a short, dry, barking sound. “Really, Harry, I taught you for less than a full year three years ago. How is it I still can't convince you to call me Remus?”

He removed several small potion bottles from the pockets of his robes and set them on the table beside Harry's bed.

“What if I help Harry here clean up a bit and you take Hermione and find us all something to drink. I highly recommend something at least slightly alcoholic for young Master Potter.”

Tonks nodded her agreement and shooed Hermione out into the hall and down the stairs toward the kitchen. “You've lost that wretched elephants' foot thing,” she commented as they went. “Oooh and look! No house elf heads!”

“Harry let Kreacher take them to Hogwarts for company,” Hermione said. “Poor things.”

“How did Sirius' Mum take that? I'd've thought she'd be screaming still.”

Hermione pointed her wand toward the portrait of Mrs. Black; the velvet curtains parted and she heard Tonks catch her breath and begin to laugh.

Harry had carefully painted a thick patch of dull silver tape across the old hag's mouth with magical Portrait Silencing Paint from Fred and George's shop; her black eyes still snapped but little more than a muffled grumbling could be heard.

“Brilliant!” Tonks snorted. “Oh how Sirius would have loved that.”

“That's what Harry thought as well,” Hermione agreed, drawing the curtains again. They proceeded to the kitchen and Tonks collected glasses and a tray while Hermione found several butterbeers and a half bottle of Ogden's firewhiskey.

“I've brought an extra glass in case Ron wakes up,” Tonks informed her as they climbed the stairs again. “So tell me, how long have you and Harry been together?'

Hermione stumbled and only just managed to right herself without breaking any of the bottles. “Er, ..” she started.

“He's grown up a treat, Harry,” Tonks babbled on happily. “Lovely bum. And those eyes…”

If embarrassment could just be channeled, Hermione thought that at that particular moment she could have blasted twenty horcruxes without blinking.

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5. Chapter Five

Official Fine Print: Nope. Not mine. Just the way I think it ought to be. And I don't make any money from this, either.

Magic Never Dies

Chapter 5

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Harry woke from a dead sleep to a blinding, paralyzing headache. His tongue felt fuzzy and thick, as if a small animal had died in his mouth. He shifted in bed, trying to turn his head away from the light streaming in his window and realized it wasn't just his head that ached. The rest of him felt as if it had gone ten rounds with Hagrids' little brother as well. He managed to turn to evade the light, blinked, and met Hermione's wide brown eyes at close range. Really close range. Like, on the pillow next to him close.

“Before you panic,” she said. “It's not what you think.”

Panic? Think? Both of those were functions well beyond his capabilities at this particular juncture.

“Crookshanks left a dead mouse in my mouth,” he whispered, deadly serious. It came out more like `Croosthak gef a deaf moose en my muff.' And Hermione couldn't have understood him at all, really, because she actually began to laugh. Hysterically. She wouldn't make fun of him at a time like this, not his best friend ever. Would she?

Apparently she would.

“I expect it feels that way,” she said at last, wiping her eyes, and sat up. The bed rocked slightly, and Harry felt suddenly seasick. He heard the clink of a bottle against glass from the direction of the bedside table behind Hermione and she abruptly re-appeared, looming back into his field of vision alarmingly and extending a glass toward him.

“Lupin left you this. He said you'd need it in the morning.”

She tried to hand the glass to him, but quickly spotted the flaws inherent in that plan when his hand wavered right past and missed it altogether.

“Never mind. I'll hold it. You just sit up a bit and…”

He tried to slide his elbow underneath him to raise himself up on the bed but gave up with a hiss as soon his bruised shoulder took his weight. Hermione sighed and slid one hand behind his neck, lifting his head. Surprisingly heavy for what came out of it sometimes…

“Drink.” she ordered, guiding the glass to his lips and keeping it there until it was emptied, despite his expression of evident distaste.

Whatever it was - Lupin hadn't said it was a hangover portion, but Hermione had assumed as much from the way he'd made sure Harry was well and truly anaesthetized with firewhiskey before he and Tonks had left the night before - it worked quite remarkably quickly. His eyes began to focus and he remained free of that suspiciously green tinge when she leaned back to replace the glass on the bedside table.

“Better?” she asked.

He nodded tentatively.

“Good,” she said. “Let me know when you're feeling quite yourself again, then, so I can go ahead and throttle you.”

Harry's eyes crossed and his head sunk further back into the pillow. “Hermione…”

“Yes, that's it. Hermione Granger, remember me? And Ron? Weasley? Big tall guy with red hair, you can't miss him. The friends you're meant to be letting help you? The ones you just left behind, who had to wake up last night to find an Auror sneaking you home a bloody mess?”

She saw his eyes shifting round the room as if searching for Ron's hiding place. “I don't remember Ron, honestly. I mean, of course I remember Ron, just not last night. I remember Lupin… and you… and Tonks. Lupin kept giving me firewhiskey but you guys just had butterbeers. Tonks got kind of bubbly toward the end though, didn't she? You both did. Wait a minute.” His eyes narrowed. “Tonks said something about my bum… and you agreed with her!”

“She said you had a good build for Quidditch and I concurred. Really, Harry, you're blowing things entirely out of proportion considering…”

“Considering what? I don't remember Lupin and I discussing either of your flying abilities.” Harry said resentfully.

“Considering you impulsively decided to try and see if I still had my tonsils in front of Tonks just before Lupin showed up. She's rather attuned to stuff like that just at the moment. You might have thought.”

He looked puzzled for a moment and then grinned as the memory slowly returned.

“It seemed like such a good plan at the time. I was afraid I'd swallow it if I passed out. I do have to admit I've never been quite so grateful you weren't Ron.”

“Harry, if you don't want to find yourself slapped repeatedly for whatever remains of your natural life, do yourself the biggest favor ever by understanding that no girl ever wants to be compared to kissing Ron. Not by you, at any rate.”

She was being humorous, but Harry reckoned if even he could hear the edge in her voice, there was indeed an edge her voice to be heard. Once upon a time he might have quailed before that sound and run up to the boys dormitories with his tail between his legs to report to Ron. Somehow now he found it kind of… cute.

“It wasn't supposed to turn out quite that way,” he said.

“It never is,” she told him.

“Was it really that distasteful?” he asked.

“What, having you maneuver a bit of Voldemort's soul into my mouth? Not every girl's dream kiss, no.”

He sighed. “It wasn't a horcurx, Hermione. It was just a silver cup with Sirius' family crest on it.

I mean it, Herms, I never thought I was going to find anything last night, I was just following Mundungus to see where he unloaded his stuff so that you and Ron and I could decide where to start looking. After we found the locket with Kreatcher's little collection I remembered seeing Mundungus in Hogsmeade that weekend outside the Three Broomsticks with the cup in his suitcase full of stuff. He'd obviously nicked it during an Order meeting and was trying to sell it off. Well, whoever'd buy that more than likely comes across the sort of stuff we're looking for. Maybe something of Gryffindor's or Ravenclaw's.”

That actually seemed frightening logical and practical… for Harry, anyway. And Mundungus Fletcher wasn't typically what you'd call a threat. She felt her anger start to diffuse. “So what happened?”

“I don't actually know. One minute I was just following him under the invisibility cloak and the next a couple of Death Eaters apparated right in front of us and yanked him into a side alley between two shops. It's not like I'm fond of Dung or anything, I mean he was off dealing black market cauldrons while he was supposed to be watching me the summer Umbridge sent a couple of the only things that would ever kiss her after me and Dudley. But I couldn't just let him get AK'd or anything. I didn't know that Dumbledore'd had time to follow up when he said he'd see to it that Dung stopped pinching Sirius' stuff after I told him. It turns out Lupin and Kingsley were following him as well. I wouldn't have jumped in if I'd thought anyone else would help him.”

Hermione's eyes fixed on his. `Yes you would,' they said. He found something suddenly fascinating about the pattern of cracks in the ceiling, avoiding her gaze. Look, that one looked just like a bunny!

“Was it really that bad?” he asked after a moment.

“What?” Hermione asked, trying to see what was so incredibly interesting up on the ceiling that he wouldn't look at her. The peeling paint and cracks directly over the bed looked an awful lot like a Hungarian horntail about to pounce to her and she quickly dropped her eyes. Harry was watching her again too, with a look that seemed to contain a mixture of equal parts curiosity and trepidation.

“Me er, you know…giving you the cup.”

Hermione smiled. He seemed awfully interested in some kind of reaction to something he himself had tried to pass off as a practical solution to not choking. She wondered if he had any clue just how it had affected her. She'd definitely like to explore his capabilities in that magical skill more in depth.

“What the bloody hell happened to you, mate?” suddenly startled them both from the doorway. Ron stood propped in the door frame, hair in full revolt and eyes still heavy with sleep. Hermione forced herself to freeze; to move away now would surely seem guilty somehow. She had nothing to feel guilty about. She was just helping out her best friend. By sitting in his bed in her pajamas thinking about his technique while planning their next kiss...? Wasn't that what best friends were for?

Damn. She was just as self-delusional as Harry, wasn't she?

“You slept right through it,” she said brightly. “Tonks brought him home like that last night. Pretty, isn't he?”

“Thanks for sharing, Harry,” he said, coming properly into the room and climbing onto the foot of the bed. “I thought we were in this together.”

“I was just telling Hermione that all I thought I was doing was following Mundungus to find out where he was fencing stuff so that we could go looking together. How was I supposed to know he was about to be jumped by Death Eaters?”

“Because you were there? Not such a hard call.” Ron supplied, but he grinned. “Tough luck. Hope they look half as bad as you do.”

“Worse, I think,” Harry told him with some satisfaction. “There's some advantage to being fresh from Hogwarts. Those guys come right out with the big stuff and it's all they expect in return. You can sneak in some of the old school standards without them being prepared at all. With any luck they're still covered with oozing boils in St. Mungo's.”

“Hardly fatal, those. You look as if you were on the wrong end of some seriously nasty stuff.”

“And they weren't even trying to do me in. The joke is it seems like I'm safer than anyone ever thought. Remember how I told you Snape called off those Death Eaters at Hogwarts? Well it wasn't just because he loves me after all. One of the two last night reminded the other one that they weren't supposed to kill me, too. Voldemort apparently has to have me for himself. So stop worrying, both of you. Unless it's old red eyes himself, just duck behind me.”

Hermione didn't like the sound of that; there was a reckless edge to his words and she was pretty sure she knew what was prompting it.

“You think you're one of them, don't you. You think you're a horcrux. And you think that's why Voldemort won't let anyone else kill you.”

“I don't think I was supposed to be,” he admitted. “but yeah. The more I've thought about it, the more sense it makes. I think he was going to use killing me to make one, sort of foil the prophecy and further his own immortality at the same time. Only he hadn't counted on my Mum doing what she did. And you know what else? I wonder about her. Everyone always says she was so smart, and the way she said, `Not Harry,' and `Take me,' makes me wonder if she suspected something or even knew what he was up to. But whatever he was going to do went wrong because of the way she loved me and I became the horcrux instead of the object he'd intended. Or maybe the scar is a horcrux and it's just attached to me. Either way, that's why I speak parseltongue. That's why we can enter each other's minds. I don't think I was the last one, though. I do think Nagini's one, and I think he knew how to do it to her as another living being because he'd already done it to me. I think he made Nagini as a spare just so he can kill me and try and take a bit of his precious immortality back because it kills him that it's walking around spouting parseltongue and sharing all his bloody dreams inside of a lousy half blood like me.”

Hermione and Ron were both silent, staring at him in horror.

“You don't have to get all freaked out. If I haven't turned into him in sixteen years it's pretty unlikely it'll happen while you're watching,” he said, burying his sorrow and shame at their expressions in sarcasm.

“Does that mean…” Ron started. “Er, if you have to destroy all the other ones… what's to stop… I mean…”

“Yeah, Ron. To totally finish him off, one of us is going to have to finish me, too.”

“You don't know that,” Hermione said quite calmly, surprising herself. “There are more possibilities to that scenario then you've obviously considered. First, before you get all excited about offing yourself, we should find a way to prove that you are really are one. I'm guessing that's why you want to go to your parent's house, following Dumbledore's footsteps back to the scenes of the crimes.”

Harry nodded. She always knew.

“Assume we find you are one. What's to stop us from finding out how you make a horcrux and dividing Voldemort out of you into something else and then destroying it!” she pointed out.

“Er, the fact we'd have to kill someone to do it?” Harry pointed back.

“Er, what if the someone were Voldemort?” she volleyed. “I know you have your issues with having to be the one to kill him, but what if we managed to use his own dark magic to finish him off? Could you live happily ever after with that?”

There was the most complete silence that she had ever heard in that room. The heck with a pin dropping, the molecules of air colliding would have been thunderous had they been able to move.

“Bloody hell!,” said Ron, rather predictably, she thought.

“I love you, Hermione,” said Harry, in a voice that was shaky enough to convey the sincerity of every word.

And Hermione felt her heart start to beat again.

“Well, that's it then. We'll have to start working out the mechanics of it immediately. Ron, why don't you come downstairs and help me make breakfast? What do you feel up for, Harry?” she asked briskly. She had a mission now, a direction, and life spread out in a safely ordered path before her. “Will egg and bacon sit all right?'

“I'll come,” he said, attempting to sit up in the bed. It took him a couple of tries, but when he looked up at last, flushed with his success, he met his two best friends' identical expressions once more.

“What?”

“Don't make me invite my mum over,” Ron told him.

Harry dropped back to the pillows with a sigh.

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Ron was quiet while Hermione gathered things for breakfast, not even teasing her about doing it all the Muggle way.

“So how long have you known?” he asked her suddenly.

`Known what?' would be insulting and unfair after he'd been the one to take that first, most difficult step into the ether now between them.

“I'm not avoiding you by saying I don't know. I'm really not sure. But I haven't been able to ignore it for the last couple of weeks, I guess,” she said carefully. “I'm sorry I wasn't ready to say anything before you… noticed.”

“I'm not stupid, Hermione. I mean, I was kind of surprised when it didn't go that way from the very beginning.”

“I know you were. Or that you sort of felt that way, anyway. Like you didn't really believe in you and me either.”

Ron sighed and sat down at the table. “You know, over the years I thought I'd got over being jealous of him for almost everything. Fourth year really brought it all to a head, when we had that falling out over the Tri Wizard and he almost ended up getting killed and Cedric did… I pretty well stopped wanting to be Harry at that point. The only thing he had left that I envied him was you.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, sinking down into the chair next to him, food forgotten.

“I thought you went from looking after him to really looking at him sometime around fourth year too,” he said. “But you also saw that the adventure bit was over and he really was more likely then the rest of us to… not make it. Doesn't really take a prophecy when you've got a clue.

Until he does what he has to do, none of the rest of us will ever really know if he's going to live or die, and even if he lets us help none of us will ever be the biggest thing in his life until it's over. Ginny didn't understand that and I know it sounds awful coming from her own brother, but I'm glad they broke it off. I always knew that you weren't like other girls, Herms. I knew if you ever decided to act on the way you felt about him you were at least going in with your eyes wide open and you wouldn't walk away from him no matter what. And in the end I guess I'm glad about that. I mean, I wish it was different for you and me, but this is okay. He sort of deserves you.”

Ron took a huge breath. That had been an unusually long and deeply thought out speech for him… Then he realized that the end might not have sounded quite right. “In the best possible way, of course. Because you're, erm, really something else, Hermione.”

“Excellent save, Weasley. Unnecessary, but inspired. And Ron, I really do love you. You're the best friend anyone could ever hope to have. Honestly.”

Hermione threw her arms around him and found herself elated to discover that she was filled with a genuine fondness entirely uncolored by regret as she hugged him.

Until she met Tonk's rather surprised face in the fire over his shoulder.

“Wotcher, Hermione. Still can't make up your mind, then?”

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Harry was fast asleep when she brought up his breakfast, and remained so during the time it for Hermione to shower and don clean clothes. She piled up several of the more promising books she'd uncovered on her last poke through the Black family library and added parchment and quill to the pile then followed Crookshanks across the hall to his room. There was a fairly comfortable old wingchair against one wall; she dragged it over to the bed and dropped into it with the first book on her lap. Crookshanks hopped up on the bed, circled several times and flopped down near Harry's knees, purring contentedly. Ron stopped in on his way out to the twins shop, but Harry didn't stir again until almost noon. Hermione marked her place and closed her book to find green eyes watching her from the bed.

“You never answered my question,” he said softly. “Was it really that bad?”

There were two ways she could play this. She could be logical, rational Hermione and explain that no, it had been very nice actually, so nice that she had had a talk with Ron which ended up with them agreeing that things between them weren't working out the way they'd hoped, and maybe she and Harry should think about trying it again under less trying conditions. And without the Black family heirloom.

Or she could answer the call of her heart, which had started beating in a most erratic and demanding manner as soon as it realized there was even the slightest chance that for the first time in seventeen years it might get to GO FIRST!

I win! cried her heart. Wait! screamed her brain. Shut up! said her lips.

“I didn't say…” Harry started, but happily enough he never got to finish that thought.

Hermione pounced. She climbed on the bed. She straddled those lovely narrow hips of his, leaned down until her hair fell forward and obscured the rest of the world and kissed Harry Potter. And when Harry kissed her back every single bit of her, mind, body and soul, cried Yes!

In the end, she got to exercise (or was it exorcise? They'd certainly haunted her…) most of the multiple Harry fantasies she'd had over the last week or two. If Hermione had a type he was clearly it, the multi-hued bruising of his shoulder and still healing lacerations that covered him did nothing to mar her desire for him, and his appreciation of her became obvious to her quite quickly by the time she'd got him down to nothing but a pair of rather nice worn plaid flannel boxers.. His now evident enjoyment of her boosted her self confidence exponentially. Watching him carefully unbutton her shirt like he was unwrapping the best birthday present ever made her eyes prickle with unshed tears. His touch progressed from tentative to assured as they explored each other and she could sense him learning her carefully, as if she were… what? Where had she seen that rapt expression before?

`The Firebolt,' her brain supplied helpfully.

`A broom?' questioned her heart.

`He loves that broom.' her brain admonished. `Think what it means to him. Think Quidditch, think flying, think soaring away over Hogwarts…'

`I'm afraid of heights,' said her heart.

`No you're not. That's me. Just shut up and enjoy him or that's the last time I let you make the decisions!'

He was being extremely cooperative but she couldn't help but notice him wincing after a certain point and realized that they would both enjoy the proceedings considerably more if Harry were back to reasonably full health before they went… ahead. His argument that there were plenty of almost equally satisfying activities they could pursue until then tempted but did not deter her; she'd waited this long, a couple more days wouldn't hurt them.

“Want to bet?” Harry asked, grinning.

“I can put the time to good use researching the reverse horcrux issue,” she told him.

“Well, if you put it that way,” he agreed, curling around her as she sat up on the bed and pulled another book from the stack she'd brought. She watched his head settle near her hip and the dark lashes sweep down to obscure his eyes.

She perused the table of contents, looking for the most likely chapter to start with. Crookshanks jumped cautiously back on to the bed now that the rolling around seemed to have ceased and chose Harry as the more stationary of the two to base his operations. She watched in some amusement as Harry responded to the prodding of a cold wet nose in his neck by reaching out blindly and beginning to stroke the cat. It was several minutes later when Hermione realized a few very important things.

She hadn't read a single word of her book.

Harry was a very good petter. She'd read somewhere that animal lovers were better at the human variety as well, more attuned to nuances of touch.

Crookshanks was way happier than she was and it just wasn't fair.

“Harry?” she asked.

“Hmm?” he responded, half asleep.

“Are you better yet?”

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6. Chapter 6

Official Fine Print: Nope. Not mine. The brainchildren of the mighty pen of JK Rowling. Just playing with them. Honest.

A/N: Oops. Got writing on this one and it just got too unwieldy. I'll post it as two separate chapters, today and probably Saturday. Thanks for reading and all the really awesome & thought provoking reviews. You guys are amazing!

Magic Never Dies

Chapter 6

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The bell tolled during breakfast just two days later. Ron, Harry and Hermione were all eating together; the change in dynamics between the three had actually acted something like an escape valve and they were all a little easier around each other than they had been. Harry hadn't actually been conscious that Ron's sleeping habits were anything other than his true nature shrugging off six years of Hogwarts hours, but it felt oddly right to have him back with them in the mornings. He knew that Hermione and Ron had talked. So far he and Ron had not, at least in so many words. There was lots of very pre-verbal animalistic male ritual behavior going on; Harry was ruefully aware that he'd probably done everything short of actually licking Hermione in front of Ron to get his none too subtle point across, but he'd also allowed himself to be pretty thoroughly pushed around on several occasions that could have gone either way, dutifully doing his belly-up-to-the-big-lion time to keep the peace.

Neither had suggested resuming practice dueling quite yet.

“Owl on the roof.” Hermione said absently when it rang a second time, deeply absorbed in a thick, musty copy of Dark Magic Your Mother Never Taught You. She hadn't found anything about horcruxes yet, but it was fascinating reading none the less. Repulsive, but fascinating.

“I'll get it,” said Harry, pushing back his chair.

Hermione looked up from her book then and glared at Ron.

“What? He offered, and it's good exercise for him, keep things from stiffening up.” Ron told her. “Not everything is supposed to, you know.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Fine, I'll…”

“I can do it, for Merlin's sake, I'm not a cripple or anything. It's fine. You just sit there flaccidly and enjoy the Prophet, Ron. Hey, ready for a little dueling practice this afternoon?” Harry grinned at Ron as he passed on his way to the stairs.

Ron grinned back, “Absolutely. Prepare to be whipped, Oh Chosen One.”

“Oh there's a good idea.” Hermione muttered, returning to her book. “You'd better not take the roof off, either of you.”

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The fact that her tea was stone cold the next time she took a sip alerted Hermione to the passage of time she'd lost to about three chapters. Ron was still engrossed in the Quidditch results but there was no sign of Harry.

She closed her book. “I wonder what's happened to Harry?”

“Owl must have needed a reply,” Ron commented unconcernedly.

“I'm going to go check,” she decided.

“Call it what you like,” said Ron.

“Are you going to be permanently insufferable about this, or is this just a phase?” Hermione asked him.

“Haven't decided yet,” he told her cheerfully. “But it seems a waste not to make the most of it.”

She reflected that he was probably well entitled to more than the usual fair share of teasing as she climbed the seemingly endless stairs to the roof. He'd been really good about the whole thing so far, there was definitely the feeling of having dodged a bullet amongst all three of them. Hermione's heart may have discovered that it had long been more invested in Harry than she'd allowed herself to believe, but she still understood the importance of Ron's friendship both to Harry and, if she were honest, to herself as well. It was a difficult balance, three, but the payoff if it could be managed was tripled also. They were far stronger together, and anything that upped the odds of Harry's survival was worth fighting for in Hermione's book.

She opened the door to the roof and stepped out into a beautiful, crisp blue-skied September morning to find Harry on his knees with Fawkes perched beside him. The phoenix's gaze was calm and ageless; Harry's eyes when he raised them to her were so anguished it physically hurt her to meet them.

“He won't go away,” Harry told her quietly, his voice hollow.

“No,” she said, coming to sit beside him. “I don't expect he will now.”

“Hermione, I can't.”

“You'll have to. Dumbledore obviously thought you could, Fawkes does,”

“But…”

“Calm down, Harry. It doesn't have to mean everything you're thinking. Fawkes has chosen you to be the leader of the Order, not to try and replace Dumbledore. Think about it. Rufus Scrimgeour kept wanting you to go and be a rallying point for the Ministry. He wasn't asking you to run the Ministry; mind you, he was calculating that your presence there would give people a sense of confidence. Well, now you can be that for the Order, something you actually believe in. Not faking people into thinking that things are okay when they aren't, but helping them find the resolve to work together and defend themselves. You don't have to pretend to know everything or be in charge of anything, you can just choose someone you think Dumbledore trusted to be the actual leader and get on with the horcruxes yourself.”

She could see that he was listening carefully to her; she hoped that her words were reaching him. Fawkes warbled agreeably and nudged Harry's shoulder with his head. She saw him reach out a shaking hand and stroke the fiery bird's soft plumage. She knew by the set of his shoulders how miserable he was, how the ache of missing Dumbledore and the weight of all that was before him had come rushing back with Fawkes appearance; she reckoned that Fawkes had always known his destination and had been trying to give Harry time. But time ultimately waited for no one and Voldemort certainly wouldn't either.

Her heart bled for him; it took several minutes for the reality of the last couple of days to seep back into her consciousness; to poke her gently and remind her how things had changed. She slid a tentative arm around his shoulders as reassuringly as she could, uncertain of his reaction. He stiffened and then seemed to remember as well, turning gratefully into her embrace. Every muscle in his body felt coiled and tensed against accepting the meaning of Fawkes' presence. She stroked her hand gently along his wand arm, forgetting, and he winced. Fawkes eyes seemed to light up and he waddled closer, and leant over between them. He looked from one to the other expectantly. Hermione remained uncertain what he wanted but Harry sighed and pushed up the sleeve of his sweatshirt. Fawkes' eyes welled up over the angry spell slash that ran up Harry's arm, healing the stubborn damage before her eyes. As the last tear fell Harry suddenly moved so that it missed the very end of the cut and splashed instead on to Hermione's hand. Immediately a sense of calm and well being swelled within her such as she had never known before. Her mind felt clear and serene, her body almost weightless. Her eyes widened. Fawkes trilled, a lovely liquid sound like a laugh, and looked admonishingly towards Harry.

“You needed to feel that,” he said. “Everyone should, at least once.” He leaned down and kissed her gently, his lips barely brushing hers. She had a distinct feeling that it was for Fawkes' benefit and Harry was showing him the lay of the land now. She realized that it produced a sensation within her similar to the phoenix tears except for the pure contentment. With Harry, she always wanted more.

“So what do you have to do now?” she asked. “Do you know?”

“I think I'm supposed to call a meeting and see who comes. They all have a chance to rejoin or not. But who's going to come when they see it's just me? They'll think it's an awful joke,” he said worriedly.

“No, Harry. I don't think they will. They all know what Dumbledore thought about you. They'll at least come to see what you're going to do and decide for themselves. You've just got to be prepared with a plan so they can see that you're serious.”

“Just.” Harry snorted.

“I'll help. Ron will help. He's the chess master after all; he knows just how all the pieces should go.” Hermione reminded him. She couldn't help but notice that he looked heartened somehow when she reminded him of that.

And then went still. “What about Snape?” he said, broken again. “What the hell do I do about Snape?”

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“Here's a thought,” said Ron, when they had reconvened in the kitchen and the significance of Fawkes appearance been explained. “You send everyone the time and place of the meeting, and then you all sit and wait the five or so minutes it'll take for You-Know-Who and his Death Eaters to come wipe out the entire Order after Snape tells him where to find you. `Cause that's exactly what he'd do if you trust him.”

“Dumbledore trusted him,” Hermione said doubtfully.

“Dumbledore did lots of wacky, questionable things,” Ron retorted. “Doesn't mean Harry has to make the same mistakes, does it?”

“I saw him kill Dumbledore,” Harry said slowly. “But Dumbledore could have released me from the spell if he'd really wanted help. Without even saying a word. Snape didn't know I was there, at least at first. Draco didn't. Snape walked toward him when Dumbledore said his name… their eyes… Merlin, they were talking.” His eyes widened, he clearly hadn't thought along those lines before. “The two of them could have legilimensed anything to each other.”

“Maybe Dumbledore knew Snape had read his mind and knew you were there. Maybe he was trying to protect you from the rest.” Hermione suggested.

Harry snorted. “Snape was supposed to be a master of Occlumency, of blocking Voldemort out, and even I got through once. He wasn't anywhere close to Dumbledore as a Legilimens, he couldn't have read Dumbledore's mind unless Dumbledore wanted him to. No, I think they were discussing something Dumbledore wanted. He actually begged Snape, said `Severus, please…' like `please listen' or `please don't do this…”

“Or please do it. I'm dying anyway, please finish it so that Draco doesn't fail and you won't be exposed. Maybe Dumbledore really thought Snape was in danger of being found out. He'd let himself be killed rather than sacrifice Snapes' ability to spy on Voldemort for the Order,” Hermione said slowly. She knew Harry wasn't going to like a word of it.

“I'm dying anyway? How do you figure that?” Harry asked angrily. Ron's eyes goggled.

“He was very old. His reactions weren't what they used to be; look at his hand. He'd drunk that horrible potion. I know I wasn't there and I can't judge, but I sincerely doubt Voldemort left a Horcrux in something that had to be drunk to empty and wasn't poisonous. Maybe Dumbledore guessed as much, not the specifics but the type of thing he'd do. That's why he let you go with him, Harry. He wanted you to see for yourself because he didn't think he'd be around to tell you what sort of other enchantments Voldemort might use.”

Harry made a sound like all of the air was being forcibly expelled from his lungs. Fawkes chirruped from his perch on the back of one of the kitchen chairs and moved closer. “You think…”

“I think Harry. I don't know. But we should look at every possibility, and one possibility is that Snape was still acting under Dumbledore's orders when he took his life that night. Dumbledore believed in you, Harry, he seemed to feel very strongly that you are the one who can and will take on Voldemort. It's not out of the realm of logic or possibility to believe he would sacrifice himself to that end.”

“I saw the hate on Snape's face, Hermione. You weren't there for that, either. I saw it.”

“But was it Dumbledore he hated,” she asked hesitantly, “or you, Harry. Having to follow through orders to kill someone he considered a mentor or friend, so that you, whom he despised, could live to fight another day?”

It was a brutal thing to ask him and Hermione hated to do it. Harry looked as if she'd slapped him. But he needed to consider it.

“Nice, Hermione. How about another option?” Ron said furiously. “How about he hated Dumbledore, he especially hates Harry and while he's at it, by the way, he hates me and you, too. This is Snape we're talking about, Snape after a year's worth of indulging his excuse for a heart in Dark Arts, may I add. Maybe he just hates everyone. Maybe he's just as evil as You Know Who.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. If he's so evil, why didn't he just kill Harry later, by Hagrids' hut? ”

“I told you, Hermione. He said `have you forgotten our orders? Potter belongs to the Dark Lord - we are to leave him!'” Harry said dully. “Much as he might've liked to, he was afraid.”

“Potter belongs to the Dark Lord…” Hermione repeated thoughtfully.

“Because Voldemort's realized it, too,” he explained. “And you know what else I think? I think he meant for my mother to watch that night. I think he wanted her to see me die to make that horcux, because her suffering would delight him. That was his mistake. I don't think he thought for a moment that she would throw herself in front of me, and that's what screwed up his spell. Look at me! Avada Kedavra doesn't leave a mark. I've seen enough of it to know. Well, there's a mark on me. A mark that burns and throbs and sears according to his moods. I heard them, when the Dementors came at me during the Quidditch match third year. It's why I fell. She was screaming `Not Harry!,” and he said, `Stand aside you silly girl. Stand aside, now.' And she cried, `Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead.'

If he'd meant just to kill us all, why not just do it as he came across us? My Dad first, then my Mom and then me. Why ask her to stand aside? Because he meant to make something hideous out of me and he succeeded - just not the way he planned. He didn't get to use me to make a horcrux, he made me into one instead. He's figured it out now as well and he needs to be the one to kill me so he can either control it, or Merlin forbid, take it back. He had to get rid of Dumbledore because he knew Dumbledore would warn me and I'd go after the other horcruxes as if my life depended on it.”

“Harry, we don't know any of that for sure, but I am begging you to do one thing,” Hermione said nervously. “Whatever you do, don't tell anyone else what you suspect. No matter how much we trust them. As far as we know, no one else knows about the horcrux theory, and there are lots of good reasons Dumbledore didn't want them to. If what you think is true and if the Ministry or even some members of the Order understood… think about it. You'd be a much bigger pawn in all of this then ever before. Some would want to put you in Azkaban to control you or even to sacrifice you to weaken his chances of surviving. Some would be more interested than ever in capturing you and selling you or making a gift of you to Voldemort in exchange for whatever they could get. Please, promise me you'll keep this between us.”

Unbelievable. Hermione Granger was telling him not to tell a teacher.

“I bet Snape already knows. Whether it's from Dumbledore or Voldemort or just figuring it out on his own, I'm willing to bet he knows. It's right up his alley; he probably thinks it's brilliant.” Harry said. “That's probably what crawled up his robes when I taunted him about killing me just like he killed my Dad. He probably wanted to finish me so bad it hurt, but because of the Dark Screw Up he couldn't. How's that for irony?”

“You'd think he would have enjoyed that crucio though then, wouldn't you Harry? It's hardly likely it would have killed you. And why would he care if you were insane as long as you were alive? But he stopped it, and maybe, just maybe, he stopped them because he's still on our side.”

“Talk about playing the Devils' advocate. Severus Snape,” said Harry coldly, “has never, ever been on my side. He may have been doing what Dumbledore wanted, I'm willing to try and believe that if that's what you really think Hermione, but I don't believe for a minute he'll ever have any loyalty to me.”

“Face it Harry, you are never going to like Snape.” Hermione said desperately, hating the thought of something as twisted as Snape coming between them now. “No one could ever honestly blame you. I don't, I never could. But you can't let the past color all your decisions about him now. You've got to get beyond it. Dumbledore never backed down on that.”

In the end, all their arguments didn't matter. It turned out Harry didn't have a choice.

Fawkes chose that moment to pluck a feather from his tail and hopped over to Hermione, nudging her gently aside. He dipped the uncut feather in Hermione's ink pot then balanced it on its tip on the parchment beside her stack of books. Much like Rita Skeeter's Quick Quotes Quill it began at once to write unaided.

`Procedures For Calling a Re-Forming Meeting of The Order of the Phoenix,' scrawled its way across the parchment.

“Couldn't have done that before, could you?” Harry asked him. Fawkes beady eyes clearly seemed to be saying `No. You had to get that out of your system first.'

The procedures called for all of the former members to be notified without exception and given the option to rejoin or not. Harry was to send his patronus to one member, who would then continue the chain to notify the next. The last would inform Harry that the round was complete. Those that showed for the meeting had the option of swearing themselves to Harry or having their memories altered for their own safety as well as the Orders' if they chose not to rejoin.

“We'll meet here,” Harry decided, “since Snape already knows about it. It won't be giving anything new away in case we have to move on… suddenly.”

“Assuming we live that long,” said Ron gloomily.

“And I think we should meet next Tuesday night. That gives us a chance to see what Dumbledore's portrait might tell us before hand. The only question left is who do I send my patronus to?” He looked questioningly at Fawkes; the Order did not have ranks or positions, it was hard to tell if there should be any significance in the choice. On the plus side there also seemed to be nothing in the rules that precluded Hermione's suggestion of Harry's role either, although figurehead to a secret society seemed something of an oxymoron. (“Go easy on yourself, Harry” Ron had said when he suggested as much. “You may not be the fastest broom in the shed, but you're nobody's idiot, either.”)

“You should start the way you mean to go on,” Hermione decided. “Who are you going to ask to lead? Have you made a decision?”

Harry knew that Mr. Weasley would be a popular choice, but there was a certain amount of baggage there he couldn't quite face at the moment. He didn't need a father figure telling him what to do, not at this late point, and he felt intuitively that while Arthur Weasley was the most loyal, resilient foot soldier you could ever ask for, helming the Order might well be an unwelcome strain on him. Not to mention Mrs. Weasley. He still vividly remembered viewing Mrs. Weasley's boggart upstairs, her fear of the war's impact on her large target of a family. No, he knew who he would choose and he knew Dumbledore had always liked and trusted him.

“Remus,” he said. “I think it should be Lupin. He's the last of the Marauders, after all, he's got a lot invested in this as well.”

Hermione and Ron both nodded acceptingly.

“Nice boost for the werewolf movement too.” Ron said. “Give Bill something to aspire to if….”

Harry allowed his eyes to close, envisioning the moment he walked out on to the roof that morning and found Fawkes waiting for him, then embedding the time, date and place of the meeting into the memory. He was quite sure Lupin would know what to do. Remembering Snape's taunts the night Dumbledore died he called on his patronus without words, opening his eyes to find the silvery form of the stag already erupting from his wand. Its large eyes seemed to survey its surroundings until it located Harry, then lowering its antlers in a sort of clumsy bow it galloped off through the kitchen wall and on beyond the house.

“Cool,” said Ron admiringly. Hermione remained silent a moment, lips parted in surprise.

“When,” she asked at last, “did you learn to do that?”

“D'nno. I didn't, really. It just felt like what I was supposed to do. The funny thing is it seems to have worked. Unless it comes back with an order of Chinese take away or something.”

The thought of Harry's patronus re-appearing with Chinese food was enough to lighten the mood for all three of them; they all laughed at the same moment, and Harry and Hermione met each other's eyes in some relief. Harry had always respected Hermione's opinions and she knew she could speak her mind to him but it seemed hard somehow to remind someone of their most painful blind spots and then invite them up to your room for a snog; a prospect now definitely on her mind.

Ron was reminded it was quite nearly time for lunch.

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7. Chapter 7

Official Fine Print: Nope. Not mine. The brainchildren of the mighty pen of JK Rowling. Just playing with them. Honest.

AN: Following is the “All Better Now” chapter. Wink, wink, nudge, nudge. Monday's chapter gets back to the serious business of a visit to Hogwarts, a talk with Prof. McGonagall and Dumbledore's portrait and the reforming meeting of the Order. This one is why it's good NOT to be JKR sometimes. Read on at your own risk. *grins*

Magic Never Dies

Chapter 7

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In the end, Hermione noticed that Fawkes seemed to be a comfort to Harry rather than just a constant reminder of all he had to live up to. Their natures suited each other; Harry instinctively treated Fawkes with deference and respect, as if he were another person rather than a magical creature. Fawkes seemed quite pleased with this arrangement and in return spent a certain amount of companionable time alone with Harry that Hermione mildly envied. Stupid to be jealous of a bird, but there it was. It was clearly Harry with which the phoenix wished to communicate and he made his wishes unequivocal.

“Bloody bird practically chased me out of his room yesterday,” Ron agreed with her. “We were looking at Fred and George's new personal defense catalogue, they've thought of some really useful stuff, actually, and Fawkes just flew in and started squawking away. Wouldn't let up until he took it upstairs. I swear to Merlin Harry'll speak phoenix and burst into flames once a month by the time they're through up there.”

After his initial depression Harry rebounded, as he always seemed to do, and threw himself into things with renewed determination. The drawing room had become a sort of central planning point and Hermione came across a great deal of scratch parchment filled with tried and discarded ideas about their direction. He was simultaneously attempting to reach a decision about how to find the other horcruxes, how to destroy the one they had and how best to finally confront Voldemort. He had marked the month of October for their journey to Godric's Hollow, telling them both he wanted to be there before All Hallows. Hermione noticed also that he had taken to marking any known or probable activity by the Death Eaters on the calendar as well, as if attempting to discern a pattern or reason amidst the sporadic destruction they wrought.

Hermione spent most of her birthday with her parents. She realized that day how very much she loved them, yet how utterly divorced she felt from their world now that they had moved from her childhood home. She was relieved about the seeming ease of their relocation; they seemed happy and should be safe enough, as safe as they could be with a Muggleborn witch for a daughter and Voldemort at large, anyway. She enjoyed being with them, enjoyed the respite of being their little girl for the afternoon but by the time she apparated back to Grimmauld Place she was more than ready to resume the challenges of life with Harry and Ron.

There was a pile of parcels and cards on the kitchen table; the parcels mostly Weasley in origin, the cards far wider flung. She recognized Viktor Krum's hand writing on one on top of the stack and Hagrid's on another.

“We missed you today,” she heard, and turned to find Harry in the doorway. She couldn't help the smile that found its way to her lips; he'd been gone already when she left in the morning and she'd been looking forward to seeing him all day. He wore jeans and a soft old sweatshirt and stood in his sock feet with an empty mug in his hands, the picture of domestic tranquility. No missing limbs, no smoking spell burns, just Harry, the way she liked him best.

“Ruddy owls had us running up and downstairs every five minutes,” he continued, nodding at the pile of cards. She could see the twin to her smile already twitching to break out on his face as well. “Then Ron burnt his fingers on the tea kettle trying to steam open the one from Viktor…”

“He didn't!” she said, outrage and humor wrestling each other in her voice.

Harry nodded, grinning. “Goes on and on about us thinking like Muggles, the silly prat.”

“Did he succeed?”

“I took it away from him after that.”

“Did you succeed?” she asked pointedly.

“He wasn't suggesting anything I couldn't do at least twice as well, so I put it back,” he teased. Somehow she knew he hadn't opened it; whether out of sheer obliviousness or true confidence he'd never seemed to be nearly as jealous as Ron. Or else he hid it better.

“I've told you both a million times…” she started

“I know. It doesn't matter,” he said quickly. “Do you want your birthday present now, or do you want to wait `til Ron gets back from the Burrow?”

She grinned at him. “Are you better yet?”

“If I'd known that's all you wanted…” he said, making it quite obvious he was now hiding something behind his back.

Suddenly it wasn't quite as funny; she realized it really was all she wanted and quite badly at that. She looked, really looked, at him standing before her. She saw the same unruly black hair, the same too-long fringe falling into clear green eyes, same owlish glasses, the same wiry, surprisingly resilient body she had known and relied on for the last six years and realized anew that she wasn't succumbing to some new awareness of his physical presence but to something that had been there all along. It had just taken the events of that awful last year to break down the blinders that caution, practicality and logic had built around her heart.

“Now, please.” Her voice sounded strange even to her own ears. His eyes flickered, she could see him trying to work it out, wanting to please her. He always had. Suddenly it seemed such a crime, such an enormous waste of whatever was to come of his life to have played this game for so long. Hermione reached out and took his hand, heading for the stairs. He followed without a word of protest up the stairs… and then up more stairs.

“Not the roof,” he groaned teasingly, pretending to slow and drag against her hand. “I'm not going to be able to walk tomorrow after…”

She turned to him, wrapped her arms around him and felt their lips meet just as she apparated them both. The squeezed-through-a-bottle sensation of apparition ejected them into the dim velvet night of the roof; for a second she thought she'd splinched them both together somehow, leaving nothing behind but reassembling them out of pieces of each other. She could feel every inch of him against her, the warmth of him in the cooling air, the hardness of muscles moving under the soft stretch of skin. She wondered vaguely if she'd apparated her hands under his shirt or if they'd just moved there of their own accord. She honestly didn't remember but she had no desire to remove them and Harry appeared not to mind in the least. He seemed utterly content in his rediscovery of her lower lip; until she opened her mouth to him and he moved on with a happy little growl.

Hermione backed them toward the corner where she knew he often liked to come and sit, blocked from the doorway by the slope of the roof itself. She wrestled her wand from her pocket and transfigured a loose roofing slate into a mattress (she'd known that skill would come in handy sooner or later. She wasn't entirely sure if Professor McGonagall would be proud of her resourcefulness or shocked by her behavior. She expected a bit of both.) She loved that when she toppled their entwined bodies backward onto it his gave way entirely trustingly, never questioning for a moment that she had a plan in mind. She arranged herself so that they fell onto their sides beside each other; despite his assurances that he was fully healed she wasn't taking any chances now that they were finally this close.

He propped himself up over her for a moment, his face shadowed.

She whispered, “Lumos Minima” and a soft light glowed from her wand, just enough to see him clearly by. He blinked.

“Hermione,” he said hesitantly, “you're sure this is what…”

“Yes,” she cut him off. `Completely, utterly, entirely, blissfully…' her minded provided, but she knew he didn't need to hear any of those, because he had already returned to kissing her as if his very life depended on it.

And yet… it was interesting how easy it was to distract him. He'd been fumbling with the buttons of her shirt for quite some time now, and intrigued as he seemed by attaining that goal all she had to do was turn her head to open up a new stretch of neck to explore or shift the position of her hips against his and he was lost in the new sensation. It came to her that Harry's stunted upbringing had more or less resulted in a one-emotion-at-a-time comfort level and he was approaching overload. And much as she regretted every minute he'd spent in the Dursleys' closet, she knew that she much preferred the innocence of his response to Lavender and Parvati's revelations about their more… pointed forays with boys at Hogwarts. Hermione had never considered herself broom closet material and at the moment she was deeply, almost tearfully grateful. She wouldn't have traded this for anything.

By the time they had both managed to lose their clothing she had entirely forgotten about how long it had taken them; every nerve ending she possessed felt over stimulated by the touch of skin on skin.

“Now,” she said as softly as she could manage, “Harry, please.”

His head came up and he shifted against her; she could feel him scrabbling in the piles of their clothing for something and she realized he was looking for his wand. “Use mine.”

She heard him whisper “Nox” and then the charm that would prevent her from conceiving. A wave of warmth ran through her, whether from the thought of his remembering for her despite his own state of distraction or the spell itself she wasn't sure.

“Harry, put the light back. I want to… see you,” she asked.

His “Lumos Minima,” sounded unfamiliar, his voice deeper and huskier than she had ever heard it. Her eyes made him out in the relit glow of her wand before he propped it against her discarded shoe and settled back to her again. He seemed distracted; she felt him shift his weight in a move that almost took her breath away but she got the sense he had something left to say before they took the final step forward and was struggling with the words.

“Hermione? I know that this changes everything, but I wanted to tell you… I wanted you to know before, so you didn't think that I was just saying… whatever happens to us next, I … I think that I've loved you for a very long time and I just never understood what that meant. And I'm glad it's worked out this way.” His voice grew stronger as he spoke, as though telling her eased some internal struggle. “No matter what happens it'll be okay. I just needed to tell you, at least the once. It's the only thing left that could keep me from… going on.”

She realized in a rush he meant going on in the sense that Dumbledore had, not making love to her.

His eyes met hers and for the first time she felt their roles truly reversed; she had no words for what she felt in response to what he had struggled so hard to say. She thought at that moment that there could be other ways of making a horcrux; her soul was so torn between wanting him, loving him and fearing for him that it seemed more than possible that it would be rent forever. There was only one thing that could stop it; to be torn another way. Her hand slipped down between them and found him; she felt him jerk back in surprise and then move willing into her palm. She drew him gently to her, stroking softly and encouragingly as she guided him home. She could feel the muscles low in his abdomen poised and clenched with the effort to be still.

“It's okay, Harry. I know,” was all she had to say to make him move. And never in the years that she had known him, even lately when she had thought of him in ways she had told herself later she really shouldn't, had she come close to the ways Harry could actually move her. That was the confounding thing about Harry; he'd go on being quite ordinary until something extraordinary happened and he always managed to find some instinct, some magic buried within him that held the answer. He answered questions about herself then that Hermione never even knew she'd had.

Like, no, it didn't hurt that much the first time. If she'd been looking for a pain to wash away the feeling his words had evoked this wasn't going to be it; it was momentary and fleeting at best. And she could make sounds like that? And she, Hermione Granger, could actually let go, fall free of herself so completely? She could please him, bring him to that point of gasping, grasping pleasure, just by doing this? She was glad she had asked him for the light, loved seeing his expression as they sought to please each other, the intensity he brought to edging her closer and closer to losing herself. She had no doubt that she was the still point of his world at that moment and the knowledge consumed her. The sound of his ragged breathing, some wordless pleading noises and an abrupt change of rhythm caused something buried inside her to answer back; she pushed herself up into him, clamping her legs around his driving hips and felt his next thrust unlock a shuddering wave within her. Her pleasure was his undoing as well and she felt her body doing what it had been divinely designed to do, drawing every last measure of release from his.

As Hermione's heart finally slowed and her breathing returned to normal she realized that Harry was unnaturally still against her; she'd heard about boys falling asleep unflattering minutes afterward but he still felt far from relaxed in her arms, the muscles beneath her hands clenched painfully tight. She was sure that he'd… she thought he had. It had certainly felt… his weight was still consciously braced against his forearms, his fingers twined in her hair but his head was buried in her shoulder. She rolled them both to their sides and pulled back slightly. His face was drawnwith pain, his eyes shut and watering; he'd bitten down on his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. After a moments' blank terror Hermione felt for his scar; it was searing hot and pulsed angrily under her fingers.

He'd always said he could feel when Voldemort was victoriously happy or enraged; it didn't take a lot to extrapolate Voldemort could quite probably sense equally strong emotions in him as well. Harry was being punished for his pleasure as only Voldemort could.

It was the first sign of their connection she'd seen in months; the scar had hardly bothered him at all sixth year. It infuriated her that there was nothing she could do to help him, no way to break Voldemort's foul grasp from where she watched, helpless.

“Let him go,” she hissed, sitting up and rocking him gently in her arms. “Let him go, or I swear that I'll kill you myself.” It seemed to last hours although it couldn't have been; they were certainly some of the longest minutes of her life. Her determination to free him from his hellish connection, no matter what that proved to be, redoubled. He started to shudder and suddenly contorted with the abruptness of a relinquished cruciatus; the moment when pain-wracked muscles are released but can not yet shed the immediacy of the agony that held them. His eyes opened slowly and blinked, still watering, searching until they found her. She could read his sorrow and the apology in them and swiftly leaned in to kiss him and stop the words from following. She couldn't bear it if he apologized for Voldemort's intrusion on that particular moment in their lives; refused to give it any more power or reality than she had to.

“Don't” she whispered, softly kissing each still-quivering eyelid. “Don't say a word. Don't give him any more than he's already taken. I love you, Harry James Potter. It was perfect.”

He was still a few more moments, catching his breath, then hauled himself up into a sitting position and leaned against the sloped of the rood beside her, wiping the trail of blood from his lip. She shivered, half in cold and half in the unfamiliarity of her nakedness before him. He transformed her sweater into a blanket, wrapping it around her shoulders and she crawled gratefully into his lap.

“Happy Birthday just seems inadequate under the circumstances,” he said shakily, gathering her against him. “But you never got your present.”

“Don't be so hard on yourself,” she joked gently. “I don't think you could have missed it.”

He grinned, a shadow of itself but a grin nonetheless and her heart leaped to see it. “Good thing about the wards on this house, or nobody for blocks around could have missed it. But I meant the other one.”

She was too happy to see him smiling to swat him the way she probably should have if she were to keep him in his place. He scrabbled around amidst their clothes and produced a small box wrapped in deep blue paper scattered with crescent moons and stars.

She accepted it and unwrapped it carefully, smoothing the paper beneath her hands.

“No tearing apart the paper for our Hermione,” he teased.

“if you're feeling well enough to tease me, you're well enough to be hexed,” she told him.

“Fair warning.”

She opened the box and found a tiny silver goblet attached with a link onto a silver chain.

“Sirius' cup!” she recognized, her eyes shining, remembering the last time he'd given it to her.

He murmured a spell and the cup enlarged to life size, the chain now dangling, dwarfed. The Black Family coat of arms was indeed engraved on the front, but his fingers joined hers on the stem and tipped it so that she could read another line of engraving beneath the base.

AEB ~The Cup of Love is Never Empty~ APWBD

Hermione looked up in surprise. “Dumbledore?”

“I thought it must be, but I have no idea who AEB is or was. Burnt off the Black family tree if they were ever there, I couldn't find a trace. I saw the inscription that night when I took the cup back from Mundungus. That's why I didn't want to lose it. So I shrunk it down…

”And tried to swallow it?”

“No, I put it in the pocket of my robes. But then the fighting started and the spells started flying. I got hit by something that flipped me right over and it fell out. I just had time to grab it before Lupin and Kingsley showed. Good thing, too, nasty spell went right over my head when I leaned down to get it.”

“More than I wanted to know, thanks,” Hermione told him, shuddering.

“Anyway, it just seemed…” he leaned forward and rubbed the back of his neck ruefully; she could see he was stalling for time, searching for words.

“It's perfect,” she said sincerely, saying the spell to shrink it back down in size. “Would you?” She handed it back and reached up to lift her hair from her neck for him. He secured the chain and nuzzled into her neck, drawing her to him.

“Whatever he was up to,” Harry said, “I sincerely hope that Dumbledore was right.”

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8. Chapter 8

Official Fine Print: Nope. Not mine. The brainchildren of the mighty pen of JK Rowling. Just playing with them. Honest.

Magic Never Dies

Chapter 8

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The Ron vs. Hermione argument of the morning - the day, Harry sincerely hoped - revolved around the decision to apparate just outside Hogwarts' gates or Floo to Hogsmeade and walk to the school.

Hermione thought apparition the only logical choice.

Ron liked the idea of Flooing because they could stop in at Honeydukes on their way `and no one ever left anything important behind in a fireplace.'

“How about we apparate there, and floo home?” Harry asked through gritted teeth, resolving never to have children. Assuming he lived long enough. Although the whole making them thing was…

“Okay,” agreed Ron happily.

“We could stop in at the Hogs' Head as well, I suppose,” rationalized Hermione. “See if we can find out any more about Mundungus' connections. In broad daylight and hopefully without Death Eaters this time.”

Harry privately thought a great deal of the edginess was the result of the idea of being back at Hogwarts under such changed circumstances. He himself felt a wave of apprehension boarding on nausea at meeting with Professor McGonagall in Dumbledore's office and speaking with the portrait. There was so much he wanted to say, so much he wanted to know. As often as he kept reminding himself that the portrait was just a magical imprint of Dumbledore's essence and not the Headmaster himself he feared that he was going to come away more aware of Dumbledore's loss than ever.

“Let's go then,” he said. “McGonagall always did have a thing about being on time.”

“On the plus side,” supplied Ron, “no more points to lose!”

“On the down side,” Harry told him, preparing to apparate, “she's now free to move on to limbs.”

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All three managed to apparate successfully to a point just outside Hogwarts' front gates. Hermione was gazing fondly at the winged boars flanking the entrance when she felt the hair on the back of her neck begin to creep. She spun around to two entirely surprising sights. The first was a group of three Death Eaters running at top speed in their direction from the edge of one of the nearby fields that flanked the road to Hogsmeade. The second was Ron and Harry, wands already drawn, standing shoulder to shoulder in front of her as though the thought that they would be greeted by a welcoming committee of Death Eaters had more than simply occurred to them; they had in fact expected it. Harry turned slightly toward her, keeping one eye on the approach of the hooded figures.

“Hermione, send your patronus up to the school to get someone to let us in. Tell them there's three DE's at the gates.”

“Harry, my patronus is an otter. Do you have any idea how long it would take an otter to reach McGonagall?”

“She's expecting us, there may even be someone on the way already.”

He swore then as one of the Death Eaters began firing off curses hoping to get in a lucky shot despite the distance and timed a shield to allow Ron a couple of clear shots back. She could see his eyes darting around, seeking a safe place for them to fight from; their backs were literally against Hogwarts' wall.

She gave up, hoping for the best, and raised her wand, envisioning as she did so their location and embedding the message just as he had taught them. She closed her eyes as she focused on the incantation and the memory that charged it. Her mind returned unbidden to the night before and the image of Harry's eyes, dark and full, as they… She gasped as she felt her wand suddenly tug and dip, a different sensation altogether to the usual feeling her patronus evoked and opened her eyes to find a wide eyed doe deer white tailing it up the path towards Hogwarts.

For a moment she panicked, afraid McGonagall wouldn't recognize the patronus or think it a trick.

“Harry?” she started, but realized he rather had his hands full at the moment; he and Ron were tag teaming a rhythm of curses and shields that kept the three hooded figures just far enough at bay that neither side had thus far sustained serious damage.

“Tree?” she heard Ron say cryptically

“Your side or mine?” Harry asked without shifting his eyes.

“Mine. Four and half meters.”

“Take Hermione. I'll cover you, you cover me when you get there,” Harry said.

“No one has to take…” she started again, but Ron had already grabbed her by the waist; she felt her feet leave the ground and they were speeding to the shelter of an enormous oak tree. Harry remained in front of the gates running through a gamut of spells in search something they weren't blocking. One of the Death Eaters' spells flashed off Harry's protego and smashed a wing on the leftmost Hogwarts' Boar to smithereens.

She heard Ron shout, “Now you, Harry.” He crept around the far side of the tree and fired off a couple of blasting spells while Harry ducked low and ran toward them. A hastily fired leg locker connected with just one of his legs and he fell, crawling the rest of the distance until Hermione could perform the counter.

“Thanks,” he panted, rolling behind the tree trunk beside her. “You know what scares me?” he told Ron after catching his breath. “I don't recognize any of them. I know you can't always tell in the robes but I've been able to suss out at least one or two of them before. It's bad news for us when he's got all new friends.”

“If you can get up in the tree,” Ron said, “I can lure `em close enough that one of us can blast them and take a look.”

Hermione felt like her head was going to explode. “You CAN NOT be serious. We're just going to wait here until they get the message up at the school…”

“Hermione, love,” said Harry with a great show of patience. “Dumbledore is gone. Snape is gone. Who exactly at the school do you think is going to come and save us? Flitwick? I mean, no offense and charms are certainly very important and everything but I think I'd rather take my chances with Ron, thanks. You do realize there's no one up there but children and some very brave but outnumbered… teachers?”

“And Aurors! The ministry's meant to have a full complement of Aurors up there as well!”

“Well where are they? They're supposed to be guarding the gates too!” Ron griped. “Tonks told Harry the Ministry pulls them off whenever there's a big incident somewhere else, they don't have enough Aurors to leave that many here full time. We can take care of this ourselves.”

Hermione realized again just how much familiar things had changed. The safety of the castle was no illusion; Hogwarts was a powerfully magical place on its own and at least some of Dumbledore's added enchantments had surely survived him. Getting into it, however, had suddenly turned in a dangerous proposition and she was stunned at the metamorphosis of Harry and Ron from boys into young warriors. The she remembered the Department of Mysteries and realized that it wasn't so sudden after all; they had recognized the danger and responded accordingly. She'd been the one who'd been distracted from the DA by Ron's romances and Quidditch insecurities and Harry's seeming obsession with his potions text and Malfoy's plotting. She was the one who was now a liability, unready.

“Alright,” she said firmly. “Let's do it. And no, I'm not going to duck and hide behind the tree until it's all over, so don't start.”

Ron looked like he was going to argue. Harry appeared torn, as though he'd like to but was too well aware of the pointlessness. A spell struck the trunk above their heads, sending smoking chunks of wood raining down on them.

“Fine,” he said. “Do you think you can climb the tree? You're the lightest and smallest, the branches won't move so much and they won't be expecting you.”

Hermione looked up; the tree was quite old, the first branch a good distance above her head.

“You can climb on me,” Harry said, weaving his fingers together for her to step on to.”

“Can I remind you once again you're a bleeding wizard!” Ron griped, and flicked his wand in her direction. Hermione flew into the air and up to within arms reach of the branch. Unfortunately, he'd also used the levicorpus spell Harry had learned from Snape's potion book and she was now upside down, her robes and hair obscuring everything.

“Ron!” she hissed.

“Grab hold! In front of you!” she heard Harry call softly, and groped with her hands until she felt the branch, grasping it. One of them must have done the liberacorpus, her body was abruptly reclaimed by gravity and swung down. She held on with all her might and scrambled up the trunk as soon as she felt control return to her legs.

“Find a good vantage point and give us a signal when you're ready. We'll lure `em in and you stun them, okay?” Ron indicated several branches arching out over the ground in front of the tree. She could see the Death Eaters closing in and growing bolder with every step.

“Okay,” she agreed. She took a last look at Harry's anxious upturned face, and climbed up and out into the still leafy canopy of the tree. When she'd found a good solid branch to shimmy out with a decent clear view of the area in front of the tree she used a tickling charm Ginny had taught her to alert Harry. She saw him swat at his neck several times before cluing in and raising his eyes to her. She nodded, and watched him motion to Ron.

They appeared from either side of the trunk, keeping some distance between themselves to widen the target. Seeing them in the open did indeed bring the opposition in quickly the rest of the way and a flurry of spells were exchanged along with, for the first time, words.

“It's Potter!” one shrieked victoriously and made to fire at him, Hermione took aim but another grabbed the first by the wand arm, cautioning, “Alive. You can stun him but remember we must bring him in…”

“”Get behind me, Ron,” Harry hissed. Hermione could see that the idea disagreed with Ron but she was enormously impressed as he complied without argument. He fired off a lucky petrificus as he did, and one of the three stumbled and went down. The other two were thrown by this; instead of releasing their fallen comrade they charged on without them. The first one struck Harry with a slasher and he retaliated furiously, issuing a stunning spell that ricocheted off their shield with enough raw energy to send them smashing into the ground anyway; Ron was struck a glancing blow by the return blast while shoving Harry out of range of a spell from the second hooded figure moments before Hermione stupefied them both

In the ensuing silence all she could hear was the frantic thumping of her own heart.

“Are you guys okay?” she called out, inching her way back along the branches and trying not to look down. It came to her in a rush now that it was over that trees weren't all that preferable to brooms or hippogriffs.

“Gworf ide” she heard Ron say.

“He means we're fine,” came Harry's tired voice. She reached the first branch and saw him waiting down below. “Just swing and let go,” he said. “I'll catch you.”

“You've got to be kidding.”

“Or Ron could levicorpus you again…”

She swung and hung by her hands, dangling in the air above him. His arms were outstretched, waiting; she closed her eyes and forced her fingers to let go. He caught her but took a step backward as her body crashed into his; Ron had unfortunately just moved behind him to pick up his wand and all three ended up in a single heap.

“That,” came a voice that Hermione immediately recognized as Professor McGonagalls' “would have been worth at least a hundred house points. Each. Thankfully I don't have to decide whether they should have been given or taken away.”

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Their triumphal return to Hogwarts thus included limping up to the castle in various states of disarray. Hermione's hair had acorns in it; her robes were torn and dusty. Ron had taken the rebounded impact of Harry's stunner directly to his jaw and was now sporting a blossoming bruise and talking even more unintelligibly than usual. Harry's robes and his shirt beneath them were torn and bloodied where the spell had struck him and his glasses were broken once again.

Professor McGonagall had brought two Aurors with her from the school. Ron's guess that the ones meant to be watching the gates had been called away by the Ministry proved to be correct. They had unmasked the still stupefied figures before binding them and apparating them away; the one who had triumphantly recognized Harry turned out to be Millicent Bulstrode. The other two were several years older and spoke with heavy accents when they cursed their captors. Harry recognized at least one of them as a member of Durmstrang's delegation to the Tri Wizard tournament.

“I always thought you were too goodie-goodie to be real,” snapped Millicent at Hermione. “And I was right. Left school to live with those two. Mudblood slut.”

Harry saw Hermione's jaw drop and her wand hand begin to lift. He moved beside her as subtly as he could and coughed “spots” into his hand. Ron hacked “warts” into his on the other side. He saw her eyes narrow and her wand barely move. Her mastery of the nonverbal spell was soon apparent upon her target's face, a fact to which Millicent seemed to remain blissfully unaware as they sprouted. The Aurors both smirked.

“The Dark Lord knows what you're up to Potter. But Dumbledore's gone and you're less than nothing now. It's just a matter of the right chance to take you. We may not be allowed to hurt you,” she said, her piggy eyes gleaming with dislike, “but you can bet the Dark Lord will. And he'll make sure the crucio lasts long enough that Dumbledore hears your screams in Hell.”

Harry felt the force of her words as if he'd been slapped; nothing she said was particularly new but it was hard for him to grasp at first coming as it did from her. It was Death Eater talk and she, clearly, had become one, but Harry still couldn't help but feel he'd never done anything to her personally to account for such venom. But then that was the point, wasn't it?

“Must have been kissing Malfoy last night,” Ron told her. “You're sporting the sign of the toad.”

She eyed him oddly, still oblivious to her enhanced appearance. Harry hoped they had mirrors in Azkaban.

“I'd watch your back,” Millicent retorted as the Aurors took her arms, `If Malfoy's kissing anyone these days it's more likely to be her. He's a dead man anywhere else.”

“Yuck,” Hermione had said, turning to march up to the castle. “Now there's an unpleasant thought.”

Harry followed her, privately deciding unpleasant wasn't exactly the word he'd choose. Talk about dead men. If Malfoy ever so much as looked at Hermione funny again he'd make sure his perfectly pure blood made a perfectly hideous mess all over his nose for a change. And there wouldn't be any teachers to stop them or points to lose this time.

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Professor McGonagall swept through the front door and into the Entry Hall before them. Classes were changing and the stairs full of students. The Hall rung with the all the usual noise that accompanied such activity, but within moments of their entry and procession behind McGonagall up the first staircase toward the Headmaster's Office the cheerful din had trickled down to a few whispering voices.

“That's Harry Potter, the one that has to defeat You Know Who,” he heard one small boy say to his neighbor, a mixture of hero worship and fear warring on his innocent face. “And those're his friends, Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley. They went here too,” another girl whispered to three goggling first years.

Merlin but they were young, and so small. And defenseless.

“We were never that little,” Ron said in an undertone as they followed Professor McGonagall. “Don't they feed them here anymore?”

“They're the same size they were when you were pushing them off the sofa in the Common Room to snog Lavender last year,” Hermione pointed out.

Harry noticed Professor McGonagall still moved stiffly from her four-stunner ambush by one of Dolores Umbridges' goon squads two years ago. She, too, was showing her age. His heart pushed that knowledge firmly away; she might be less approachable then Dumbledore in some ways but she had always been his champion when it really mattered. And she'd been the one to make him a Seeker, after all.

They reached the Gargolyle that guarded the door to the Head…Mistresses office.

“Sherbet Lemon,” Professor McGonagall said, with only the tiniest quaver in her voice.

The office was mostly unchanged from Dumbledore's day. Perhaps a tad tidier; the bookshelves straightened, the desk more orderly. And Fawkes' perch was gone.

“I received your message, Harry.” Professor McGonagall said quietly. “I. for one. will be there.”

“Thank you,” Harry responded with equal gravity, relieved at the thought that the most he should have to do at the meeting was explain to those who came about Fawkes' appearance and introduce Lupin as their new leader for the vote of confidence. The thought of standing up in front of witches and wizards like Professor McGonagall and Moody and Kingsley Shacklebolt and attempting to convince them of anything made Harry's stomach clench uncomfortably.

She seemed to understand that what ever else they had to say would have to wait; Harry was being drawn to the corner of the room where Dumbledore's portrait hung with a force that made magnetic north seem like a suggestion.

As he stood before the likeness of the Headmaster who had long had such an impact on his life, Harry felt a cautious surge of hope. The portrait was slumbering, the long silver beard rippling with the passage of gentle snores.

“Professor Dumbledore?” he inquired softly.

The likeness made a slight grumbling noise and seemed to stir.

“Harry,” came the voice he knew so well, however rusty and unused, “considering what has come to pass between us, I rather think you can call me Albus.” And the painted blue eyes opened behind their painted-on glasses and still, somehow, managed to twinkle.

Harry stood still, immobilized yet breathing heavily, overcome with the surge of emotion the words invoked. He was vaguely aware of Hermione, Ron and McGonagall drawing closer behind him.

“Why?” he asked, the words that had been echoing through him ever since that night on the tower. “You said I could help. You brought me to help…”

“And so you did, Harry,” intoned the portrait gently. “I never could have finished that potion on my own. Only my truest, most loyal friend could have completed that bit of magic. Remember that.”

“You finally brought me with you so that I could kill you?” Harry asked brokenly.

“You did not kill me, as I believe you know only too well. You helped me complete a complex and quite dangerous task that served as a culmination of a long and full life replete with similar risks.”

“It wasn't even real, what we found. It had already been stolen and a fake left in its place.”

“I knew,” said the portrait. “It was too small and light. Have you discovered yet what happened to the real one?”

“There was a note in the one in your pocket signed R.A.B. Hermione figured out that it was Sirius' younger brother, Regulus, the one who was a Death Eater. He'd changed his mind about Voldemort and stolen it and hidden it in Grimmauld Place before he died. It turned out to be one of the things Sirius tried to throw out when we cleaning up for Mrs. Weasley in the drawing room.”

“Dear Molly. No idle hands for her. She meant to keep you children busy and your mind off the business of the Order, but she obviously succeeded in doing much more. But it is lost, then?”

“No. It turns out Kreacher kept it. Hermione gave him a Christmas present that year and when we put it in his little hide-out in the boiler closet we saw all this shiny stuff and family pictures that he'd grubbed out of the trash. She thought of it as we were sitting in the kitchen, and there it was.”

The blue eyes gleamed, Harry reckoned even allowing for the magic of wizarding portraits that Dumbledore's painter had been quite good. “Have you destroyed it?”

“No,” said Harry. “We, er… haven't exactly tried yet. We weren't sure what to do and your hand…”

“Quite a disincentive, that. It was really rather nice to be done with that in the end. But I rather think the effect may be different for you.”

Hermione spoke up. “Professor Dumbledore, why should it be different for Harry?”

“Ah Hermione. And Ron. You, too may call me Albus, of course.” Dumbledore's likeness smiled at them both. “I have had some time to ponder the issues that were absorbing my true consciousness when I… moved on, and have some new hypotheses that may or may not be of use to you. It will be up to you now which if any you pursue.”

The painted eyes shifted to Harry and took on a more serious look, “I must confess that I found myself impressed with you, Harry, after I, er… charred the dickens out of my hand destroying the soul fragment within the ring. It came to me that you managed to put the diary out of commission quite without similar damage. I was feeling a good bit old and slow until my magnificent ego came to my aid and convinced me it was something to do with you instead.”

Harry felt a grin almost reach his face.

“I began to wonder, Harry, if I was quite right about the identity of the seven horcruxes when I last spoke with you.”

The grin died. “I've thought about that as well,” he said, his eyes shifting nervously to Professor McGonagall.

“Fear not. Minerva knows all and I have duly received my earful.”

Professor McGonagall snorted. “I'm not done with you yet, Albus. You'll find that Wizengamot portrait quite appealing before I'm through. Of all the…”

The portrait quickly cleared its throat and raised its voice. “As I was saying, I've had a bit of time to reflect on the horcruxes and have come to a somewhat different conclusion based on those thoughts and recollections. We agree, I think, that there will be seven, based on Tom's questioning of Professor Slughorn and his love of myth and mysticism. Always looking for an edge in any game, Tom Riddle. Never forget the boy you saw in that orphanage, Harry, because he lurks in Voldemort still.

If there are in fact seven fragments, we know that two are surely destroyed; the diary by you, Harry, and the ring by myself. That leaves the Slytherin locket, which you have, the Hufflepuff cup, which we at least know Tom coveted and probably killed for, something of Rowena Ravenclaw's, which we only suspect. There must therefore be two more soul fragments. One of course is in Tom Riddle himself, it is the bit that tied him to this earth when the killing curse he used upon your mother reverberated on himself.”

“You mean me. The killing curse he used on me,” Harry said distractedly.

“No, Harry. Or maybe. I can not theorize exactly how it worked, but then neither can Voldemort and he was a participant, there for it all. But I believe I may have been wrong all those years about the magic of Lily's love for you. Of course it was an act so profound as to become magic, giving up her life for her child. But knowing Lily as I did, I began to wonder if it might not be something more.”

Harry's mind had wandered down these same lines but along a much more disorganized path; suddenly the way was cleared. “It was. The Dementors made me remember what he said to her, how he told her to step aside. I told Ron and Hermione that I thought he wanted her to watch; he wanted her to have to see what he was going to use my death to do, as a sort of last laugh at the prophecy. But if she threw herself in front of the killing curse meant for me…”

“The true beauty of her selfless love for you collided with the depthless evil Voldemort was trying to force her to comprehend for the pleasure of his own immortality. If he had just gotten on with it, it might have worked the way he meant, but in the manner of all tyrants he had to have his private little joust with goodness. As it were, I believe that the killing curse claimed both your mother and Voldemort that night; Lily's gift of her own life for yours was accepted by the light of the world and the force of the curse was mirrored back upon its castor.”

“But what happened to Harry, then?” Ron asked suddenly. “Where'd the scar come from?”

“Voldemort had prepared for him to die in order to make a horcrux, I am guessing he had some significant item there which was to receive the last torn portion of his soul. Alas, when things went awry, he most likely dropped the object; it was certainly not foremost on his mind. The thing he was focused on the moment he killed your mother, Harry, was you. And so you are, by accident I am quite sure, Lord Voldemort's final horcrux. The unusual powers, the parseltongue, the uncomfortable connection you have shared are due to the fragments of Voldemort's soul that reside within you.”

“Fragment,” corrected Hermione automatically.

“Alas not, Hermione,” the portrait replied. “I believe the increasing encroachment of Voldemort through Harry's scar is two-fold. When Harry destroyed the diary in the Chamber there was no backlash against him because the fragment of Tom's soul that resided in it simply joined its fellow in Harry. When a horcrux is released it seeks to reunite itself with its former whole; that is its purpose after all. To hold the soul to earth in its search for unity. It can not move on in its fragmented form. Harry therefore now bears two-sevenths of Voldemort's soul. This is important, because it already violates one condition of the prophecy to which he clings as if it is some eternal truth.

Voldemort marked Harry as his equal by infusing him with a seventh of his soul. Voldemort himself had only a seventh left, and so they were indeed equal. After Harry destroyed the diary, he actually became more powerful than Voldemort could ever have predicted. Except Voldemort still didn't know. Because, you see, he never knew what happened that night. He had no idea what he had done to Harry, he only knew that his other horcruxes had worked to keep him from dying. He was still bitterly angry, however, and ever more determined to kill Harry. When he had still failed by your fourth year he knew there was something special about Harry, but he fell for my first theory that it was Harry's mother's blood that protected him and settled for stealing Harry's blood to incorporate in his new body, never realizing that two sevenths of his former soul resided in Harry as well. He thought he'd triumphed when he could touch you at last, but the hand that rested on your face was only inches from something he in actuality wanted so much more. And he never suspected. Imagine how surprised he was, Harry, when you dueled and your strength bested his when your wands locked. He must have known there was still something about you then.

Your fifth year was a difficult one for us all. I realized that it was only a matter of time before Voldemort began to understand the true implications of your connection, Harry. That is why I began to stay away from you when I could and why I asked Professor Snape to teach you Occlumency instead of myself. I wanted to keep the knowledge from you both; as long as Voldemort was still seeking answers about your strength in the prophecy he might take longer to stumble onto the truth. I confessed to you at the end of that year my weakness Harry, how I kept the truth from you so long because I had become too fond of you to wish to place this burden on you. Even then I kept one, small piece of information I suspected back; I wished to give you time yet to strengthen your own untarnished soul. You have carried a deep blackness within you, and yet you have not shown even the slightest sign of succumbing to it; you share some of his powers without the darkness that engulfs him. Either your soul has absorbed his without incident, or his is securely contained within you, out of reach of your own. I hope and believe the latter to be true. And I believe the container to be your scar.”

There was an uncomfortable silence as they each took in Dumbledore's words. Harry's hand raised, trembling, to the mark in question.

“Then to safely destroy the horcruxes it has to be Harry who does it? He has to have five sevenths of Voldemort's soul in him before he can destroy Voldemort himself?” Ron asked in horror.

“It is not even that simple, Ron. The five sevenths of Voldemorts' soul must be entirely destroyed before Voldemort is challenged, or it will be simply as it was before; his body will die and the last soul fragment will inhabit Harry.”

“So I can kill myself, or become him? Those are my post-Hogwarts career options? So much for being an auror,” Harry laughed bitterly, but his pulse was racing so fast he felt sure his heart would explode. The thought of having so much of Voldemort's twisted soul inside him… `That's when you die, idiot…' his brain supplied. `After the last bit is inside you. You take him with you, and he will never hurt anyone again.'

Hermione's clear voice rang out. “We talked about that, Professor, Harry and Ron and I, and we have an idea. What you say changes the numbers a bit, but not the theory Do you think that it might be possible for Harry to use Voldemort's death to make a horcrux himself and remove the pieces of his soul to something that can be destroyed?”

There was a moments silence in the office and all their eyes traveled to Dumbledore's painted ones.

“I knew,” he said at last, “that there was a reason you were born to two unsuspecting muggles at exactly the right moment, Hermione. I thought at first that you and Ron were meant to reinforce for Harry the goodness of human nature and the love of friendship when he was faced with a future so bleak. I see now that I was wrong once again, and you are both indeed quite more then just his friends.”

“Er… does that mean yes, or no?” asked Ron.

“It means possibly. It is a wonderful idea, although ultimately destroying six sevenths of Voldemort's soul will still exert a powerful force. The universe was created in balance and always seeks it; when the denseness of his evil is destroyed a likewise measure may well be claimed of something innocent. In other words, Ron, much like my hand with that smaller portion, something will have to go boom.”

“Oh,” said Ron in an uncomfortably small voice. “Boom.”

“Why did you stun me? Why did you let Snape kill you? I could have helped you. Why?” Harry asked suddenly, as though his mind could take no more of the Horcrux theorizing and simply had to move on.

“Ah,” said Dumbledore. “We come at last to that.”

“Yes,” said Harry. “That.”

“Professor Snape had come to me early in term and confessed to me an oath he had undertaken while trying to be seen as remaining loyal to Lord Voldemort. It was in fact a binding oath, and Professor Snape was willing to risk his life to take it. He knew of my accelerating search for something to aid you in your confrontation with the Dark Lord and he thought it important enough to try and remain undetected for as long as he could help distract Lord Voldemort and supply information that he was willing to forfeit his own life. When I found out what his oath involved I knew there had to be another answer.

I had to stun you when I saw Draco, Harry. I knew he would be unable to complete the task Lord Voldemort set him of killing me; he has been brought up under the shadow of Voldemort all his life but he does not have it in him to be a killer. Professor Snape would have to do the job; that was the oath he had undertaken to Narcissa Malfoy. And you, no matter what I said, would have tried to stop him. One of you would have been mortally hurt I am certain, and I could not have that. I knew how painful it would be for you, to be trapped invisibly. I apologize most sincerely for what it must have cost you, but I would do it again if need be. And you must realize how painful it was for Severus to do what he did. He was truly being a most loyal friend.”

“A loyal friend? Snape? Hermione and Ron are my loyal friends, and you don't see them killing me!”

“There may come a time, Harry, when you will beg them to do just that. My wish is for you to never understand what that truly requires. I can no longer insist you do anything, I am nothing but a lingering image of myself, but I beg of you to withhold your hasty judgment of Professor Snape and act as I have bidden you before. Despite your mutual…dislike, you are both striving toward the same end.”

Harry was about to spit out another volley of his feelings about Snape when the thought occurred to him that if it came down to absorbing Voldemort's soul and dispensing of himself, Snape could save Ron and Hermione an awful lot of heartache. That was perhaps the one command from Harry with which Snape would be only too happy to comply.

“So you are still certain of Snape? Fawkes has come to me and I called a meeting of the Order. Will he come?” Harry asked.

“If he can,” Dumbledore replied gravely. “He will be there. Do me the honor, Harry, of treating him as kindly as you can.”

“He's never wanted my kindness before,” Harry said. “He'll only hate me more if he thinks I head the Order. `One more undeserved privilege for Harry Potter', he'll say.” He gave his own surname the same sneer that Snape always did; the likeness was uncanny. “I'm going to ask Lupin to head it. They'll none of them listen to just me.”

“A wise decision, Harry. Remus will serve you well, I think. And you can get on with your task. How is Fawkes?”

“Well,” said Harry.

“Bossy,” said Ron.

“He misses you,” said Hermione, who suddenly realized it was true and felt badly about resenting Fawke's monopoly of Harry's time.

Dumbledore's portrait laughed fondly. “I left several things in my will specifically to you, Harry. The rest will go to the school, or to Aberforth. Minerva has promised to see that you receive them. One is the pensieve, which contains several memories I would like you to see, and which I am quite sure you will need at some point if you are to be successful in your task. The other…”

“Is this,” finished Professor McGonagall for him. She handed Harry a small parchment envelope. He drew it open to find an “empty” Albus Dumbledore Chocolate Frog card.

“Er, thanks,” said Harry. “You were my very first Chocolate Frog card, actually.”

“This particular card, however,” said Dumbledore with a pleased chuckle, “is a first edition. Essentially…” his image disappeared from his portrait upon the wall and moments later reappeared in Harry's hand, “a portrait. I did not have quite the time I would have liked to teach you all I might have, Harry. You must go on alone, but I can still coach occasionally from the sidelines.”

“Brilliant!” Ron breathed, leaning over Harry's shoulder to peak at the card.

“Thank you,” Harry said softly. “I… thank you, Professor Dumbledore.”

“Albus,” remonstrated the card, and Dumbledore disappeared to reappear again within the portrait.

“Minerva may also take advantage of this to communicate with you through me. She has quite a job ahead of her keeping Hogwarts together and the students safe, and I hope that you will help her in any way you can.”

“I promise.” Harry confirmed.

“I must confess,” the portrait said with an enormous yawn, “to feeling quite exhausted. It's hard work, acclimatizing oneself to life as a Wizard Portrait. I am sure you have more you wish to tell me, and more questions you wish to ask, but as you now have an accessible manner in which to do so, I think that if you will all excuse me I shall have a little nap.”

“What would you say,” said Professor McGonagall herding them gently away, “to lunch in the Great Hall for old times' sake?”

“I think I can quote Ron when I say `Brilliant',” said Harry. “Thank you.”

“Actually,” said Ron, “I was thinking more along the lines of `Thank Merlin! I'm starving!' but `brilliant' will have to do.

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AN: I know I promised you the meeting of the Order as well, but this was closing in 7k words and getting ungainly… and there is still so much more to say! If I were writing this as an actual book like JKR, it would end up being one big*ss book… dare we hope? Lunch at Hogwarts and reunions with some old friends - particularly for Ron - is first up next chapter, followed by the first meeting of the New Order and many more unanswered questions for the Chocolate Frog Oracle.

Thanks for reading and reviewing - I really want to hear what you have to say about the theories encompassed in this one and why you think I'm wrong or right. Or a little bit of both. `Til next chapter!

Lynney

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9. Author's Note Removed

Official Fine Print: Nope. Not mine. The brainchildren of the mighty pen of JK Rowling. Just playing with them. Honest.

Magic Never Dies

Chapter

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~Author's note deleted. Please proceed to next chapter. ~

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10. Chapter 10

Official Fine Print: Nope. Not mine. The brainchildren of the mighty pen of JK Rowling. Just playing with them. Honest.

Magic Never Dies

Chapter 9

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“I should think,” said Professor McGonagall leading the way to the Great Hall, “that you would like to join your friends at the Gryffindor table. You may have free run of the castle, although as you have already seen, I highly recommend you stay within its boundaries.” She sighed. “There will be no Hogsmeade trips for students this year.”

“Thank you, Professor.” Hermione said. “We appreciate your welcoming us back, considering…”

“If I thought I had the slightest chance of changing any of your minds, I would have held out for your readmission in order to visit with Professor Dumbledore,” she cut firmly across Hermione's gratitude. “He, of course, was against that idea and seems to think what you are doing is somehow perfectly reasonable. Death has changed him very little after all.”

Harry saw Hermione's lips twitch.

The Great Hall was comfortingly unchanged, although the number of students was definitely diminished. The Slytherin table was particularly patchy; Harry reckoned there were roughly half the number that once composed the house, and even within the small group there had apparently been a further break down. One end of the table held a cluster of what Harry always thought of as neutral Slytherins; those who embraced the characteristics of the House but did not, at least openly, support Voldemort. The other end was held by those of Draco's hangers-on who remained; Blaise Zabini had obviously taken over as de facto leader in his absence and might well, Harry thought from the rather obvious possessiveness being displayed between the two of them, have taken on Pansy Parkinson also. Theodore Knott was gone, as, of course, was Millicent Bulstrode. Crabbe and Goyle remained; even Voldemort, who would view them as entirely disposable, hadn't seen fit to call on those two. Yet.

The Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw houses were both equally diminished; each seemed to have retained a bit less than three quarters of their former numbers. The Gryffindor table was surprisingly full; in fact Harry realized that there seemed to be a full complement of first years and in his own age group the only ones missing were Hermione, Ron and himself. Perhaps Gryffindors were braver after all. Even Seamus, whose mother had threatened to pull him after fourth year, was there in his usual spot next to Dean. Parvati Patil, whose parents had often spoke of bringing home both Parvati and her Ravenclaw sister Padma, sat calmly next to Lavender Brown. Who was glaring rather unwelcomingly at Hermione.

Harry's own eyes shifted uncomfortably down the table to find Ginny. It took him a moment to spot her; she was on the far side of Dean Thomas rather than amongst classmates of her own year. Her eyes met his and slid away; she elbowed Dean and said something to him and he looked up as well. There was something distinctly uneasy in Dean's expression and it came to Harry in an unaccustomed rush: Ginny had gone back to Dean. He felt an enormous, lifting sense of relief, pricked only slightly by the unfair thought that it certainly hadn't taken her very long. But then, Ginny always had been impulsive; quick to make up her mind and equally quick to change it. He realized that was in part the charm of her, but now it only made him more aware and grateful for Hermione's steadfastness. Funny, how some of the same Weasley traits that made Ron his best friend just didn't translate when it came to girls. He smiled, hoping to show them both that he was happy for them as Hermione tugged at his sleeve to bring him to his old familiar place at the table.

“So you've come back!” Seamus said by way of greeting. “Missed the Express and walked, have you?”

“Just visiting.” Harry said. “How's seventh year going?”

“Other than the fact there's no Hogsmeade visits allowed and none of the girls will even consider a good snog on the Astronomy tower anymore… okay I guess. Wouldn't you say, Dean?”

“Er, I suppose,” Dean said, looking at Ginny.

“So what are you three up to? Why didn't you come back? Don't you want to graduate?” Lavender asked. Parvati's dark eyes roamed the three of them avidly.

“Hello? Have you been paying attention at all for the last six years? Harry's got a little problem with the Dark Lord trying to kill him and Hermione and I are trying to help him out of it.” Ron said.

Rather pointedly, Harry thought. Clearly he had no intention of striking anything up with his ex.

“Well, wouldn't staying at Hogwarts and finishing your education make you just a little more qualified to do that?” Lavender snapped back.

“Funny,” Hermione said deadly quietly, “I've taken almost every class Hogwarts offers. Somehow I must have missed the one on defusing dark wizards. Because it certainly wasn't covered by any of the fine succession of DADA professors we had while I was here.”

“Where are you lot living? What have you been doing?” Neville asked interestedly; happily oblivious to the ping-ponging tensions around him.

“My godfather left me his old house,” Harry told him. “We're staying there for the time being.”

“Alone? Wicked.” Seamus whistled enviously.

“The three of you?” Lavender asked, raising an eyebrow.

Harry had an almost overwhelming urge to jump up and snog Hermione in front of the entire school, just to cut through the inevitable slow dance of discovery and get on with it.

“Yeah,” he said tiredly. “The three of us. No house elves. It's not pretty and the food's no where near this good.”

“Good thing it's a big old house, though” said Hermione, who suddenly seemed to be thoroughly enjoying herself. “Lots of bedrooms. If all the rampant three-way sex gets too hard on the furniture we just move on to another one.”

There was dead silence at their end of the table; Lavender's mouth literally fell open. Ron's ears went pink and Harry felt as if the enchanted ceiling was suddenly sporting a desert-strength sun.

“Oh go on,” Hermione told them calmly. “You know it's exactly the sort of thing you'll all be saying as soon as we leave, we might as well get you started off properly. And for the record, Lavender, you can stop staring at me as if I've grown three of something. Ron and I had a mutual change of heart. He's a free man.”

“Oh, good,” came a serenely dreamy voice from over Harry's shoulder; he turned to discover Luna Lovegood standing behind him, smiling happily. “It wasn't strictly supposed to happen for at least another two weeks,” she continued, “but this works out even better, I think. And I hope you and Harry are very happy together, Hermione. Your soul shadows are extremely compatible, you know.”

The silence, if possible, deepened.

Ginny's eyes narrowed dangerously and Harry felt his first flickering sense of how not easy this was likely to go.

“What happened to being afraid that being with you makes someone a target for Voldemort?” She hissed. “You spineless liar. I thought you were being brave. It was always about her anyway, wasn't it? It always has been. And you.” She turned on Hermione. “Telling me to get on with my life. `See other boys, relax a little, he'll notice you.' Was that what you were using Ron for?”

“Shut up, Ginny,” Ron said furiously. “You think you know us, but you don't. You have no idea what you're talking about. And for your information, I'm fine with the way things are. So stop playing at defending me when it's your own little hero worship fantasy that didn't work out in the end.”

Ginny's cheeks reddened, she looked for all the world as if she'd been slapped by an unsuspected source.

“You told me you dumped him!” said Dean suddenly, turning in angry surprise to Ginny. “You said you realized we were… so what does that make me? The consolation prize? You…

“The sorting hat was wrong when it only warned us of inter-house rivalries.” Luna's unusually clear and piercing tone cut across the sniping. “Look at you. Harry's willing to give up his future to fight an evil wizard who's threatening our whole way of life and Hermione and Ron are doing everything they can as well. And here you are, safe and sound in Hogwarts studying for your NEWTs as if nothing is happening and calling it bravery! You're arguing about things that couldn't possibly matter to anyone but yourselves. If Voldemort - oh, stop cringing for goodness sake - if Voldemort defeats Harry the last thing on any of your minds will be who's seeing who. And Ronald,” she continued, an unfamiliar shyness creeping into her voice as well, “I for one think you are a very brave and loyal friend.”

The blush that had settled on the tips of his ears spread and he said something unintelligible, but Harry noticed it ended in a grin.

“Look,” he said, his own anger rising, “we didn't come back to… It doesn't matter what anyone's doing as long as you don't believe the rubbish that's being written in the Prophet. Luna's right, you don't need to meet Voldemort face to face to see what he's doing to us. He may be after me, but he's had a hand in every decision you lot have made just lately as well. Whether or not to come back to Hogwarts. Whether your NEWTs will even mean anything whatever grade you manage. Whether there will be jobs for you to go on to. Dumbledore being gone changes everything. Voldemort may not have been the one to do the actual Avada that killed him that night, but he did it just the same. Without ever having to set foot into Hogwarts. And it wasn't just because of Snape, or Malfoy, or his Death Eaters. He did it by using people you like and trust, like Rosmerta. She'll never be able to forget she was used like that, never trust herself again. And it could have been you,” he said, looking directly at Lavender, “or you,” he told Ginny. “You're just lucky it wasn't.”

He pushed back from the table, suddenly anxious to be gone. These were his friends, but now it seemed as if a chasm was starting to open up between them, growing by the day. They appeared much the same, although he knew Dumbledore's death and the changes at Hogwarts had affected them greatly as well. It must be him, then, he that was moving away somehow, with an ever increasing momentum that felt as if it was about to hurl him at something he had always known was there but still had no idea how to handle. The question was, would he ever?

Hermione rose as well, and then Ron.

“Harry,” said Neville anxiously. “I know you're going to be awfully busy and all, but couldn't you come back and tell us how it's going sometimes? Show us a bit of what you've learned? How can we help you and be any real use at all if all we've learned how to handle are Boggarts and Hinkypunks? Lupin's the only werewolf I ever met until the one last year that attacked Ron's brother, and they might as well have been a different species all together. We want to help, honestly, we just don't know…how.”

Neville's words so closely mirrored his own thoughts they cut through any ready answer he might have given and caused him instead to really think about what Neville was asking,

“You mean like the DA?” he asked slowly. Suddenly the idea of Dumbledore's Army and his flat assertion to Rufus Scrimgeour after the funeral last year that he was and always would be Dumbledore's man, began to coalesce. Lupin could run the Order, but the Order might well prove to be against what Harry was doing. They were the adults, the experienced ones, but they weren't the ones with the most to lose. Harry thought of the Department of Mysteries and Neville's dogged determination despite his broken nose; the way he was clever enough to find Hermione's pulse when Harry was frozen with terror, sure that she was dead. There needed to be a way for everybody who was willing to fight to do it. Even if he was increasingly certain the end was going to come down to him alone, he could probably use all the help he could get figuring out how to get there.

“Yeah,” said Neville, “Exactly. I could handle it for you here, set up the meeting times and the place and everything. It's just, well, they aren't lying to us anymore, not flat out the way they did when Umbridge was here, anyway, but they still aren't really teaching us anything, either. Snape did a brilliant job of showing us all the worst about the Dark Arts last year but he never really got around to the defense bit, did he? You already know more than that useless Dawlish. You could train us and we could free you up to do the stuff only you can do.”

`Like suck up the shredded bits of soul Voldemort's left round for safe keeping and die,' Harry thought.

He looked to Hermione and she nodded her approval of the idea, but Harry had the uncomfortable feeling she was well aware of his silent response as well.

“If enough people still want to,” Harry told him, “we'll find the time. It may have to be sort of spur of the moment because we've got some, er, traveling to do soon, but yeah. Why not. Do you still have your coin? Signal us when you've fixed it and Hermione can set the date.”

“Okay!” Neville nodded enthusiastically. Harry silently hoped he would be smart about who he asked and keep it quiet. McGonagall might not be against the idea in principle, although she'd have to cope with the School Governors, who would. The thing of it was she was a member of the Order and he'd rather keep the two quite separate if he could.

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Hermione went to do some research in the library while Harry and Ron went for a quick fly round the Quidditch pitch. Madam Hooch had a class of first years out taking their first real broomstick riding class and they goggled as the two snuck in a little practice, with Harry trying to get a couple of quaffles past Ron and Ron attempting to beat Harry to the Snitch. They'd borrowed school brooms, old Cleansweeps, and Harry missed his Firebolt intensely.

They had agreed to meet Hermione down at Hagrids' afterwards and so made their way down the hill under a brilliant blue autumn sky.

“Harry?” Ron asked suddenly.

“Hmm?”

“How do you suppose Bullstrode knew we were coming? Or do you think she's been waiting there just to see who goes in and out?”

“No idea. I'd like to think it was a happy accident for her, because the alternative is McGonagall's owl was intercepted or there's a spy in Hogwarts. Neither makes me feel particularly good.”

Ron nodded his agreement and trod on. Harry had a sudden surge of gratitude that Ron was still there beside him, following the familiar path to Hagrids'. He remembered his words to Ginny in the Great Hall, `You think you know us, but you don't.' It was true. There was something between the three of them, perhaps even more so now that they had worked through their reconfiguration relatively unscathed; a closeness and trust that had been quick to form but taken six years to ripen into the friendship they had now. Something big enough and strong enough to stretch without breaking when they needed it most.

If Ron had dug in his heels over Hermione's discovery of her feelings for Harry… The thought tore at his heart. He couldn't have born losing either of them. But Ron, who had long had the unenviable job of dealing with the attention; both positive and negative, that came to Harry simply because of a prophecy and a botched spell, had proved what he really was. A friend in the truest sense, to both of them. And Harry, rocked as he had been by his experience with Hermione on the night of her birthday wanted, no, needed to see Ron happy as well. It was an oddly powerful urge, both unusual and uncomfortable for him, like a last item that resists completion on an almost finished list.

“Luna's right, you know.”

“Luna's a loon.” Ron said, but the same, slightly goofy, amused grin came over his face. “But you know what? After Lavender and Hermione, I think I might quite like a girl with a sense of humor. Even if it is mostly unintentional.”

“Hermione has a sense of humor,” Harry said, guessing that it was now his duty to defend her honor, although he probably would have anyway. He always had before.

“She did at lunch today, anyway,” Ron agreed, laughing aloud at the memory.

Harry joined him.

“Oh, man, Seamus' eyes were like this big,” Ron said, measuring the air with his fingers. “He was totally buying it for a minute there.”

“I think Seamus wants it the other way round,” Harry snorted. “That was more Lavender's sort of thing.”

“Lavender's all talk and lots of tongue but no real follow through. At least with me.” Ron said suddenly.

They'd never talked at any length about Ron's stint as Won Won, mostly because Lavender had always mildly irritated Harry and he'd sensed he would be seriously lacking in his best-friendly duties in the admiration and support department if they had. Some of the noises their joint efforts had produced in the Common Room last year had come close to tripping even Harry's gag reflex. That, and he'd hated the effect the two of them seemed to have on Hermione; it was as if she'd lost herself somehow all year.

“So you never? With her?” Harry asked hesitantly, surprised.

“Nope. And not even close with Hermione. Just so you know.” Ron said, with a shy, sideways glance.

“She told me, actually,” Harry admitted.

Ron reddened again and groaned. “Oh please tell me you haven't been talking about that. You are the last place I want to hear feedback about my snogging ability.”

“No, nothing like that. Honestly. She just told me because…” Harry's mind flailed, trying to think of any reasonable lie as an alternative to actually revealing how and why Hermione had disclosed that particular piece of information.

Ron appeared to be enjoying his discomfort for a moment before his eyes widened to a degree that put his demonstration of Seamus' to shame.

“You… and Hermione. You and Hermione! You and she… and she… and you? Sweet Merlin's wand, Harry. I don't know whether to be hugely envious or kick your arse!”

“I don't think she'd thank you for kicking my arse. It was her idea actually. Or, to be honest, she was the one who was Gryffindor enough to make the first move.” Harry told him, a bit panicked now that he was actually having the conversation he'd known all along he'd need to have sooner or later with his other best friend. They were almost down the hill to Hagrids' and both instinctively slowed their progress.

“I'd say you were one lucky-arse wizard,” Ron told him, “except it isn't usually true.”

“She makes me feel like one,” Harry heard himself say the words before his brain could edit them and knew it to be the truth. The pain Voldemort had extracted through his scar had been a small price for what had come before it.

“So?” Ron asked. Harry saw his fringe move and realized he was probably waggling his eyebrows at him in a brilliant imitation of Fred or George; it was simply lost in all that Weasley hair.

“Brilliant. Beyond brilliant, actually.” Harry grinned. “And you can tell her I said so. I already have.”

“There's a conversation I'm so not going to have. It's already `we should help Harry this' and `where's Harry that'. I'm just not ready to know if you're hung like your patronus or speak parseltongue when you're really happy. Nope. Complete ignorance is the way to go. This never happened. Be a friend and obliviate me now.”

“Or you could just stop calling her loony and find out if Luna loves good.” Harry suggested. “Her aura is pulsing Weasley red, she's humming Weasley is My King and she thinks you're brave and loyal already. I'm sure your soul shadows are highly compatible as well. Just go for it.”

He knocked on the door before Ron could disagree, and it was thrown open by a beaming Hagrid.

“'Arry! Ron! Sight for sore eyes, the both of yeh. Come in! Come in! The kettle's on.”

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Professor McGonagall followed Hermione through the door a short time later. Shoving over to make space for Hermione to share his stool (which, being Hagrid's, offered more than enough room) Harry reflected that he'd never actually seen McGonagall down here before, although she'd flown to Hagrid's defense quickly enough back in fifth year. Losing Dumbledore had likely pulled those who'd stood longest by him tight. Another gamble on Voldemort's part.

He watched Hermione's fingers curl around one of Hagrid's massive mugs and felt strangely safe. There was something familiar and comforting about drinking tea round the scarred old table with suspicious creatures making hungry snuffling noises in the corners.

“So `ow've yeh been keepin', the three of yeh? Things alright in the old place, then? Always gave me a case o' the willies, it did.” Hagrid said, and the other four at the table took hurried sips of their tea to hide smiles at the thought of that.

“It's hardly creepy at all now that Kreatcher's gone.” Harry assured him.

“We've chucked a good bit of the nasty stuff into his old room,” Ron said.

“But that's almost the extent of the cleaning I'm afraid,” Hermione admitted. “We've just been too busy.”

“I heard,” said Professor McGonagall, examining her tea leaves carefully, “that you, Mr. Potter, are responsible for Mundungus Fletcher not joining Sir Nicholas amongst the Nearly Headless.”

Harry ducked his own head as well; he wondered exactly who had told her and how much she had heard.

“Waste of time, if you ask me. He'd sell his own head for the right price if it came off,” she continued. “But you gave Remus Lupin a good scare. He was the leader of the “let them alone and watch” school of thought.”

“Was?” asked Hermione, somewhat coolly, Harry thought. “Have you all changed your strategies then?”

“No, no, `ermione! Never you mind. We're still keepin' a good eye on…” Hagrid began stoutly, then blanched. “Er…”

“Never mind, Hagrid,” Harry told him. “We'd have to be thicker than even Ron and I can be not to realize the remains of the Order would be watching us. We just didn't want you to be letting important things go because of us, the way the Ministry is with the Aurors. We truly can,” he said, raising his eyes to meet McGonagall's “take care of ourselves.”

“And quite hopefully,” Professor McGonagall said, meeting them, “each other. I noticed also that there have been some… perhaps realignments is the word?”

Ron choked on his tea and coughed.

Hermione pinkened, but remained collected, her dark eyes unreadable.

Harry sighed, and blinked.

“It is no small thing, love,” Professor McGonagall said sternly. “Particularly among magical folk. A force strong enough to cause changes in one's patronus is a force to be reckoned with, not ignored.”

“We're none of us changing our patronuses or anything,” Ron said anxiously.

“One of you already has, Mr. Weasley. And given the increasing role they are likely to play in your lives during the coming months, it is most important that you three remain honest with each other about what lies between you.”

“If you're talking about Harry and Hermione,” said Ron. “I already know. I mean I knew before. Not that there was anything to know before, but you could see it coming a mile off and Hermione did talk with me about it. I sort of always thought they might.”

“'arry and `ermione?” said Hagrid, looking confused. “What about `em?

“Hermione's patronus has changed, Hagrid. I had a real moment of panic this morning when a strange doe deer came galloping up the drive, until I remembered the exact same thing happened to Lily late in her seventh year. It would seem, Harry, that you and your father share a somewhat overwhelming… magical effect.”

`And what exactly,' thought Harry `am I supposed to say to that? Thank you?'

“Really?” Hermione asked, fascinated, her own embarrassment quite forgotten. “Was hers a deer as well?”

Hagrid clapped his enormous hands together; the resulting sound was loud enough that Professor McGonagall winced and Harry almost fell off his end of the stool. Hermione dropped a steadying hand down to his hip and he felt his attention immediately drift as Hagrid said, “O'course! I remember that! Sweetest little thing on four legs it was. The first time I saw it I hadn't a clue the two of them `ad gotten together…”

His black eyes made their way from Hermione to Harry and back again, eyebrows working furiously.

“Oh,” he said softly. “Right. Well. O'course, yer all grown up now, and all, aren't yeh. Seems like just yesterday I was busting down the door o' that miserable shack Vernon Dursley'd locked yeh up in for yer birthday, `arry. Could tell for sure they'd kept yeh in a cupboard back then, yeh could, scruffiest, scrawny little thing. And not so long before that I was roaring yeh along on that motorbike of Sirius' in your wee blankets. Time flies, it does.”

`Until your professors start talking about your love life, that is,' Harry thought. At least Hagrid had offered a chance for diversion.

“Hagrid, what did you see at Godric's Hollow that night? What was the house like? Was it really destroyed?

“'fraid so, `Arry. Well, still standing, o'course, yeh were in yer cot in a little room upstairs when I found yeh. But it was like a `uge wind went right through it; just blew everythin right away. Windows was busted out, `alf the roof off, not a door left on its hinges.”

“I left for Surrey as soon as Hagrid told me Dumbledore had sent him to fetch you there.” McGonagall remembered. “I arrived just in time to see your dreadful Uncle leaving for work and to hear your cousin have the loudest tantrum I'd ever known from a child of one then or since. Wretched little boy. I watched the house all day waiting for Hagrid and Dumbledore to arrive, and I positively dreaded leaving you there by the time they did.”

“So Professor Dumbledore sent Hagrid to get Harry from the house?” Hermione asked.

“That's it. Dumbledore sent me off with a portkey to the village. Met up with Sirius at the cottage and he let me borrow `is bike right off. One look it and he apparated away like `e `ad a Horntail on `is trail, `e did. `Course now I know `e was off after Peter Pettigrew, wasn't `e. Wish I'd done it different. Yeh might `ave `ad a Godfather all that time, `Arry, if I `ad.”

“You couldn't have known what he meant to do, Hagrid,” Harry told him. “And Sirius always did what he wanted to anyway. You couldn't have stopped him.”

“That `e did. Yeh were such a little tyke, `Arry. Fair broke my `eart to see you sittin' there cryin yer eyes out and yer poor Mum…” Hagrid broke off and honked into an enormous spotted handkerchief.

“I was crying?” Harry asked curiously; he'd never heard this particular bit of the story before.

“'Course yeh were, `Arry, any little `un with a jagged great crack on the `ead like that would `ave would `nt `e. Don't know as yeh could see your Mum from there or that yeh really knew what `appened to yeh, but yer `ead seemed to `urt somethin terrible.”

“You must have been frightened,” Hermione said softly. “And to cry and cry and have no one come….”

Harry felt a twinge of something, a flush of barely remembered fear, wordless and deep. He pushed it resolutely away. “How did Dumbledore know?” he asked instead. “To send you, I mean. It was the middle of the night. How did he know?”

“Order members watching the house I suppose,” said Hagrid, as if the thought had never occurred to him.

“But they couldn't have, could they? How many were in on the fidelius then? I thought they were trying to keep it super secret,” Hermione said in surprise.

“It wouldn't have mattered, Hermione, only Pettigrew could have given them away. Someone could only find the house if Pettigrew told them himself, not someone else he told. He was the secret keeper,” Ron pointed out.

“But that's the point,” Hermione exclaimed. “If it had been Sirius it wouldn't have mattered in the sense of snitching. But look who Pettigrew told! He could easily have told others as well. Here's what has always bothered me. If Voldemort's physical being was destroyed that night and he was but the meanest ghost, a shredded soul, what happened to his wand? We know he had it back when he stole Harry's blood to regain a body fourth year, and we know it was his own, since Harry's Mum and Dad were among the spell shadows to come out of it. What if someone else was there that night? Someone who snuck away his wand for him? Someone who took something else as well; the thing that he'd meant to make it out of before it backfired into Harry?”

“What if it was just Pettigrew? He could have taken the wand with him and given it back later.”

“If he did, he must have hidden it before Sirius found him, because the spell that Sirius was accused of casting to kill the twelve Muggles wasn't on it, and we know Peter did that before he cut off his finger and turned himself in to Scabbers. Rat's can't carry wands.”

“But what does it really matter?” Harry cut across the two of them. “It doesn't matter how he got back his wand; he has it. It doesn't matter if anyone else was there that night, whether it was Pettigrew or even Snape; they didn't stop him. I still am what I am. It's all just theories and speculation. It's time to stop theorizing and fight.”

“I think,” Professor McGonagall said, setting down her mug, “that like it or not, that is what is rapidly approaching us all. It's a fine thing to step forward bravely into adversity, Harry, and another altogether to rush into it blindly or angrily. Voldemort is counting on losing Dumbledore's council to lead you to do something stupid. Prove him wrong.”

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Given their welcoming committee, all three agreed that apparition was the safest way home. It didn't seem as if Millicent and her Durmstrang cronies had had time to notify anyone before their mad dash, but it wasn't a chance Harry was willing to take.

It had taken Hermione to point out what Harry and Ron had missed; there was probably no coincidence to the configuration of a single girl and two boys as their interceptors.

“They were going to polyjuice themselves to get into Hogwarts, idiots,” she said, although Harry thought hopefully the `idiots' part was more in fondness for their continued stupidity than actual frustration with it. She might be the smartest witch ever, but there was no doubt in his mind that more often then not he was the dumbest wizard for miles. The idea had not even occurred to him.

“The question is,” she continued, “why? Was it meant to be an attack, or are they looking for something? They wouldn't blend easily as us, since we aren't students any more, but they might well have guessed that McGonagall would give us access to places in the school they might not reach as someone else.”

“Or they knew about Dumbledore's portrait waking up and they wanted to come in as us to find out how much Harry knows,” Ron pointed out. “If Voldemort's guessing Harry's on to the horcruxes he'll start guarding them instead of letting them stay hidden.”

Harry felt his stomach cramp; it was going to be hard enough to find the bloody things without every one of them being a death eater battle. Or worse still, facing Voldemort and losing before he'd had a chance to destroy them…

And so it was that Harry was more then a little distracted as they moved from the gates toward the shelter of the tree they had hidden behind earlier to apparate homeward. He listened for the tell-tale popping sounds to be sure they both were safely on their way; Hermione's a soft sound like a drop of water, Ron's more of a car backfiring, and then prepared to go himself. The familiar feeling of being squeezed through a bottle began but too abruptly ended, as though someone had tossed the bottle against something solid, shattering it. Harry felt himself hurling through darkness and then jerked painfully back, concentrating desperately on keeping himself whole. Before he could even see properly he was aware of his over-adrenalized body struggling with another, rolling to the ground. He could feel the tree roots beneath his shoulders and a hand clutching his throat. A roaring sound filled his ears; he heard a voice but not what it was saying and continued his fierce attempts to free himself. He grabbed at the fingers around his neck and managed to bring his knee up with enough force to hear his attackers' abrupt exhalation when it connected somewhere. He was able to achieve a brief gasp of air and his brain took in a few details.

His assailant was taller but not much heavier then he, probably around his own age. He was wearing a hooded cloak, obscuring his identity but slowing his reaction time, fight-wise. And he now had Harry's wand.

“Petrificus totallus,” a familiar voice hissed, and Harry suddenly went from fight-or-flight mode to well and truly pissed off. And extremely rigid.

He focused on his wand and centered every ounce of his consciousness on a silent scream of Expelliarmus. It took him two tries, but the third attempt ripped the wand from Malfoy's hand.

“Stupid, Potter. You still aren't going anywhere. Accio wand.” Malfoy looked up long enough to grab the wand as it returned and Harry used the moment for another attempt at a nonverbal spell. Amazing how easy it was to learn when you were pinned and helpless the second time round. A year ago he wouldn't even have thought to try, but a lot had happened in a year and Malfoy wasn't getting another shot at Harry's nose anytime soon. His finite incantatum freed him and he was grappling Draco for the wand before the Slytherin even knew what hit him.

Hand to hand Draco had nothing on Harry but sheer meanness; a strength that today seemed to be failing him. He fell back on the wand and a spell Harry had never come across that flipped him bodily over and sent him face first into the tree. Reeling, he managed to regain his knees in time to take the one-two punch of a silencio and Malfoy's fist. He hit the tree again, this time with the back of his head, but came up swinging and managed to knock both his assailants flat before he realized he was seeing double. The second punch hit the tree, with unfortunate results for his hand but a positive surge for his anger.

Swiftly, wordlessly and vindictively Harry managed a leg locker, a binding charm, and another punch that ended with the satisfying sound of Malfoy's perfect aristocratic nose achieving the same crookedness as his soul.

He dropped, gasping for air and fighting the contents of his stomach while Malfoy found his voice.

“Gods, Potter, you are such a moron. I was just trying to get us someplace safe to talk, now you've landed us in Auror central.”

Harry laughed, or at least he meant to. He could not manage to silently end the silencio, and was stuck glaring at his enemy.

“I have a business proposal for you.”

Harry shook his head fiercely. `No dice. You've got nothing but a couple of Death Eaters looking for you, and it's nothing you don't deserve. You tried to kill him!' he thought.

“But I didn't!” Draco spat bloodily.

Harry gaped at him, then shook himself. Even Trelawney could have figured out what was on his mind just then. He spat back. Less bloodily. Which meant he won, didn't it?

There was a loud `pop' and Ron appeared. His wand whipped out at the sight before him.

“You okay, Harry?” he asked, training it on Malfoy, who sighed.

Harry pointed at his mouth and Ron's wand.

“Silencio?” Ron asked.

Harry nodded, and watched as Ron aimed his wand his way and ended the spell.

“For lack of guts, not lack of opportunity or trying,” he croaked out, still back on Malfoy's denial of his unspoken accusation.

“Er, what?” said Ron, looking at him as if he had lost his mind. “You don't look so good, Harry. Just step over the dragon dung there and we'll have you home in no time.”

“Shut up, Weasley,” Malfoy sneered.

“Shut up yourself, Malfoy,” said Ron, suddenly catching up with the situation. “Nice to see you where you belong for a change. Leaving him for Aurors then, Harry? Or maybe his own kind will find him. Hard to run from everyone, is it ferret boy?”

“Seriously, Ron, what should we do with him?” Harry was starting to stiffen up and had an uncomfortable feeling of being out in the open, watched. He wanted a hot bath and to crawl across the hall of Grimmauld Place into the soft warmth of Hermione's bed and…

“Where's Hermione?” he asked anxiously. “She got there okay, right?”

“She's fine. She agreed to give me fifteen minutes. If I don't have you back she's coming to find out why.” Ron told him.

“You can't just leave me here!” Malfoy said angrily, but Harry could see that even Ron heard the note of panic rising in his voice.

“What do you reckon?” Harry asked tiredly. “Blindfold him and take him back? We can get rid of him there, it'd be less dangerous for all of us to let him loose in the City.”

“How is it dangerous to us to leave him here for whoever finds him?”

“What City?” Malfoy asked, as if he had a choice.

“Besides,” Harry said, “I have a few questions to ask him about his old Head of House first. He might not be quite as useless as he used to be, now that he's actually one of them. And then…

“And then we can bundle him into the fireplace,” Ron offered, “chuck in a handful of floo powder, and say “Hell” real loud and clear!”

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11. Chapter Ten

Official Fine Print: Nope. Not mine. The brainchildren of the mighty pen of JK Rowling. Just playing with them. Honest.

A/N: Er… Wow? Just came on to Portkey to finally post this chapter and saw that MND won Felix Felicis! All I can think to say is THANKS! You guys really are the best readers and most thoughtful reviewers anywhere, and I'd rather be happily delusional with you then “sane” anywhere else! It's an honor to be writing for you. Finally got the new laptop pretty much where the old one was, so hope the next chapter won't take this long… Thanks for sticking with it. And for voting, too! Maybe I can actually answer some reviews now. I appreciate them, honestly, and try to take all your points of view to heart and into the story when I can. Thanks! *does happy happy joy joy dance and starts next chapter*

Magic Never Dies

Chapter 10

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Ron and Harry apparated Malfoy between them to the kitchen of Grimmauld Place. He looked around him with evident disdain, revealing no sign of ever having seen the place before. Not that a Malfoy would have been likely to spend time in the kitchen, anyway.

“Nice place, Potter,” he said, the break in his nose giving him the sound of a severe head cold. “Suits you. Run down, filthy and tasteless.”

Ron shoved him toward the table and pulled out a chair. “Sit. And shut up. I'm already sorry we didn't just leave you.”

Hermione appeared through the hall door, eyes widening when she saw their visitor.

“Ah. And I see you found yourself kitchen help,” he sneered.

“I'd punch you again, Malfoy, but I see either Harry or Ron has beaten me to it.” Hermione said coldly, but her eyes had already moved on to both boys, scanning for injuries.

Harry rummaged round the pantry and produced four bottles of butterbeer, setting them down onto the table and dropping into the chair furthest from Malfoy. Hermione moved wordlessly about, collecting a bowl of water and a clean flannel. Ron continued glaring at Malfoy with an intensity that should have produced spontaneous combustion. Harry reckoned Ron thought it too good for him.

“You said you had a… business proposition,” Harry said, taking a swig of butterbeer. “I'm curious. Why'd you think we'd listen?”

“Because you'd be curious, imbecile. Any other stupid questions?”

“Do you want to die? Or do you just want to end up really disfigured?” Ron growled.

“Congratulations, Weasley. Those are, in point of fact, stupid questions.”

Hermione settled down beside Harry with the water and cloth and dabbed at the side of his forehead where he had connected with the tree, trying to wash the drying blood and bits of bark away. It stung and his eyes watered; hardly helping with the intimidation factor. Malfoy seemed ever so slightly nervous but not nearly as panicked as Harry would have thought given his position. Either he was too arrogant to be frightened by his abrupt change of fortune or he hid it really well. Harry's head was pounding and he was in no mood to puzzle it out. He let his eyes close and submitted to Hermione's administrations patiently, waiting for something to give.

“I have a broken nose, and he gets his bark washed off. Hardly seems fair.” Malfoy's eyes were following her every move, and Harry opened his in time to blurrily see them shift to Ron and back again. He doubted Malfoy ever knew about Ginny, or Ron and Hermione. He'd been awfully preoccupied himself the end of last term…. Besides, Harry figured he'd always thought the worst of them anyway; the truth would hardly change anything. If he thought he was going to strike a nerve he'd be sorely disappointed on that front. At least from Harry's perspective anyway. Ron, on the other hand, was looking as if he could spit bullets instead of slugs; his wand had been fixed a long time now and Malfoy seriously under-estimated his enemy if he was operating off of that episode.

“Life's got a few surprises in store for you, Malfoy,” Hermione told him, not taking her eyes off Harry. “It will hardly be the first to tell you I'm no Pansy Parkinson.”

“Actually something of a relief at the moment, really,” he drawled. “But on the whole, that's sadly true.”

Harry literally saw red. True, Hermione was cleaning round his eye, but he could still feel his blood boiling.

“She's worth a thousand Parkinsons,” he snarled, not even recognizing his own voice. He aimed his wand at Malfoy's nose and hissed, “Episkey.”

There was a wet, squelching sound and Malfoy cursed sharply.

“Don't be such a baby,” Ron told him. “It's back to its usual place above the rest of us. How do you walk without falling over with it in the air like that?”

“It's a natural thing for purebloods,” Malfoy said, his voice suddenly clear again; but no less annoying. “Wonder what that says for you.” His eyes wandered back to Harry and Hermione, watching as she rung out the cloth over the bowl of now pinkish, bark-flecked water.

“You do know you're a witch, Granger? Even Potter used a spell.”

“It still has to be cleaned before you heal it,” she defended herself. “And even Madam Pomfrey washes out scrapes like this one. Scourgify isn't good for an open wound.” Not to say it hurt quite a bit more. She had a disquieting feeling Malfoy sensed her need to physically lay her hands on Harry, to reassure herself as much heal him. She wasn't sure exactly why his awareness bothered her, but it rankled nonetheless.

“You touch that thing?” Malfoy's eyes narrowed in disgust as she continued, lifting Harry's fringe to clean the last of the scrape where it ran up to the jagged lightening bolt scar that so defined him. For everyone but her.

She saw Harry's eyes flicker, but with interest instead of annoyance, and knew at once what he was thinking.

“Why not? It's just a scar, isn't it. Broken skin. The only one this ever hurt was Voldemort,” she said lightly. Lying through her teeth. The image of Harry locked in agony the night before seared her. And then there was Hagrids' new revelation of baby Harry, crying unconsoled in his cot as Godric's Hollow.

Malfoy's pale eyes roamed the room again, restlessly. “What if I told you the Dark Lord disagrees. He thinks that… mark, is something else. I heard him talking to Snape and that little sycophant, Pettigrew.”

“It's just a scar,” she repeated. “What else could it be?” Hermione could feel Harry's heart pounding through the veins beneath her finger tips.

“That's hardly just a scar, is it. He's figured out something about whatever went wrong when he tried to kill you, Potter, and why you're still alive. He thinks he knows what it was now.”

Harry let out a small involuntary groan, and Hermione hurriedly pressed the cloth over the scrape to make it appear she had caused it. He winced convincingly.

“It was something to do with your Mother, I think. That's why the Death Eater's aren't allowed to kill you. Well, one of the reasons. He thought he got past it with your blood when his body was reborn but now he thinks it must be the scar itself. He has plans for you. None of them pretty, may I add.”

“Sort of like his plans for you?” Ron interjected. “How do we know you aren't lying through your teeth?”

“And why do we care? How does it help us to know that?” Harry added. “He's always wanted to do something with me, by now I hardly care what it is.”

Something seemed to break in Malfoy's cool façade. “Don't say that,” he said jerkily. “You don't know what he can do.”

Harry felt a corresponding break in his own meager self-control.

“Really, Malfoy?” he asked, shaking free of Hermione's hand and leaning forward against the table. “I don't? What's he said he'll do to you? Take your Mum and Dad? Kill them? Been there, had that done. Kill another kid in front of you? Tie you up and steal your blood and then offer to duel? Prowl around in your head and invade your dreams so that you don't know anymore where you start and he ends? Send you visions that haunt you until you can't help but act on them? Shove his slimy mind inside yours and use your own voice to beg someone to kill you? What? What else can he do? `Cause that's what he's already done to me, so excuse me if the result of your last minute inability to produce an AK doesn't exactly make me cry for you. Do you know what he said to Pettigrew the night Cedric died? `Kill the spare.' Bet he doesn't even waste that much energy when he gets a hold of you.”

“He'll waste it on you, though,” Malfoy told him, stung into fury. “I heard him tell Snape that it was all his fault, that he should never have allowed Snape to talk him into not killing your Mum first, that if he'd just killed her and gotten on with you none of this would ever have happened. Snape told him there was a ritual that would reverse what happened, he's working it up for him, but he's got to do it exactly right and if you die first it may kill him as well. What kind of ritual do you think that might be, Potter? Somehow I don't think it involves trading teacups. Sounds like it might make tying you up to his father's tombstone and using your blood a little, well, tame, doesn't it.”

“If it ends this, I say bring it on,” Harry told him tiredly. “Got anything else? So far you're not impressing me with any reason not to apparate you to Diagon Alley and leave you in front of Borgin and Burkes. I know how you've always loved to shop there. Any idea what they've done with Ollivander, by the way?”

“Malfoy,” Hermione interjected suddenly, “where have you been since you left Hogwarts that night?”

“I..” he looked uncomfortable again. “I don't know. Exactly.”

Harry, Ron and Hermione all exchanged glances. Hermione rose and retrieved her wand; Harry watched as she moved behind Malfoy and began murmuring incantations as she traced the air around him.

“That's a long time not to know where you are.” Ron said skeptically.

“I knew where I was, Weasel, I just didn't know where that was. The place, I mean.”

“Clear as mud. So where were `you,' then?”

“In a pigsty of a house almost as bad as this. Belonged to someone in Snape's family at some point.”

“So you were with Snape,” Harry said, the pain of the night Dumbledore died beginning to flare again inside him. So far he had managed to deal with Malfoy as his old Slytherin nemesis who'd teased and taunted him rather than the one he'd been forced to observe threatening the Headmaster while mute and immobile under the invisibility cloak.

“No. Well some of the time. It was boring as hell, I assure you. Middle of nowhere, no one to talk to. Snape had all this work he wanted me to do, potions I was supposed to make and stuff to look up. There was quite a little library, Granger; you would have been in heaven.”

“What sort of potions?” Harry asked. Hermione was still silent and intent behind him, working him over for concealed spells.

“Run of the mill, mostly. Veritaserum. Polyjuice. Garrotting Gas. Antidotes. Something else rather unpleasant I'd never heard of, one of Snape's own mixtures. Draining Draught, he called it; it's meant to literally drain the life out of you. Foul smelling stuff `til it's made, then you can't tell it from water without tasting it. Which you really don't want to do.”

Harry wondered vaguely if that was what he had had to force Dumbledore to drink in the cave the night he died. In which case, Snape had killed him in more way than one. Of course, then, so had Harry.

“How'd you overhear Voldemort and Snape then, if you were off on your own?” Ron queried.

“He came to the house, to check the progress of Snapes' potions. And probably to see if he could catch him harboring me, I suppose.”

“Why was he? Hiding you, I mean. Wouldn't he score extra Dark Wizard points for turning you in?”

Malfoy laughed; a wretched, hollow sound. “There's the joke. He's screwed. He swore a binding oath to Mother in front of Bellatrix that he'd keep me from harm and finish my… what I… finish, if I …”

“….couldn't,” supplied Harry. “You know, chickened out; choked. Caved. That sort of thing. Not that I wasn't happy when you proved you really were the coward I'd always thought you were.”

Malfoy glared. “You couldn't have done it!”

“I wouldn't have tried!” Harry snarled. “I wouldn't have gotten mixed up in it to begin with. It's clear on this end, you pathetic little shit. Voldemort's never been even remotely kind to me, or fair. Never even bloody thought about it. Dumbledore'd never been anything but those things to you, he even offered you a second chance and you still couldn't quite commit yourself either way. Trust me, if that were me and Voldemort was unarmed and dying on his feet I'd have Avada-ed him in a heart beat.”

“We'll see, won't we,” said Malfoy thickly. “You can't avoid it anymore than I could. Do what you like, he'll get you in the end.”

“Shut your stinking, slimy gob,” Ron said, rising. “Harry's got more guts in his …”

“Prick, were you going to say? Because it looks like he's been shagging your girlfriend to me,” Malfoy unleashed.

`So he was paying attention last year,' was Harry's first thought. Closely followed by `holy crap, Ron's got his wand out.'

“Stop it!” Hermione said furiously. “The three of you. You're like… you make Grawp seem like the height of civilization. This is ridiculous. Malfoy, you are an unredeemable blot on wizard-kind. Ron, he's just trying to get a reaction out of you because Harry's made him angry, and Harry, what can you possibly hope to gain getting into a pissing match with Malfoy, of all people. You're brave enough to stand up to Voldemort right now. You're also stupid enough. If you want to live, start acting like it, for heaven's sake. I'm not going to go through this if you won't!”

She turned on her heel and stamped from the kitchen and up the stairs. Moments later there was the sound of a door slamming ferociously above them.

Silence descended like a dementor's chill on the kitchen of number 12 Grimmauld Place.

Ron started twiddling his wand, as if that was all he'd pulled it out for.

Harry exhaled slowly and dropped his head into his hands, rubbing his tired eyes. “Thanks a bleeding heap there, Ferret.”

“Sleeping with the house elves tonight, eh Potter?” Malfoy smiled, his eyes glittering.

“I'm going to go take a bath,” Harry said, pushing away from the table and rising stiffly to his feet. “But if it's house elves you're into, I know just the one for you. Keep quiet tonight or I can promise you'll be getting a visit from one that would make even you happy to go without.”

He made his way from the kitchen but heard Ron's voice, tight with barely suppressed fury, as he started up the stairs.

“Here's a news flash for you, Malfoy. Parkinson's taken up with Zabini like you never even existed. She's not even wasting time being angry with you. So you can just shut the hell up and sleep on that picture. Problem with all that blood prejudice is your potential date pool's pretty damn small, isn't it? You may not be getting any the whole rest of your sad little excuse for a life.”

`Right. Like life would ever be that fair,' thought Harry.

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Harry emerged from his bath cleaner but fading fast. Ron came in while he was cleaning his teeth and they exchanged their usual platitudes (`Look like hell warmed over, mate.' `Thanks. And you. Cannons play today?') It relieved Harry to find Ron looking as tired as he felt; it had seemed an unaccountably long day somehow.

“Malfoy locked up good and tight?” he asked.

“I'm beat enough to sleep like I've been stupified,” Ron grinned, “so I thought it only fair he was as well. I put him in the room Lupin used to use and he's not going anywhere unless he can get there by blinking.”

Harry supposed a night's stupification couldn't do Malfoy and harm. Then again, who cared?

“You going…” Ron rolled his eyes down the hall in the general direction of Hermione's room. Since Harry's was on the other side of the hall it was fairly easy to catch his drift.

“If she'll have me,” he said.

“Good luck,” Ron told him feelingly. “It's times like this I don't envy you.”

But when Harry knocked tentatively her soft “come in” was welcoming enough, and nothing flew at him when he cautiously opened the door.

She was in bed already, reading, the single bedside lamp illuminating her book and picking out the strands of gold in her freshly brushed hair. There were three stacks of books on the floor beside the bed and another on the bedside table. Her eyes when she raised them to him were shadowed, unreadable, and he remained uncertainly in the doorway. He thought she had never appeared more beautiful, and he had never felt less worthy.

He was about to make some feeble excuse and flee to his own room when she wordlessly extended one slender arm toward him in a gesture of forgiveness so simple and yet profound that he found he had crossed the room in half the necessary number of steps and arrived on his knees beside the bed, head buried in the silky waterfall of all that hair. Her arms encircled his shoulders, steely in their strength but delicate in their touch, and he knew himself to be both safe and lost within them.

“I'm sorry,” he said, and meant it in so many ways it seemed more than two small words could convey.

“I know you are,” she whispered against his ear, and he felt her lips move, then press softly just below his ear, trailing to his neck and the hollow between his collar bones. It felt wonderful; he felt forgiven, loved, accepted. Everything he had ever craved in his unlovely life was there at last within his arms, and she wanted him.

It was almost more than he could take in… what had begun as a discovery he had felt almost driven to make in the dwindling time left to him had revealed itself instead to be everything he had missed all along. His compulsion to end the conflict that had ruled his life was still every bit as strong, but the feeling that he could just … go, that he had lost so much that he was the perfect choice to sacrifice himself to bring Voldemort down was dying fast. If this was what it meant to be alive, Harry very much wanted to live, thank you.

The battling Voldemort bit he knew, instinctively, he would do, one way or another. The coming through it alive part had always seemed like a lot to ask… but he trusted Hermione; was willing to take the risk in a way he never could have even thought with Ginny, because he knew that if he let Hermione convince him to live she would find a way to help him keep that promise.

She pulled at him and he climbed gratefully up into the bed beside her, gathering her into his arms, warm and soft and so very alive. He very much doubted Nagini could ever seriously compare.

So really, no matter who won the final battle, he sort of already had.

His sense of victory was cut short when Hermione's exploration of the other side of his neck ended with a muffled, “Harry. We need to talk.”

`Why?' just seemed like it was going to get him into trouble. He settled on a noncommittal “Hmmm?”

“About Malfoy. And Snape. It's important,” she persisted.

Nature's own birth control, right there. He rolled over, defeated.

She seemed to understand instantly his reaction, and grinned. “I'll make it up to you, I promise. But I really need you to think about something while it's fresh in your mind.” She drew back and propped her head up on one arm, considering him. “Have you thought about what you'll do if Snape shows up tomorrow?”

Harry felt his gut tighten at the prospect, and shook his head. “Not really. I know Dumbledore wanted me to welcome him with open arms, but..”

“You won't be the only one there who'll have a hard time with that. Not this time around. He'll have a lot of explaining to do all around if he does come. But what Malfoy said tonight made me think about something I've always wondered,” she said. Her eyes seemed enormous in the dimness of the room, outside the one circle of light. He could feel her watching him almost like a caress, knew that he wasn't likely to like whatever she had to say.

“I need you to be patient, Harry, and listen to everything I have to say before you… go off.”

Unflattering, but probably warranted.

“Just say it.” He closed his eyes. There was a moments' silence, as if Hermione were for once unsure where to start.

“He's always hated you, Harry. You aren't wrong to feel the way you do. He scared me when we were First Years, and then I started to get used to him and as we got older I kept asking myself, why? Why do you hate an eleven year old boy before you even know him? In the beginning he could get away with acting as if you were going to be spoiled or full of yourself because of the attention, a lot of people must have thought that. No one knew about the Dursley's, or about you, what you were really like. But after first year there wasn't any excuse, he just hated you, and it was unreasonable. And Dumbledore let him, which seemed… out of place. “

Harry snorted but remained otherwise silent and was rewarded by her hand moving to his chest and absently beginning to trace random patterns there as she thought her way through.

“Voldemort himself gave you one idea why at the end of first year, when he told you Snape and your Dad had been in school together and loathed each other. Snape had to have told him - how else would he know that? Then third year we found out a little bit more, about the Marauders and how he surely wasn't one of them, about hating Sirius because he teased him into following Lupin to the Shrieking Shack on the full moon, when he could easily have been killed if your Dad hadn't stopped it. It was easy to see why he resented James and hated being indebted to him for his life, but it still just didn't seem enough to make a normal person dislike you so.”

“He's not normal…” Harry broke in. The lovely, distracted hand on his chest ceased moving and withdrew. He sighed. “Sorry.”

“Fifth year, though, it started to make both more and less sense,” she continued. “You saw your father taunting Snape in the pensieve, and you could actually see where the animosity came from. James and Sirius were really quite mean, in their own teasing way. But was that the only reason Snape put those memories away before teaching you Occlumency, Harry? Was that all he was hiding? He was already working out spells of his own then; the Levicorpus your Dad used against him, and that Sectumsempra you tried out from the potion book on Malfoy sounded an awful lot like whatever he used to gash your Dad that day in the pensieve.. He must have already thought of himself as the Half Blood Prince by then; Mudblood was the first insult that came to his mind when Lily tried to defend him. Like as not, all the taunting from Sirius and your Dad, both pure-bloods, fixed the whole blood issue even more firmly in his mind. Despite being at least as clever or cleverer than either one he seemed to always be on the losing end of things.”

Her hand had not returned; Harry had nothing to lose. “Boo hoo. Poor Snapey,” he said. “They never mentioned once whether he was a half blood or not, they just didn't like him because he was a git.”

Hermione eyed him levelly. “I think we're still missing something. Something we've just dealt with ourselves that defies logic and drives people to incredibly stupid lengths.”

Harry was drawing a blank, and feeling like it was going to cost him dearly. “I'm sorry, Hermione. I just don't…”

She sighed. “Love, Harry. They were all ending their fifth year, going into sixth then. Clearly your Dad had already been trying to flirt with your Mum and she was having none of it then. Somehow or other, though, they ended up together. Seventh year according to Sirius, right? One more thing your Dad had that Snape didn't.”

“One more thing… my Mum? Hermione, no.”

“Think about it. She was head girl, smart, brilliant at potions. Slughorn taught them both and he told you that, Harry. He thought you took after her when you were using Snape's book. Snape would have admired that about her. She wasn't afraid to stand up to James, over Snape himself that one time you saw them. He would have admired that even more. But then she went and defied logic and fell in love with your Dad, and he would have been furious at the waste of it all. That brilliant mind, and James Potter, whom he'd always despised. Snape would have been perfect fodder for Voldemort then; living a lie as a full blooded wizard, brilliant with potions and dark arts but a social misfit, crying out for recognition and losing the girl… No doubt Voldemort welcomed him with open arms and was happy to have him; why would he even think of the other side when James and Sirius were the poster boys for it? It was probably less about evil or good and more about who would see him the way he wanted to be, as clever and valuable. “

Harry remained silent, digesting all this. The idea of Snape admiring his mother… but he'd seen them all at fifteen in the pensieve. And Snape had never said a bad word about Lily to Harry. Ever. It was always James; he'd been accused of strutting about like his arrogant Quidditch-playing father, ignoring the rules like his father…

“When he overheard that prophecy a few years later,” Hermione continued, “he probably recognized his chance to finally free himself from that Wizard's debt to your Dad. He must have tried to convince Voldemort that it was Neville he should worry about, but you can bet that once Voldemort decided that it was the son of the Muggleborn like himself he was most threatened by, Snape wouldn't have had a choice. He couldn't trust Voldemort; he probably knew by then what he was dealing with. Voldemort's never truly valued anyone but himself, no one's ever going to get further than his coat tails or dead. So in the end Snape went to Dumbledore and told him what Voldemort knew. Told him so that your Mum, whom he admired, and your Dad, whom he despised, had a chance to go into hiding with you.”

It was more than Harry could take in now; he wanted to argue, to get angry and storm away to his own room, but almost despite himself he could still see the possibility in her words.

“Then Snape hates me…” he started.

“Because ten years later, who walks into his classroom at Hogwarts but the spitting image of James Potter, whose life debt he failed to repay even at the cost of risking his own. If you had just managed to die and James and Lily lived, how different would his life have been? You're the reason he's stuck at Hogwarts teaching potions to the rest of us. He's probably felt like killing you a hundred times Harry, just to make the memories go away, but he can't. Because it's like everyone who ever knew her has said. You've got your mother's eyes. He probably sees her there every time he looks at you.

“Why do you think he's told Voldemort there's a ritual he can use if he keeps you alive? He must know about the horcruxes, or at least suspect something from Dumbledore. He's making it up, stalling for time, still trying to save you. The question is, is it because he owes your Dad or because he can't meet your mother's eyes?”

Harry squirmed against the pillow. “I don't care,” he said. “It's nothing to do with me, I can't help what my Dad and Sirius did. They said he grew up later, that Mum took his head down a peg or two by Seventh year. I bet Snape never gave him another chance either. I was sorry for him when I saw him as a little boy with his father and mother fighting as though he wasn't even there. He never gave me the smallest break for growing up Dursley.”

“Snape did give your Mum a priceless gift, though, Harry. Time. Because of him she knew that Voldemort was aware of the prophecy as well, that he would come for you sooner rather then later, and probably Neville for good measure. She knew what she was dealing with, and that she had run out of time for other answers. When Pettigrew betrayed them to Voldemort and he came to your house that night, Lily was ready.”

It took Harry a moment to catch up with what he had just heard.

“What do you mean, ready?” Harry said, and the outrage did start to flare then. “She was… she screamed… I heard her!”

“As ready as she could be, Harry,” Hermione said gently. “I've found myself thinking of it a lot lately, because, well, because of you and me, and everything… She wasn't your average witch either, she couldn't have just sat back and waited, even knowing about the Fidelius. She loved James, and she surely loved you. She would have researched everything she could in the time she had left to find some sort of answer. What if she did? She would have looked for his weakness, wouldn't she? Some sort of magic he didn't know, or wasn't particularly strong at.”

“Dumbledore said that Voldemort never expected what she did, that it was ancient magic that he knew and despised and underestimated.” Harry forced out. “But you think she did it on purpose? Actually planned it?”

“Of course she did, Harry. She had to have for it to work that way. If the force of hatred and cruelty strengthens a cruciatus or makes it possible to cast Avada, it follows that the intentional sacrifice of a life for the love of another would strengthen that magic as well. To spontaneously give your life for someone else would be a great gift; to plan to do it purposefully in order to give a life-long protection to your child would be… unspeakably beautiful.”

Unspeakably beautiful. Alarm bells rang in Harry's mind, but he could not force the connection, could not get past the fact that Hermione had immersed herself in all of this in an effort to save him.

“Tom Riddle's mother gave up, Harry. She let go, left her child to the mercies of the world. Yours never did. Even though she knew Voldemort wasn't going to rest until he killed you because of that stupid prophecy, she didn't stop trying. She and James could have given up, given you up and lived to have more children. You weren't just a child to them; you were already you, an individual, precious life and a boy who might just one day be able to use the superstition of an evil wizard to stop him from destroying a world they loved. Voldemort told you your father `put up a courageous fight' but that you mother didn't have to die; he didn't set out to kill her. He called her a `silly girl,' said, `step aside, you silly girl' when you heard her screaming as the dementors attacked you. He did underestimate her. She probably never had time to puzzle out exactly how it was going to work, just took the plunge and went with what she had. She didn't know he was going to die and lose his body. Look what happened to Quirrell when Voldemort possessed him and he tried to touch you. If it weren't for the horcuxes again, Harry, he would have been dead then and there.”

She reached out and touched him once more, laying the palm of one hand flat over his heart.

“Don't you underestimate it, Harry. She gave you something so wonderful and powerful and wild that they try to keep it in a locked room in the Department of Mysteries. Only, I think if you could go in there it would be empty. You can't lock up love, can't buy it or sell it or hold it in your hand. You can't make it happen, like Merope Gaunt tried to do with Tom Riddle, and you can't explain it, like how your Mum went from despising James to loving him enough to marry him barely two years later. That's one reason why you really do have a fighting chance in all of this. The other,” she told him, dropping her eyes for the first time from his “is because I love you, too.”

And Harry knew in that moment a power Voldemort knew not. It really was love, after all.

Somewhere, Lily Evans Potter must have grinned. Ear to ear.

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12. Chapter Eleven

Official Fine Print: Nope. Not mine. The brainchildren of the mighty pen of JK Rowling. All credit belongs to her. I'm just playing with them…. `cause she made them so fun to play with.

Magic Never Dies

Chapter 11

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Harry woke up to Crookshanks insistent kneading on his bladder, as if the big orange furball somehow knew it was the one way to claim a larger share of the suddenly diminished space in his mistress' bed.

A quick trip to the loo later he was wrestling the cat for his spot back. Crookshanks grudgingly allowed Harry to reclaim the warmth he had left beside Hermione but insisted on climbing onto his chest for a thorough ear-and-chin scratching in repayment, eyes slitting in pleasure as Harry's fingers worked their way through his tufty coat.

A rumbling purr, like a contented motorcycle, ensued.

“He really likes the way you do that,” a drowsy voice informed him from the pillow. “He actually made me jealous he was so happy the night after Tonks and Lupin brought you home.”

This was followed by an enormous yawn.

“He really likes a good work over,” Harry said, grinning at her. “I don't think the `me' part matters at all.”

“Which only goes to show I'm not a cat,” Hermione said softly. “The “you” part certainly matters to me.”

He leaned in to kiss her and her sweetly sleepy response was entrancing enough that he wasn't really conscious of anything else until a persistently nudging nose managed to get his hand going on its owners' ears again. It was an entirely different rhythm and range of motion than what his mistress was receiving with Harry's other hand, until he realized it was a lot trying to like walk and chew gum at the same time; he'd never really been good at that, either. He picked a single cadence and went with it with both sets of fingers. Neither seemed to mind.

Just when the wonderful sounds beginning to emanate from a no longer lethargic Hermione made Harry mindful it was time to lose the cat, there was a sudden popping noise and a feathery woosh above them.

Hermione started; Crookshanks yowled and leapt off Harry, his claws digging into Harry's chest. Harry hissed reflexively and glared at the red-gold bird perched on the footboard.

“Even Phoenixes can knock,” he said sourly, examining the welling claw marks now running across his abdomen.

Whether or not phoenixes can knock, they can certainly smile. Or Fawkes could, anyway. His beady eyes seemed to almost… twinkle.

“Isn't it your time of the month in some other time zone?” Harry hinted.

Fawkes preened, drawing his beak along one gleaming red gold wing feather. He'd never looked less like bursting into flames, Harry thought glumly. He was primed and ready for the meeting that evening, and seemed to think it was time for Harry to get his game face on as well.

“They won't be here until tonight you know,” he reminded the waiting bird.

Fawkes trilled a single liquid note imperiously; he clearly had things in mind for Harry before then that did not include the activity he had interrupted.

Harry turned back toward Hermione, wondering how one managed to explain that particular difficulty in an acceptable manner to one's significant other when he noticed she was watching them both intently and didn't actually appear angry. Yet, anyway.

“How do you do that? Talk to him like that? I can see he understands you, and you seem to have a pretty good idea of what he's thinking as well,” she said wonderingly.

“I don't know, exactly. I don't know if I can really tell what he's thinking at all or whether I'm just sort of filling in the blanks,” Harry told her. “Guessing.”

“He wants you to go do something else, doesn't he,” she said with a sigh, sitting up and drawing her arms around him.

“Er… unh, yeah. He does,” Harry admitted. Bloody bird. Her skin felt like liquid silk on his and she was all lovely and warm. Fawkes just didn't quite measure up.

“Go on, then,” she said, and gave him a gentle push. “We'll get back to this later. Trust me.”

The day stretched before him; Fawkes' errand, whatever that turned out to be, working on figuring out how to destroy the horcrux within the locket, the Order meeting. It seemed endless. On the other hand, compared to facing Voldemort, even the illusion of endlessness wasn't such a bad thing. Especially if when it finally did end, it did so with Hermione.

“Okay. Do you want your tea up here?”

“Thanks. That would be nice,” she said, and snuggled back down into the blankets. Crookshanks jumped up, glaring at Fawkes, and nestled between her legs.

Harry groaned, and went off in search of clothes.

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Ron was actually up already and down in the kitchen, looking a tad lost by himself. He had a plate of something in front of him, but it hardly looked like food to Harry.

“Hey. What are you doing up?” he asked, as he plugged in the kettle for Hermione's tea. The sink was full of blackened pots and cooking utensils; how, he wondered, do you burn food beyond recognition cooking with magic?

“Bloody bird of yours came and got me. Wouldn't rest until I got up and came down here.”

Fawkes flew from Harry's shoulder to the back of the chair across from Ron and made a sound less like a trill and more like a chicken losing tail feathers.

“There. That's it exactly.” Ron said.

Harry cracked two eggs and scrambled them while heating the one uncharred pan he could locate.

“Sorry. Did the same to me. Something on his mind, for sure.”

“So did Hermione get over the whole Malfoy thing?” Ron asked, picking at the blackened lumps on his plate.

“What is that you're eating? Do you want some actual food?”

“Yeah!” Ron said enthusiastically, pushing his plate aside. “But mind, that doesn't change the subject.”

Harry added three more eggs to the mix and found some bacon and a tomato. “I'm not. And yes. Well, actually, I said I was sorry and then Malfoy didn't really come up again the whole night.”

Ron grinned and Harry let the subject drop with that; the thought of explaining Hermione's conclusions from the night before was so overwhelming he wasn't sure where to begin. Or if he wanted to try. The kettle boiled and he poured Hermione's tea to steep and turned the rest over in the pan.

“Do you think he wants us to go somewhere? We can't go out and leave Hermione alone with Malfoy in the house.” Ron asked, looking suspiciously at Fawkes.

“Don't know,” Harry said. “But we aren't doing that, I can assure you. He'll just have to come, or we'll park him with Lupin or something. No matter what he wants, though, I'm not going anywhere until I've had a coffee. That bird owes me.”

Fawkes trilled like a perfectly agreeable canary, not his usual sound at all, and bobbed his head solemnly as if in agreement.

Much as he would have liked to take her tea up to Hermione, Harry wasn't facing himself with temptation again. He placed an inverted saucer over top of the still-steaming mug and sent it upstairs with a wave of his wand and a `see? I DID remember I was wizard for once,' look for Ron. He dished up the eggs, divided the bacon and tomato between two plates and came to sit across from him in the chair next to Fawkes' adopted perch. The bird edged closer and eyed Harry's tomato hungrily until he cut it into bite-size pieces and held them out one by one with his free hand.

“Have you talked to your Mum and Dad?” he asked Ron as they ate. “Did they say anything about coming?”

“I haven't,” Ron admitted. “Not a good sign. I would have thought Mum's head would have burst out of the fire the moment she got word it was you, so no news is bad news. They must be rowing away over it for some reason. My guess is they'll come, though; I can't see them not. Bill's said he's coming, and Charlie and the twins.”

“I was hoping to talk to your Dad a bit about the whole Snape thing first. Do you reckon we could have them come over early, for dinner or something?” Harry asked.

“Never hurts to try, and Mum'll take over the cooking then.” Ron finished the last of his bacon and looked hopefully at Harry's. “We can Floo them when we've finished. Are you…”

“Yes, Ron,” Harry sighed, pushing his plate across the table. “I was going to eat that. But go ahead, I can't now that you'll be watching me like a starving baby Norbert.”

“Thanks. Growth spurt or something, I reckon,” Ron said.

“Maybe if you ever left something I'd catch up,” Harry said darkly.

Fawkes, seeing empty plates, began to agitate for action.

“Hang on, you,” Harry told him, and threw a handful of Floo powder into the hearth with a request to talk with Lupin.

Emerald flames leapt and he crouched down and thrust his head within them, bracing himself for the spinning bit. He opened his eyes when the sensation slowed, and promptly wished he hadn't.

“My eyes! Dear Merlin my eyes!” he said, only partially teasing.

Tonks and Lupin pushed away from each other over Lupin's kitchen table with a panicked scramble and a plungerish sound worth of Ron in his Won Won period.

They'd been enjoying a peaceable breakfast alone together and Harry felt wretched to have disturbed them; if anyone deserved a bit of happiness it seemed to him it should be Lupin. And Tonks, who had been so evidently miserable last year and so equally evidently over the moon this. If ever he'd had a question about the power of human love after the transformation in his parents from the two in Snapes' pensieved memory to the couple he saw in his few photographs of them together, it ought to have been answered with Tonks and Lupin.

“Erm, morning there, Harry.” Lupin said with a rueful grin.

“Wotcher, Harry.” Tonks greeted him, wearing its twin.

“Sorry to, well, anyway…” Harry fumbled, “It's just that we had to bring Malfoy home from Hogwarts with us yesterday, and Ron's got him spelled up nicely in your old room Prof…Remus. Only Fawkes seems to want Ron and I to go somewhere with him and I don't want to leave Malfoy in the house alone with Hermione. We weren't sure what to do with him.”

“You had to bring Malfoy home from Hogwarts with you?” Tonks repeated incredulously. “Draco Malfoy? Well that's an easy call. He's wanted by the Ministry for questioning about the night… that night… you know. I'll just take him in.”

“He said that Snape's been hiding him, that he's been doing stuff for Snape while he's with Voldemort. I think that we should be the ones to talk to him, the Ministry can't tell their… from… well, anyway, I was going to tell you tonight at the meeting. I think we should hang on to him a bit longer.”

“I've got the day off,” Lupin told him. “I'll come round and see everything's alright as soon as we've finished breakfast. Hermione's nobody's fool and she's got some decent curses up her sleeve, Harry. She'll be fine. Go on. You'll be alright with Fawkes, and I'm glad you're taking Ron with you. Just think before you act, the both of you.”

“Yes Sir,” Harry said. “Enjoy your, erm… breakfast.”

“I would be, if you'd just get your head out of my floo, there, Harry.” Lupin informed him.

Harry fled, backing out of the hearth at Grimmauld Place and rubbing his knees.

“Everything all right over there?” Ron asked.

“Bloody perfect if they'd only just remember to close their floo,” Harry told him. “Lupin's going to come check on Hermione. So where are we off to?” he asked Fawkes, as Ron started up the dish-washing spell.

Fawkes extended a wing to Harry, who looked at it a moment and then slowly extended his hand to rest along the bony ridge. The other one came out toward Ron; who followed suit.

There was a rush of air and a loud crack, and suddenly they were in the familiar kitchen of Grimmauld Place no more.

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“Harry?…”

They were in a small, dimly lit room that reminded Harry distinctly of those at The Leaky Cauldron, although he knew somehow without asking that it was not there. It was shabby but clean enough; comfortable in a tatty sort of way. There was a four poster bed, a chest of drawers and two wing chairs facing a bow window with a small, spindly-legged table between them.

“Where are we?” Ron finished nervously. Fawkes made his way up Harry's arm to perch on his shoulder and warbled one clear, liquid note. A figure Harry had not noticed before stirred in one of the arm chairs.

“Ahhh,” it said in a soft, slightly wavering voice. “Fawkes, old friend.”

Fawkes eyed Harry and bobbed his head, clearly trying to start Harry moving round to whomever awaited them there. Harry swallowed and made his way slowly past the bed and in front of the first chair. A slight, silver-haired figure swaddled in an assortment of quilts and blankets awaited him. Pale moonish eyes lit up when they took Harry in.

“Indeed. Mr. Potter. Thirteen and a half inches, holly, phoenix feather core, was it not? I believe our mutual friend Fawkes himself was the donor. Remember it as if it were yesterday,” the quavering voice declared.

“That's right,” Harry said. “How are you, Mr. Ollivander?”

“As well as can be expected under the circumstances, thank you, Harry. And this must be Mr. Weasley with you, is it not? Fourteen inches, willow, unicorn tail hair, a replacement wand, I believe.”

“That's right,” Ron said. “Third year. Brand new and all mine. The first was a hand-me-down.”

Mr. Ollivander nodded sympathetically. “Of course, you never get quite the same results with another's wand, do you. Quite a relief to work with one that chose you first.”

“Lots of people are worried about you, Mr. Ollivander.” Harry said softly, taking in the old man's seemingly diminished stature. “Are you sure you're alright?”

“Sit down, Mr. Potter,” Ollivander said, gesturing at the chair. “And you, Mr. Weasley.” He fumbled a wand out from under the blankets and conjured a chair. The extent of his diminishment became evident when the chair topped out hardly large enough for a house elf. Harry tried to be subtle about enlarging it; yet another example of how handy nonverbal incantations could prove to be.

Ron sat, gingerly.

“The fact that I am alive at all,” Mr. Ollivander told them, “is a credit to Albus Dumbledore. I was quite… despondent is the only word, when I learned of his passing.”

Fawkes trilled understandingly, the very notes he sang a comfort, and Harry saw the well of tears subside in the old wizard's silvery eyes.

“Yes, well. And Fawkes as well, I owe you credit for delivering the message, don't I?”

“What message?” Harry asked curiously.

“Your Headmaster wrote to me last spring, requesting any information I might have on possessions of the original four Founders of Hogwarts. He reasoned I did such a lot of repeat trade with families, kitting out their children for school, that I might have heard of something. Well, I knew of one, but not in quite that way. You see, the wand that has served as my sole advertisement for so many, many years, sitting on its cushion in the window for all to see, belonged to Rowena Ravenclaw. My mother's family were direct descendents of the Ravenclaw line, and she confirmed my father's family's claim. I remember it well.”

Rowena Ravenclaws' wand. Harry thought desperately back to when he had gone to pick out his own wand at Ollivanders. Mr. Ollivander might remember it as yesterday, but it felt a lifetime ago to Harry… he had only just learned he was a wizard then. He thought of traversing the streets of Diagon Alley with Hagrid, heart swelling at the thought of a real magic wand. They had traveled down to the end of the street, to the narrow, shabby shop with peeling gold letters spelling out the proprietors' name and occupation. Makers of Fine Wands… There had been a dusty window, and a single wand on a faded purple cushion.

Which might easily once have been blue; Harry knew how sunlight had faded Dudley's early boxing ribbons on the wall of his bedroom and turned the blue ones purple and the reds to pink. He'd fussed and sulked until Aunt Petunia promised to dye them all back again and have a special case made to block out the sun. Of course Harry had ended up doing the dying.

Blue was Ravenclaw's color.

But a cushion meant nothing; really, it could have been just what happened to be around when the wand was set out. And even if a member of Ravenclaw's own family had confirmed it was her wand by some means or other it was still a long shot…

But Harry had had a feeling when he first walked in to that shop. At the time he'd chalked it up to the excitement of getting his wand, but as he'd passed through the door of that shop for some reason the back of his neck had prickled. He remembered feeling as if the very dust and silence of the shop had seemed to tingle with some secret magic.

Had he been feeling it then? The call of one Horcrux to another, of Voldemort's torn soul seeking to rejoin the piece within him? If he really had two sevenths now, with the scar and the diary, how much stronger would the tingle be? He hadn't destroyed the diary then, had only just learned Voldmeort had killed his parents.

Harry raised his eyes to Ron's and saw the idea he was considering slowly dawn on his friend as well.

“Did you tell Professor Dumbledore about the wand, Sir? What did he say?”

“Of course, of course,” Mr. Ollivander told him. “Straight away. He asked me some rather curious questions about whether Tom Riddle, the young Lord You Know Who, had noticed it when he first bought his own wand; or whether he had ever come back and asked to look at it. Amazing mind, Dumbledore, you sometimes had to wonder why he bothered to ask questions at all, he always seemed to know the answers anyway. He was right on both counts with Riddle. When young Tom came in to buy his first wand it was most unnerving, a clearly Muggle-raised boy alone in a magical shop like that, so determined to do it all himself. He was sure the first wand he picked up would be the right one, and of course, like you, Mr. Potter, he was something of, well, a riddle, to fit. He became increasingly agitated as I offered him a series of wands to try, becoming infuriated when none was quite right. I think he was afraid I was going to tell him it was all a mistake; that he was not a wizard after all. I explained to him what I told you and all my customers; that the time to let the wand choose the wizard is well spent because the magic is never quite so focused or strong with another's wand. I showed him Ravenclaw's wand and explained who she was, then did the same spell first with it and then my own. To show him, you see, that even the mighty Rowena Ravenclaws' wand was less powerful in my hand than my own. He seemed to take that quite to heart, and was more patient until we located the wand that chose him. The brother to your own, of course.”

Harry nodded. “And he came back?”

“This was some years later, shortly after he left Hogwarts, I believe. He was working in Diagon Alley, in Borgin and Bourkes. He attempted to buy the wand, purportedly for Borgin, and became quite agitated again when I would not part with it. He had a little… magical temper tantrum. Not a loss of control, or a failure to control, but a deliberate unleashing of magical force, like a warning. Sent wands and boxes flying everywhere, and I have a very accurate categorization system in the store. I scurried round collecting up some of the more difficult ones, then realized I had left him alone with the wand! Well, I caught him in time. I can not precisely say he was in the process of stealing it, but he was most certainly doing something quite like it, or thinking it. For a moment the look in his eyes… it was murderous, I assure you. But the next he seemed to calmly acknowledge that his purpose for the visit was not to be fulfilled and took himself off, saying he would explain my position to Mr. Borgin. I never heard from either again.”

There had been plenty of time then, for Voldemort to do something to it. Several minutes, at least. They had no idea how long it took to make a horcrux or what the process yet was, but there had certainly been a chance.

“Mr. Ollivander,” Harry said cautiously, “what happened to the wand?”

“Dumbledore advised at the time that I take it and flee, as much for Riddle's previous interest in Ravenclaws' wand as what was likely to become his new obsession; finding a way to defuse the brother-wand effect of your two wands. The atmosphere in Diagon Aley was becoming increasingly lawless and the Ministry had little idea what to do. Albus Dumbledore was a wise and powerful wizard. I fled.”

“Where exactly are we?” Ron asked, attempting to peer out the window. The landscape was imprecise, fog shrouded and shifting.

Ollivander smiled. “Please do not take it in any way personally, Mr. Weasley, if I decline to tell you that.”

“You knew we were coming though, didn't you?” Harry asked. “I don't think you were surprised to see me.”

“Fawkes appeared to me, which led me to believe it was the right time to speak with you, Mr. Potter. Dumbledore said you'd likely come if anything happened to him. He thought very highly of you, you know.”

“Mr. Ollivander,” Harry said slowly, trying painfully to control his emotion at this new discovery, “where is the wand?”

“Ahhh,” said Mr. Ollivander. “That.”

The momentary resemblance to Dumbledore made Harry want to scream; it was not his favorite memory by a long shot.

“Yes,” he said. “That. Where?”

“I'm afraid I was quite taken aback by Dumbledore's response to Riddle's reaction. It had been so long ago, the wand had laid without incident in the window for many years since. Perhaps I overreacted, but I… hid it. Quite safely.”

“And you don't remember where?” Ron suggested hopefully.

Ollivander glared at Ron, outraged. “I may be old; Mr. Weasley, but I can assure you I am nobody's fool!”

“Of course you aren't,” Harry said, crossing his eyes at Ron. “He just meant…” Harry cast around for some innocent explanation but came up short. Thankfully Mr. Ollivander didn't seem to notice.

“I will tell you how to find it, of course,” Mr. Ollivander said. “I trust Dumbledore implicitly and I have heard from trusted sources that you were indeed his man, through and through.”

“Yes,” agreed Harry. “I was. I am.”

“Ollivander nodded and pursed his lips. “Listen closely then,” he said. “It will not be easy, but this is how you will find it.”

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It was also how Ron and Harry managed to stumble in to the all important reforming meeting of the Order at Grimauld Place that evening late, spell-shocked, filthy, and with one thoroughly pissed-off Phoenix.

The kitchen table was ringed by wizards and witches young and old. Mad Eye, Tonks, Lupin, the many Weasleys, now including Fleur. Kingsley Shacklebolt. Arabella Fig. Professor McGonagall, Hagrid, Hestia Jones. And of course, Hermione. In a towering temper, no less.

The fact that Harry was holding two wands was of no import to her, and there was no time to explain, anyway. He was reeling on his feet with tiredness and the after effects of a range of spells such as he had never imagined, let alone thought to experience all at once. There was a streak of euphoria just in having survived, and a certain punch-drunk quality between the two boys that a small, dispassionate part of his brain knew wasn't going to fly well with her.

“Good, erm, ahh evening.” Harry said to the room at large, staggering and clinging to Ron for support.

“Good night,” said Ron, and promptly did a face plant, taking Harry with him. Fawkes, who just this morning had seemed so very ready for a long and serious meeting of the best minds prepared to defeat Lord Voldemort let out one plaintive cry and burst into flames.

“Coward,” mumbled Harry from the floor. The room was spinning, and Fawkes' ashes made the most fascinating patterns as they fluttered through the air.

Hermione and Molly Weasley were on them in a flash.

“Where have you been?” Hermione hissed.

“Can't tell you,” Harry said with what appeared to be honest regret. “'S secret. Can only tell ermi, Hermieie, Hermionmione. Dumberdore said so.”

“I'd say they'd been at the firewhiskey,” said Tonks, joining the other two women over them, “but they smell way too bad for that.”

Molly nudged Ron sharply between the shoulder blades with her wand and muttered a spell. He jerked, as if a bolt of electricity had passed through him, and quickly sat up.

“Erm, Mum? How's it going?” he asked nervously.

“Never you mind, just go upstairs and wash the stink off of you and get back down here as soon as you can,” Molly informed him. “You've quite a lot of explaining to do, young man. Off with you.”

He went, quickly, still staggering slightly. Harry slid sideways as he moved and hit the floor with a thump

“What was that you used?” Hermione asked interestedly.

“Navitas,” Molly told her. “It's an energizing charm for when you're tired out but not ill enough for pepperup potion, or strictly spellbound, where you'd use an ennervate. Very handy for getting your average teenage wizard up out of his bed and on his way in the summer term, for example.”

“Navitas,” said Hermione, her wand trained on Harry.

He heard a strange, terrified cry and thought it was a warning; turned his tired eyes first to Mrs. Weasley. She was looking at him in what appeared to be horror, albeit soundlessly; and he realized the voice that had screamed was utterly unfamiliar to him. Her expression was mirrored on Tonks' face, and looming in and out of his range of vision, Fleur's and Mrs. Figgs' as well.

One of the wands in his hand shook and tugged as if with a mind of its own; he tried to control it but it jerked his hand against his will up into the air. He attempted to open his cramped fingers around it only to find that they might as well be glued for all he could move them. He heard Lupin shout something, saw Bill Weasley pull his mother away. He began to struggle desperately then, unsure what was happening but sure that it wasn't good. He rolled over, trying to force his arm and the wand within his hand beneath his body against the floor and away from those surrounding him; he felt sure now he could not stop it. He couldn't tell whether someone stunning him might halt the wand or set it wildly free, but he knew enough of the wands' history to not want to risk that path.

“Incarcerous” said Charlie Weasley evenly, wand extended, a look of apology on his face. The spell struck Harry and flared, reverberating back on Charlie, who suddenly found himself tightly bound at the hands and feet.

“Stu..” began Mr. Weasley, but;

“Cease!” a voice rang out. “Or you'll kill him. And much as there are decided benefits to a Potter-free universe, this is neither the time nor the place for it.”

It was Snape. Harry had set the wards to admit him, following Dumbledore's request, but had planned to greet him quite differently. They had all been thoroughly oblivious to his coming, he could easily have done exactly what Ron had first suggested and finished them off without a fight. Of course who was to say he wouldn't still?

He strode forward in his usual flourish of unrelieved black; robes swirling, eyes fathomless.

“It is too late, Potter. What lies within the wand has been awoken and seeks its fellow. You can not stop it now.”

It dawned on him what Snape was saying and he looked up in fury and disgust from the twisted heap in which he still lay upon the floor, wrestling for control of the relentless wand.

“It is one, then…” he said accusingly, entirely forgetting in the moment who knew, or should know, or might know, what. “It is one, and you think it wants to…”

“The compulsion to become whole again is what drives the entire process, Potter. It is a force too great to counteract or control. Since you have been so inestimably foolish as to track down something you know nothing about without consulting anyone who might be able to help you, you shall now reap the results. I should warn you, they are unlikely to be pleas…”

Harry's scream cut him off as the wand flew to his forehead, thrust its pointed end against his scar and began to glow red-hot. He could hear the agitation of the surrounding Order members; they seemed almost equally divided between wanting to come to Harry's aid and staying wide of Snape. It said a tremendous amount about the esteem in which they had all held Dumbledore that no one had done more than train their wand on Snape. Yet. To his credit, Snape appeared unconcerned at the number of wands pointed his way as well.

It hadn't been like this before, with the diary. There'd been nothing to that; once he'd stabbed the basilisk fang into the diary Riddle had disappeared cleanly and completely. He knew what was happening, Snape knew what was happening. Another seventh of Voldemort's wretched excuse for a soul was contained in the wand and it had recognized the two-sevenths residing in Harry when the spell energized it. An innocent person had died so that Voldemort could attempt to sidestep death; it was their scream Harry had heard and now the spawn of that act was bound and determined to force its way inside him.

“Do NOT fight it,” Snape instructed him. “You are closest, nearer and so more powerful than he. But if you resist, it will go on and seek him out. Take it. You can not afford to be… fastidious now.”

He saw more faces start to swarm round him and began to feel panicked, trapped. The wand burned, the pain so like that of Voldemort's displeasure the night of Hermione's birthday, only in reverse. Trying to split apart his head by forcing its way in, rather than out.

“I can't do this! I can't,” some part of him panicked. A hand touched his shoulder, and then another on the other side, holding him down; he started to struggle against them but realized they were Hermione's. Almost as soon as the recognition struck him the small, calm voice inside his mind that had helped him resist the imperius curse in the past spoke again. It was not Hermione, he knew. But it was more familiar than ever, more powerful in its insistence, more persuasive in its tone, and it was saying exactly the same things inside his head that Hermione was intoning aloud.

“Listen to him, Harry. It will be okay, you can do it. You know what it is now. If you take it, he can't. You'll be one step closer to the end, Harry, to finishing him forever.”

“Mum?” Harry heard himself cry aloud, and knew no more.

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AN: Sorry that so many of you feel it's too long between updates; this is fascinating stuff but it takes a lot of thinking through, at least for me. I am shooting for at least once a week, trying to update Sunday nights, if that matters. Obviously didn't make it this week! Mea culpa.

I also want to truly thank all of you who have been so kind as to leave reviews; you are the BEST.
I really do appreciate them. I do read them all, but lately I've found that the only ones that seem to be getting answers are the ones that appear to have clicked the wrong link or something and think it's my fault. Which is, of course, not fair, since I'd much rather be writing to those of you who GET it. There have been many wonderful, intelligent reviews and I am doing my best to incorporate your comments and insights where I can and will do my best to answer specific questions. Please just know that I find your comments helpful, your excitement energizing and your praise makes me blush. And unfortunately for me, since I bear a striking resemblance to the Weasley clan, it shows… Perhaps that's why I love the internet so much. No one can see you blush unless you click the icon.

Lastly, this is MY take on the subject, it's not “right” or “wrong”, not meant to annoy anyone (which is why it's only posted here, at Portkey.) It's a work of fan fiction, meant to be enjoyed as such. It's all spelled out in the very fist author's note on page one where this is going; I am constantly searching for tighter, better ideas but this story DOES have a planned structure and end. Supportable opinions are GLADLY discussed (it's just come to me that there's someone I really need to get back to from right before my computer bit the dust who really had me researching in intriguing, unresolved circles. If you are still reading I WILL email you!) But if it's just your personal opinion that Ron is a hero and writing Harry/Hermione makes me incapable of getting all the canon inferences about him, why are you bothering to tell me? Am I supposed to learn the error of my wicked ways? It's just my take, for crying out loud. Move on.

Rant over.

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13. Chapter Twelve

Official Fine Print: Nope. Not mine. The brainchildren of the mighty pen of JK Rowling. Just playing with them. Honest.

Magic Never Dies

Chapter 12

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He broke the surface of consciousness slowly, acutely aware of the pain snaking through his forehead. The mere thought of opening his eyes made them water; he lay perfectly still, taking in his surroundings with his other senses. It soon became apparent to him that he had not been out too long; he could hear voices all around him, members of the Order, still arguing. He was laying down, his head pillowed on something soft, but the acrid, burnt-gunpowder smell was stronger than ever.

Snatches of the heated conversation around the table drifted across the room.

“How could you keep this from us? How, and still call yourself loyal?” Professor McGonagall accused.

This? As far as Harry was concerned, knowledge of Voldemort's horcruxes was the least of it. Harry was still waiting for Snape's side of killing Dumbledore that night. Dumbledore might have said he was being truly loyal, but it was awfully hard to fuel an Avada with loyalty. Read impossible, if Harry's violent loathing of Bellatrix wasn't enough to manage more than the most cursory Cruciatus.

“If Albus had thought you needed to know at the time he would have told you himself. Now it is apparently up to the… boy. Assuming you would all be led by a seventeen year old.” Snape.

“Harry wants Lupin to lead. He doesn't want to lead anybody; he just wants to get on with what he has to do without people killing him with their bloody good intentions. Or their rotten ones.” Ron, furious. Talking back to Snape! Harry's heart swelled with gratitude.

Molly Weasley's horrified “Ronald Bilius Weasley!” followed predictably close on its heels.

Bits of what had happened before he had lost consciousness began flooding back; wrestling with the wand, the unendurable, searing pain when it had touched his scar, Snape telling him to stop fighting, it was too late to be fastidious. Greasy bastard, what the hell would he know. Hermione's voice, reassuring him, and…

He struggled a bit then, trying to marshal the strength required to sit up. He had to tell her what he'd realized. A hand moved quickly to his shoulder, resisting, and he heard Hermione whisper, “Don't move, if you can help it. Don't let him know you're awake.”

He realized the something soft was Hermione; someone had conjured a couch or cot of some sort into the kitchen. They were off to the side, away from the action at the table.

He nodded once, slightly, to show her he understood. She fumbled a bit and something cool and wet pressed against his scar. She leant down, under cover of checking its application, and whispered, “He's told them he won't say anything about the horcruxes until he's talked to you. He said that's what Dumbledore would have wanted. He's been very cagey so far about where he's been and what he's been up to.”

The reaction around the table now was to Ron's news, hardly the way Harry had hoped to broach the topic, but at least it was out there.

“Can he do that? Ask someone else to lead?” Tonks.

“Why not? It makes sense, certainly.” McGonagall.

“The whole point of the Order wasn't to argue about hierarchy, it was to defeat Voldemort. What does it matter who leads, as long as Fawkes has chosen Harry and Harry chooses?” Bill Weasley.

“What do you say, Remus?” Harry knew that voice just by the concern in it; it was Ron's Dad.

“I'd say we should wait to see what Harry says when he wakes up. No offense Ron, I'm sure you know exactly what he meant to do, I'd just like to hear what he has to say about it. But I suppose if he asks me, the answer would be `yes'. I personally think Harry's put himself on the line often enough for all of us to have earned our trust and our loyalty despite his age.”

“Agreed,” came Kingsley Shacklebolt's deep rumble.

“Dumbledore put his faith in Harry. That alone should be enough,” McGonagall added.

“Admirable sentiments. Of course that's all they are, sentimental. I wonder if you'll feel the same when he costs you everything.” Snape again. Didn't he realize it was only their faith in Dumbledore, and Dumbledore's persistent faith in Snape himself, that kept them all from hexing him as he sat there until there was nothing left to hex?

“Tell us, Severus, where exactly have you been since that last night at Hogwarts? You told us Dumbledore knew what you were doing, begged you to do what you did since it meant keeping your precious cover. Luckily for you the story his portrait told Minerva was essentially the same. But tell us, what did Albus' life buy you except your own? What do you have to show us for his death?” Remus Lupin asked, and the silence following his words resounded behind Harry's closed eyes.

“I do not need to justify myself to you,” Snape said coldly.

“You do if you want to continue your double life,” Lupin said, and Harry had never heard his voice sound quite like it did then; there was more than a little wolf in that growl. “If Harry does call on me to lead, you'll swear yourself to him the way you did to Albus or you'll be out on your ear. And what good will you be to the Dark Lord then?”

It was torture to lie there with his eyes closed; only the pain still stabbing behind his eyelids kept Harry from attempting to take a peek at Snape.

“Funny,” whispered Hermione, “how Snape goes sort of whiter when anyone with actual blood in their veins might go red.”

She always did know what he was thinking.

“I told you that Dumbledore knew of Draco's assignment from the Dark Lord and of the oath I swore his mother,” Snape began stiffly. “When Bellatrix coerced me into the position of swearing that oath, I believed my usefulness to the Order was coming to a natural end. She was so relentless in her questioning of my loyalties… I knew that she was jealous of what she perceived to be my closeness to the Dark Lord, but then he also delights in playing his confidants one against the other. It could be either of those factors or both, that drove her to it; deception on that level can never be maintained indefinitely.”

`But he sounds pretty proud he made it that long,' thought Harry. `Actually proud that he's a better liar than the rest of us could ever hope to be'.

“When Narcissa came to the third part of her oath,” Snape continued, “that if it should prove necessary I would carry out the order the Dark Lord had commanded Draco to perform, my only path was clear to me.” His voice changed slightly and Harry sensed Snape had turned toward him; it was suddenly a little clearer and stronger. “I would kill myself to escape the oath, and the hellishness I had been forced to endure these past sixteen years as neither fish nor fowl while Potter tripped and fumbled his way to the status of `Chosen One.' Alas,” he said, with what at least sounded like real regret, “Albus had … other ideas.”

“You've told us,” Mad Eye Moody rumbled. “And you convinced Albus. But I, for one, still have some questions. There's more to this story than meets the eye.”

And coming from Mad Eye that was saying something.

“Then ask your precious Potter. He was there.”

Hermione's fingers splayed and slid further down his shoulder, a warning.

“He's told us all he knows. For all you've never liked the boy, Severus, you must….”

“DO NOT presume to tell me what I must or must not do when it comes to that snot-nosed little whelp,” Snape hissed, and Harry could hear, almost see them all recoil. “Surely all I have done exempts me from that. I was coerced into hastening the death of a truly great wizard - and for all I did not appreciate his … style, shall we say - Albus Dumbledore was a truly great wizard. It would be hard to imagine a more significant loss to the Order, to the Wizarding world itself, and all for…. that.”

Harry's eyes flew open too late, although he was no less prepared for the spell that flared at him than the rest, their eyes open and sitting frozen around the table. Mad Eye managed to fire something off; Snape deflected it easily, repelling it toward Tonks in a clear warning that with this many wizards and witches at close range he wasn't going down alone. Thankfully, being Tonks, she jerked back and her chair tipped over, conveniently dropping her right out of the line of fire.

Snape had chosen the same lashing spell he had unleashed the last time they met near Hagrid's hut, meant to hurt and shame rather than kill, and the words that followed it were not unlike the last time, either.

“You were fooling no one with your pathetic charade over there.” He spit Harry's way. “I knew that you were listening to every word. And you will continue to be caught out until you manage to CLOSE OFF THAT FEEBLE MIND.”

Harry lurched up, clutching at his shoulder where the spell had connected. He looked around frantically; his wand had been set aside somewhere during the wrestle with the horcruxed one. Hermione saw him eying hers and swatted his hand away; it was already trained on Snape.

“Don't just point them,” he implored the room at large. “For Merlin's sake will no one stun this bas…” Hermione's free hand came up to cover his mouth.

“That's enough,” Lupin said sharply to Snape, helping Tonks upright. “Draw that wand again and…”

“And you'll what? I dare you.” Snape snarled back, standing. “I have nothing to lose. My own life means little to me now, but I am the only one remaining who can, and might - only might, mind you - be able to teach this pitiful savior of yours what it will take to save you.”

“I'd die first,” Harry spat, shaking unsteadily.

“Unmourned, I must assure you, if you really are the “Chosen One” and forsake your chance to sacrifice yourself to spite little old me. Except, perhaps, by your newfound mistress there. Took you long enough to figure that out.” Snape spat back.

Harry was so angry he thought his heart might well explode. He had never known anger like this in all his life, never thought to. His outburst over Aunt Marge paled to transparency in comparison. He locked eyes with Snape and felt every taunt, every unfairness, every cruelty laid upon him since he came to Hogwarts, eleven and knowing nothing, leak from his brain and flow through his veins. He was beyond words; all that would come out was the feral parseltongue hiss of a threatened snake.

Whatever he said was pretty damn good though, because it lifted Snape from his feet and blew him clear across the room to crash into the stone hearth of the fireplace before he could even think to raise a defense. Unfortunately it also broke an awful lot of the china and glassware, strew cast iron pots about as if they were weightless and sent the remaining Order members scattering, ducking under the table for cover.

The next two words still came out as hiss, but at least Harry understood what he meant this time and could repeat them. “Get OUT.”

It was his house now, after all.

Snape climbed painfully to his feet and brushed off his robes. “It is about time you figured out you could do that as well. If only you could control it, make use of it the way he can... But you can't, can you, Potter. It controls you because you are too weak and undisciplined to figure it out. He could begin to use it before he ever came to Hogwarts and you… you'll never figure it out on your own. So… MAKE ME.”

His attention was focused entirely on Harry; the two squared off. Snape had his wand and a look on his face that could only be described as scornful, but his eyes were already well along the journey to outright hate. Harry was weaving on his feet, wandless and bleeding from Snape's first strike, waves of magic shuddering off him like heat.

Ron, who had ducked behind two chairs, raised his wand completely unnoticed by either and stupefied Snape. He crumpled again, like a falling bat, to the hearth.

“Ronald Weasley!” Molly quavered again from under the table. “WHAT have you done now?”

“He had it coming, Mum. He hurt Harry and he was going to do it again!”

“Nice one, little brother,” Charlie told him, rising from behind his chair.

“Way to go Ron,” Bill agreed.

Harry's breath was coming fast and heavy; he could not slow it and felt himself growing light-headed. He sat back down on the cot and put his head between his knees; felt Hermione gently rubbing his back. He could hear the rest of the Order crawling out from their various shelters.

“I'm sorry. Tell them I'm sorry,” he managed to choke out. He heard Professor McGonagall step over Snape's prone form to the fireplace and call for Madam Pomfrey. “Tell them, please.” He heard Hermione sigh.

“Harry's sorry,” she told the room at large. There were murmurs of dissent and the sound of many Reparo charms being performed. Harry saw Ron's trainers and Lupin's worn boots enter his limited field of vision.

“You okay, mate?” Ron asked, his voice unusually soft. “Sorry it took so long. One of us should have fried the filthy sneak as soon as he showed his face.”

“Ron,” Lupin's voice was sharp. “Not that I don't share your concern for Harry, but something important was going on there. Much as he appears to still…dislike you, Harry, it also seems Snape might also be willing to both spy for you and teach you what he knows about his Dark Lord firsthand.. If he will swear the same oath to you he did to Albus to rejoin the Order, it's an offer you'd have to be foolish to the point of insanity to refuse.”

The hyperventilation changed to a dry choking laugh, but seemed equally impossible to control or stop.

“The same oath? You must be kidding me.“ he wheezed. “Sweet Merlin let it be anything but that.”

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There was a general movement to adjourn the meeting after that. No one present (other than Snape, who was still unconscious and therefore didn't count) was unwilling to accept Harry as Fawkes' chosen leader, and none objected to Harry's placing the reins in Remus Lupin's hands. There was, therefore, no need to obliviate anyone, and they all went home grateful to be in one piece and without unwanted appendages or lacking any of the basic ones. Remus was charged with calling a new meeting as soon as certain details were worked out.

Like what, exactly, to do about Harry and Snape.

Madam Pomfrey had come, glanced rather disdainfully at Snape for a moment and was now looking Harry over in the drawing room, the door firmly shut.

Fleur had surprisingly stepped in and made tea and coffee for those who remained, and they gathered round the table again.

“Fred and George will never forgive you for missing this,” Charlie told Ron. “Much as they'll enjoy playing with Malfoy, this is the real thing.”

“They volunteered,” Ron said. “Expect they thought it was going to be boring second-the-motion sort of stuff.”

“Exactly what,” Hermione asked Ron in a voice of steel, “possessed the two of you to go after that wand today of all days? Was tomorrow's plan of sleeping late, reading the Prophet and hanging out with the twins just too important to reschedule?”

“You're just brassed off because you weren't there,” Ron told her, still looking faintly satisfied with himself.

The fact that he could appear so when Harry had had to unintentionally play host to another seventh of Voldemort's soul and doing so had opened him wide to Snape's game, whatever that was, naturally superseded the fact that he was, at least partially, right. Hermione had been hoping they could manage to find the other horcruxes and, like the locket, keep them well away from Harry until she'd figured out exactly what the effect might be.

“I'm just brassed off, as you put it, because the two of you continue to treat this like some kind of game, and it's going to get you both killed!”

Bill nudged her beneath the table and nodded toward Mrs. Weasley, who was definitely looking a little over the top. “Erm, ixnay on the illingkay there, you two.”

Lupin came and sat again beside Tonks. “Still at it with Harry. Nothing to report I'm afraid. Before we ennervate the good Professor over there, Ron, Hermione, I would like to have some idea of what went on tonight. Today, for that matter. The three of you have obviously been up to something and it seems to me that Snape knows about it. Which leads me to the uncomfortable conclusion that Voldemort might as well.”

Hermione and Ron exchanged glances. It was just the Weasleys and Lupin and Tonks and McGonagall left, and McGonagall already knew, but it was really Harry's call to make. He had said that the fewer people who knew, the better when it came to the Horcruxes; if Voldemort could not easily sense them being removed or destroyed they would at least have some element of surprise on their side. Now that Snape appeared to know, all bets on surprise as a factor were off.

“Well today was all Fawke's fault,” Ron volunteered. “He came pestering Harry and I early this morning, sort of rounded us up to the kitchen and then apparated us - only it wasn't really like apparition, it was different - somewhere to see Mr. Ollivander.”

“You saw Ollivander?” Lupin asked. “Where is he?”

Ron nodded earnestly. “No clue, actually. But do you remember how whenever you went to Ollivander's there was always an old wand sitting in the window? On a cushion thingie?”

Molly smiled, a shadow of itself but a smile none the less. “That's the same wand that was there when I was a little girl and went to get mine, and my Mum told me it was there when she went to get hers, too.”

“Well, Mr. Ollivander told us that it was Ravenclaws'. It's belonged to his family all this time. Dumbledore wrote last year and asked him if he had heard about anything belonging to the founders, and Mr. Ollivander told him about it and how he had showed it to Tom Riddle when he came to get his first wand. Dumbledore was the one who warned him that he should take it and go into hiding.”

“Why would He Who, oh forget it, why would Voldemort…” Charlie started. Molly let out a small shriek and shook her head in rapid negation. Surprisingly, it was Fleur who went to sit beside her and take her hand.

“We must learn to say zis name. If `arry can say it, we can too. Vo… ldemore… Voldemore. Zair! And nothing `as `appened. Now you.”

There was a moment when Hermione was sure Molly was going to do something ridiculously old-fashioned, like throw her apron over her head to hide her face. She knew even Harry was haunted by Mrs. Weasley's boggart, he would never have allowed Fleur to push her if he had been there. The next thing she knew, however, Mrs. Weasley took on a very Ginny-ish look, as though determined not to be outdone by her oldest son's bride.

“Vold. Volde… Oh I can't…I just….oh,… VOLDEMORT!” she suddenly shouted aloud.

The door to the sitting room flew open to reveal Harry, eyes wild, Madam Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall each clinging to an arm, attempting to restrain him.

He took them in, sitting round the table, the stunned Snape now resting on the cot he had risen from earlier.

“Where?” he gasped out, still wandless but determined nonetheless.

Hermione wasn't sure who started the laughter; Tonks was a fair bet, although Mrs. Weasley and Fleur could not have been far behind. It wasn't really funny if you thought about it, but it was like an escape valve releasing some of the pent up emotion of the evening and almost impossible to resist. Harry seemed stunned for a bit as to why they were all laughing at him; Ron, Charlie, Arthur and Bill all tried to explain, but all four were laughing too hard to be understood. His expression segued to something between relieved and bemused. McGonagall and Pomfrey, equally in the dark, were less tolerant.

“Really! “ Professor McGonagall snapped. “Have you all quite lost your minds?”

Lupin, who had been merely grinning as he watched, cleared his throat abruptly. “Entirely possible, Minerva, but there's nothing to worry about. Fleur had just convinced Molly to refer to Voldemort by his chosen name, and her last attempt was perhaps a bit… enthusiastic.”

“I'm sorry, Harry. What an awful thing to do to you. I wasn't thinking…” Mrs. Wesley said, calming and becoming contrite.

“That's alright, then” said Harry with a slow grin, and Hermione's heart leapt to see him grasp the humor in it. “Congratulations.”

“And he would have been toast there, Mate,” Ron said. “If you could just have stayed on your feet long enough to do it. Oh and a wand might have helped.”

Harry was still staggering unsteadily; Professor McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey held him propped between them. He yawned, hugely.

“I've checked him over quite thoroughly,' Madam Pomfrey explained. “Other than some lingering spellshock and abrasions, and Professor Snapes' laceration, of course, which is healing up nicely, he seems quite himself. I would recommend a good night's sleep and a hearty breakfast in the morning and he'll be none the worse for wear, as usual. Ron, perhaps you and Charlie will help him upstairs.”

“Perhaps we could reconvene here, in the morning,” Lupin suggested to Hermione as Charlie and Ron, still snickering, disappeared into the hall with Harry between them. “It seems we have quite a lot to discuss.”

“Yes,” she heard herself say, her mind already upstairs with Harry. “Everyone can come for breakfast if they like. Only what shall we do about Professor Snape?”

“Is Malfoy still with the twins?” Tonks asked interestedly.

“Malfoy? Not Draco? Is that why the twins didn't make it? I was getting concerned,” Arthur said.

Yes, Draco. They agreed to babysit him for the meeting.” Hermione told him. “He's at the shop.”

“Tonks and I will keep an eye on Professor Snape. Perhaps he and I can have a little talk about civility for civility's sake and pushing Harry's buttons when he awakes. Not that it will do any good, mind. If Dumbledore could never convince him I don't know how I can.”

“Perhaps Dumbledore,” said Minerva McGonagall cryptically, as she stepped into the fire to return to Hogwarts after Madam Pomfrey, “never really tried. You must catch me up after the meeting, Remus. I am reluctant to leave the school again so soon.”

“Will do,” Lupin told her; and she disappeared in a whirl of green.

“I wonder what she meant by that?” Hermione found herself asking.

“I've no idea, Hermione,” Lupin told her with a tired smile, “but believe me, I intend to find out.”

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Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and the older boys and Fleur flooed home at last, and Tonks and Lupin followed shortly thereafter, taking Snape with him. Hermione tidied the kitchen with a few cursory wand flicks and climbed the stairs, tiredness like lead in her veins. She donned her pajamas and cleaned her teeth, then slowly made her way down the hall to Harry's room.

He was, unsurprisingly, deeply asleep. The surprising part was Ron, wide awake and deeply engrossed in a book lit only by his wand in a chair nearby.

“I thought someone should stay with him,” he said, somewhat sheepishly and perhaps a shade defensive as well, she thought.

“Good idea,” she agreed encouragingly. “If I looked surprised it was the book. That's not about Quidditch, is it?”

“No,” Ron admitted. “One of Harry's.” He held up “Invoking the Voiceless Curse,” by Laurent G. Ituss. “It seems to be working for him, he's gotten tons better at non-verbal stuff. After Snape's little outburst tonight, it seemed like a good thing to brush up on.”

“Another good thought.” She tried to refrain from reflecting how un-Ron-like all this logical deduction seemed. Especially after their little episode today. Or maybe that was the root of it?

“Ron,” she asked, “What happened today with the wand? I mean, what really happened.” She settled down on the bed beside Harry and leant against the head board; he stirred and shifted closer but did not wake.

Ron sighed and set the book down.

“It was bloody amazing, Hermione. I mean Harry's just always been Harry, right? It's sort of like what Snape said is almost true, not the way he meant it, you know, but there's been an awful lot of luck going on. He's always where he needs to be because his heart's in the right place, but like fourth year when the TriWizard cup turned into a Portkey, he was just lucky he didn't come back like Cedric. It's like there was always something or someone looking out for him.

But today, I don't know, it was fantastic. I know he spent a lot of time with Dumbledore last year, but he always made it sound like they were just traveling around in the pensieve watching Tom Riddle. I didn't think he'd learned all that much else. Hermione, he knows all this stuff about blood magic and reading hidden spell signatures and all kinds of spell structure they never came close to in school and I'm willing to bet they're not covering this year, either. Ollivander'd put a lot of thought into hiding that wand, I mean, you know who he thought he was hiding it from! It was in this old castle somewhere, we apparated there with Fawkes again, so I couldn't tell you where. E had no idea what we were getting into, really. It was sort of like Hogwarts, or maybe the exact opposite of Hogwarts fits better. Unfriendly place, you just felt as if it wanted you out the whole time you were there. If it could have, it would have been like me and those slugs Second year, only we were the slugs. You had to sort of fight just to stay there. It kept trying to apparate you out, and you'd have to try and find your way back, only to a slightly different place than where you'd been so it wouldn't send you away again. I swear, Hermione, at one point it sent us to the top of this gigantic mountain in a snow storm, and another time we were on a island with palm trees and these really pissed-off looking people in grass skirts.

It was unbelievable. And you know what? Harry wasn't totally flying by the seat of his Quidditch pants this time, either. We may not have had a plan going in, put he put one together right quick the first time we got sent to a jungle full of angry Erumpents. They charged us and Harry and I each got one to follow us and crossed paths. They exploded all over us; it was brilliant. He whipped out Dumbledore's Chocolate Frog card a couple of times, but he could only give us facts about what we were seeing, not figure it out for us or tell us what to do. He was loving every moment of it, Dumbledore, I tell you. Got more and more excited and barmy with every new change of scenery. But Harry just kept getting us back to the castle and doing the old “point me” charm until we could tell we were getting close because the castle was getting really mad. We knew we'd found the right room when the Peruvian Vipertooth came at us.”

Hermione heard herself let out a small, mewing noise of terror. “Ron, those might be the smallest dragons in the world but they're also one of the most dangerous, they're really poisonous, you know.”

“Harry's good with dragons,” Ron said, and sensing her discomfort, left it at that. “Anyway, once we were past it, and its mate, and its mother-in-law, I think, there it was. The wand. Lying in the bottom of a pit full of Runespoor.”

“Three-headed venomous snakes?” Hermione asked faintly.

“Yeah! Well, only the right head is venomous actually. Harry said they gave him a right headache because there were hundreds of `em, all with three heads, all talking, and he could, you know, understand them all. They all kept giving different advice about how to get to the wand. I'm sure Mr. Ollivander knew whoever was coming after the wand might just be a parselmouth and they were just there to confuse him. Harry was so busy trying to sort through what they were saying that he didn't notice that there was a sort of pattern to the way they were squirming round, and if you just concentrated a bit there was a clear spot that kept opening up where you could just reach in and grab it. It was all just one unending hiss to me, so I grabbed the wand.”

“You did?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said, his pride breaking through the single word. “I did. So you may be the one working out how to save him in the end, but I can still, you know, help out and stuff.”

He was her Ron again in that moment; it was if the past year at Hogwarts had never happened.

“Yeah, well…. well, I still get to snog him,” she said with a grin.

“Shag him, from what I've heard, and welcome to it.” Ron grinned back. “That's definitely your job.”

She laughed aloud, then hushed herself abruptly, hoping not to wake the `him' in question. “Thanks for looking out for him, Ron. I'm glad you were the one with him.”

“Well we're still friends, aren't we, the three of us. That's what friends are for.”

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The reconvened meeting of the core group next morning over early breakfast was a predictably strained affair. Molly Weasley insisted on doing the cooking and had brought copious amounts of food. A sour, enervated Snape sat alone at one end of the table drinking coffee taken (surprise!) quite black. Everyone else ranged round the other end, wands at the ready beside their plates. Harry still had a splitting headache and sat, pale-faced, beside Hermione clutching his own coffee cup like an antidote. Only Ron seemed reasonably cheerful

“So, where were we?” Bill asked, in a brisk let's-get-this-over-with voice.

“You mean before he tried to kill me?” snarled Harry.

“Don't be such a baby, Potter. If I'd tried to kill you, I assure you, you'd be quite dead.” Snape hissed back, sounding for all the world like Malfoy.

“Ground rule number one, Snape and Harry will no longer address one another directly.” Lupin declared. “Severus, if you have anything of a vital nature to impart to Harry you will do so to me, and Harry, you will tell anything you wish to say to Professor Snape to Hermione.”

“That's not fair,” Harry said. “He'll be way ruder to you than I could possibly be to Hermione. Let it be Ron.”

“There is a reason for this arrangement, Harry. The purpose is to get the two of you to stop acting like a pair of juvenile Jarveys and get on with it. So Hermione it is.” Lupin informed him. “Now, what I personally need to understand is what exactly happened with that wand last night. Who can give us a nice clear explanation of that?”

“Professor Sneak over there had the nerve to tell me it was too late to be fastidious about letting another seventh of his bosses' sickening soul into my head, that's what happened.” Harry growled.

“Twenty points from Gryfiindor!” Snape said smugly. “You are not allowed to speak directly to me.”

“Take a hundred and twenty, while you're at it. I'm not in school anymore, I gave it up. And I'd check your employment papers as well, killing the Headmaster is likely grounds for dismissal.” Harry shot back. “Aside from which, I wasn't even talking to you. I was answering Lupin.”

Who sighed. “This is your last warning, both of you. Don't make me Silencio either of you, please. Perhaps you, Hermione, could explain?”

And so Hermione explained. About the horcruxes and what Dumbledore and Harry had been doing the previous year, and how the wand was evidently another one. She left out the locket just in case, waiting to judge Snape's reaction; there was no need to tell him everything, after all. She was growing more and more certain of her theory that there had been some type of connection between Snape and Lily, something that could account for his ping-ponging reaction to her only child. That Snape was deeply affected by Harry's presence and plight could not be ignored; as much as he claimed to hate Harry, he seemed unable to walk away either.

Molly and Arthur were horrified at the thought of the horcruxes, Lupin and Tonks fascinated. Bill and Charlie seemed madder than ever, while Fleur was tearful and kept alternating between “'Orrible man!” and “poor little `Arry.”

Hermione noticed Harry's eyes roll at that, a promising sign that perhaps his headache was starting to let up.

“So you think, then, that Harry has three pieces of Voldemort's soul contained inside him?” Lupin asked quietly, stunned.

Hermione nodded. “And Voldemort himself has only one.”

“And yet you don't feel it affecting you, Harry? Not the headache, I mean, but in your reactions to things, or the way you think or feel?”

“Not unless Voldemort hates Snape as much as I do,” Harry said darkly, and then remembered. He turned to Hermione. “I realized something last night though. D'you know how I've never had to worry about the Imperius curse, how it never seemed to affect me for some reason?”

She nodded, curious.

“I always heard what sounded like a little voice inside me that told me not to do whatever the curse was trying to make me do. It sort of gave me, well, the power not to do it, somehow. I just realized the voice, it's the same voice that screams when Voldemort is there at Godric's Hollow that night, that says `Not Harry.' It's my Mum. And I think that might have something to do with why it hasn't affected me before; that she might have known what he meant to do. Maybe she couldn't stop him from doing it, but in sacrificing herself she changed it, and that's why the soul fragment is in me instead of whatever he brought to make it out of. Maybe bits of both souls ended up there, Mum's and Voldmort's, and that's why I couldn't feel his as strongly at first.”

Hermione could see him working desperately through what might have happened, grasping for questions to fit the answer of his life.

“She did know. What was going to happen that night. I know, because I told her. I warned her that that was what he meant to do.” Snape said evenly, no shred of emotion betrayed in his voice. The room grew eerily silent.

“I had no hope of stopping him once Pettigrew opened the way to you, no way to change his mind. I never thought she would do what she did either, allowing herself to die for you. I was hoping to fulfill my life debt to your father by giving them some chance to know what they were up against. He only intended to kill you, after all, he only needed one death to make the final horcrux. She could have had other children.”

Molly Weasley gasped, “Severus!” with the horror and disbelief only a mother could have managed.

“You what?” Lupin intoned furiously. “You told Lily Potter Voldemort was going to kill her son to make a horcrux, something that would, if I understand it, essentially ensure his immortality, and you were surprised when she threw herself in front of the killing curse aimed at her child? How could you not know she would?”

“Like so much of the rest of my miserable connection to the family Potter,” Snape sneered, “What exactly was my choice? I did my best.”

“You killed her is what you did,” Lupin told him.

“Another worthy Witch lost,” Snape agreed. “For him. And still he potters on, oblivious, waiting for everyone to make much of him for the very fact he lives.”

“I DO NOT!” Harry screamed. Literally screamed, the sound clawing at his throat to be free. He could feel the anger overtaking him again, and his breath grew rapid and shallow just as it had before. He fought the dizziness, clutching at the table; he was aching to throttle Snape, could almost feel his pale, cold neck between his fingers. He would kill him, if he could just somehow get over to him, but he could sense himself fading toward unconsciousness again. He felt Hermione take hold of one arm as if she meant to stop him from flying out of his chair. As if he bloody could… Her touch distracted him, though, and he found himself wondering vaguely what he was so angry about. He fought to slow his breathing, the rapid beating of his heart. And knew then that his own body had sensed more then just rage at Snape in his reaction. Was that its protective mechanism against becoming Voldemort? Killing him first? If his Mum would give herself up for him, it made sense she would find it fitting too for Harry to sacrifice himself if he became too much like the invading soul… For the first time since he had found about the horcruxes Harry felt a truly paralyzing wave of fear. Not that he wouldn't find them; but that he would. And they would be more then he could contain and still manage to finish Voldemort as well.

He looked across the table and saw Snape's cold black eyes take in his realization. `He'll tell,' Harry thought dully, his mind reeling. `If I don't agree to what he wants about teaching me stuff he'll just tell Voldemort to get me good and mad and finish me off before I asphyxiate myself. Oh bloody hell, why can't anything in my life be simple?

He took a deep shuddering breath and said, “All right. I'll do it. Whatever it is you think you can teach me, I'll learn.”

Snape's eye gleamed with a sudden triumphal fire. “A wise decision. I will send word of a time and a safe place to meet. I will have to get back soon, he will miss me if I am gone to long. Fortunately this was an open-ended errand. You haven't by any chance seen young Master Malfoy around anywhere, have you?”

“Malfoy?” said Ron, who loathed him most but now despised Snape far more. “No. Not since the two of you left together. Lost him, have you?”

“Temporarily,” Snape said with a dreadful smile that went nowhere near his eyes. “But it's hardly worth worrying about now. I assume I am quite free to go, now that your fearless leader has spoken?”

Lupin looked at Harry, who inclined his head numbly.

“Quite,” Lupin told him. “Except for one small matter. On your knees Severus. Over there, if you will, beside Harry. It's time for you to make yet another oath.”

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Many, many thanks for all your kind reviews… sorry I haven't gotten to them all. I did manage to post a day ahead off schedule, though, so hope that makes up a bit. You guys are truly the best readers and reviewers around. ~ Lynney

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14. Chapter 13

Official Fine Print: Nope. Not mine. The brainchildren of the mighty pen of JK Rowling. Just playing with them. Honest.

Magic Never Dies

Chapter 13

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The next day was national pretend-no-one's-home-and-recoup day at #12 Grimmauld Place. They all slept in and even Hermione straggled down to the kitchen in her pajamas and a pair of unlikely fuzzy slippers. Harry cooked breakfast and they took it into the sitting room, conjured up an enormous pile of cushions and ate on the floor in front of the fireplace, unwilling to take their places around the kitchen table again just yet. Replete, Ron settled down to the Quidditch scores, Hermione to the front pages and Harry to the back of his eyelids. The only sounds for quite some amount of time were pages turning, the fire snapping and infant Fawkes cooing in his nest of ashes.

He hated to spoil the peace, but an idea had been pressing itself on Harry since the previous day and he felt it best to get it out.

“I don't think we can wait until All Hallows to visit Godric's Hollow,” he said. “I think we need to go soon. Maybe even tomorrow, if we can manage it.”

“Hmmm,” said Ron absently.

“Why?” asked Hermione, because she was actually paying attention and didn't like his sudden sense of urgency

“I can't pin it down logically,” he said slowly. “It's just a feeling, really. I mean I know we aren't supposed to go on my feelings after Fifth year and the Department of Mysteries and everything, but this is different. It's not a dream or a vision or anything like that; it's nothing to do with him. I just really feel like I need to, and soon; or something might be lost. And before you ask what,” he said, raising his head and opening his eyes to meet hers, “I don't know.”

Hermione was silent a moment, thinking about Ron telling her about their quest for the wand.

It was bloody amazing, Hermione,' he'd said. `I mean Harry's just always been Harry, right? It's sort of like what Snape said is almost true, not the way he meant it, you know, but there's been an awful lot of luck going on. He's always where he needs to be because his heart's in the right place, but like fourth year when the TriWizard cup turned into a Portkey, he was just lucky he didn't come back like Cedric. It's like there was always something or someone looking out for him.

But today, I don't know, it was fantastic. I know he spent a lot of time with Dumbledore last year, but he always made it sound like they were just traveling around in the pensieve watching Tom Riddle. I didn't think he'd learned all that much else. Hermione, he knows all this stuff about blood magic and reading hidden spell signatures and all kinds of spell structure they never came close to in school and I'm willing to bet they're not covering this year, either.'

She wanted rather desperately to see that for herself; she was deeply curious, had been thinking about it ever since Ron told her. He had seemed to her, aside from his newfound ability to express himself physically in ways that could make her shiver, pretty much…Harry. Was something actually changing within him? What Ron was talking about had been before the horcrux in the wand had come into play. What if that changed things? Threw off the balance of something Lily had set into motion? Was she, Hermione, helping Lily protect her son, or fumbling in her own efforts and helping Voldemort instead?

“Okay. Tomorrow's good,” she told him.

His eyes closed again in relief, his head dropped back against the pillows. “Thanks.”

She was about to shift from the Prophet to her book of the moment when the flames of the fire turned emerald green and a head popped into view.

“Ah, the life of the unemployed, Fred,” it said.

“A beautiful thing, I'm sure,” its twin said, invisible in the background. “They're not doing anything they shouldn't, I hope.”

“Not at all,” said George. “Lolling about like the Romans, peeling each other grapes. Actually making each other a bite of brekke from the look of it.”

“What's up,” Ron asked his brothers, cutting off further debate about their lifestyle.

“Well, you might remember that little favor you asked us for?”

“You're not calling it in already? You haven't even returned Malfoy yet. What do you want now?”

“That's just the thing, little brother. We're going to have a bit of a problem returning him, because….”

Harry groaned. “You haven't killed him or anything?”

“No, no no no. Far from it, although you can't say the little turd doesn't have it coming. No, we've sort of misplaced him. He's all tied up and everything, but we were playing a little game of `Where in Great Britain is Draco Malfoy' with Lee Jordon and the boys last night and we think we sort of forgot where we hid him.”

Ron began to laugh hysterically, until he noticed Hermione and Harry seemed to find it less funny.

“Oh lighten up, you two. It is funny; you at least have to admit that. Just think of all the places he could be!”

“Well, when you put it that way,” Harry said, grinning. “I guess it sort of is.'

“The only problem with that theory, Ron, is we have no real idea where Voldemort has strongholds of Death Eaters, either.”

“The only problem with that theory, Hermione, is that it would sort of make you think we care,” Ron informed her.

“Snape wants him. We want to keep any sort of a rein on Snape we can. Ergo, we do care, Ron.”

“Oh, bloody hell. I suppose that means we've got to go find him, doesn't it.”

“No, that means that you have to go and find him, because it was your brilliant idea to have Fred and George watch him in the first place.”

“So the two of you can have a nice comfy shag in front of the fireplace while I'm gone, you mean,”

“We'll be working, for your information,” Hermione informed him. “If you'd been listening you'd know that Harry thinks we need to go… somewhere. We'll be working out the details of that.”

“We can apparate, Hermione. Remembering your three D's and thinking `I want to go to…' should do it.” Ron informed her back.

“You don't actually still do that, do you?” Harry said with a laugh.

“What do you mean?”

There came a howl from the fireplace, and the sound of ash-choked laughter. “Fred, you'll never believe it! Ron's still doing Twycross's three D's to apparate!”

“Destination, Determination, Deliberation!” expounded Fred in a wicked imitation of Wilkie Twycross, poking his head into the flames next to George's. “You great goof. That's for total gits like Perce.”

“Really?” asked Ron, amazed. “No, you guys are just putting one on so I splinch myself or something, aren't you.”

Even Hermione had to join in then. “Honestly, Ron. It's like training wheels on a, no never mind, it's like…” she tried and failed to find a Wizarding equivalent to training wheels and was laughing too hard to try harder. “Just trust us.”

“Absolutely,” Ron told them both, with a look that meant, `what do you take me for, an idiot?' “I'll be over there in a bit, you two; I just need to go change.”

“Better apparate, Ron,” Fred said, his face artfully deadpan. “We've be having terrible trouble with the Floo connection just lately.”

George nodded earnestly. “I always went with Deflagration, Dancing Shamrocks and Drooble's Best myself, mate, and never a single problem.”

“Except for leaving your brain behind somewhere,” Ron told him. “Shove off. I'll be over soon as I'm dressed.”

“Ta, Harry, Hermione,” the twins said in unison, and disappeared from the flames.

“Don't even start,” Ron warned as he climbed to his feet and made for the stairs. “I don't want to hear it. You guys better make a whole lot of progress on the reverse horcrux thingie by the time I get back, or someone's going to be sorry. The last thing I planned on doing today was hunting for Malfoy.”

They listened to the sound of his footsteps disappearing up the stairs.

Harry lay back and closed his eyes again, trying to force the last vestiges of the horcrux-induced throbbing from his head. He had found that if he lay very still and focused carefully he could sort of push the pain around, from behind one eye, say, to the other. He felt if he could successfully push it back somehow, or down, that it would subside. He lay, breathing steadily, concentrating on his goal. Slowly - how long it took he had no real idea - it began to recede.

He heard Hermione crawl across the cushions to where he lay.

“Harry?” her voice was soft and low, and suddenly struck him as incredibly inviting. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he reassured her, “just waiting for the last of the headache to go.”

“Can I help?” she asked.

He sincerely doubted it, but what was a little headache when he had a chance to go for the really big one?

He opened his eyes to find her propped on her elbows beside him, and couldn't help but smile. “Okay.”

One of the best things about Hermione was that she was turning out to be nothing like he would have expected, if he had actually gotten that far. Never having dreamed she would actually return his desire for her was throwing him for a loop now that she was. If pressed, he might have imagined her to be slightly clinical and determined to do everything right, which, had it been true, would probably have put a serious cramp on his ability to do it at all. The reality, that her intellectual curiosity was equaled or excelled by its physical counterpart, and that the physical counterpart liked nothing better than to make a sort of experiment out of figuring out what sent him over the edge, was well beyond any expectation he might have had.

Since the Dursley's had made literally no attempt to make him happy throughout his first eleven years, it was not a process that came naturally to Harry. When no one has bothered to ask if you like chocolate or vanilla better because you're not going to be getting any ice cream at all while your cousin downs his usual double scoop, you easily blank out a bit on the whole choice thing. As a result Harry tended to find expressing any deep desires a losing battle; he was usually just fairly accepting of whatever came his way. This trait had made him something of an exceptional Boy Who Lived for the first four years or so for Dumbledore, and the best birthday present ever for Hermione now.

“Where does it hurt the most?”

Now there was a loaded question. Best to start slow, though. If he was going to get slammed by

a jealous Voldemort, he ought to make the before bit last as long as he possibly could.

“Behind my eyes,” he admitted.

Hermione continued gazing down at him, her eyes thoughtful, the little furrow between them that indicated she was thinking deeply making its appearance.

“Hmmm,” she said.

He felt a sudden rush of blood through his veins. Funny how a single word, more of a sound really, could do… that.

“Well,” she continued, “I could try here,” and she began to gently circle the sides of his forehead with her fingers, “Or …”

“Okay,” Harry decided for her, pulling her down next to him. “Plan B it is.”

And he kissed her, and then he kissed her again, just because he could, and then he kissed her again, because now she was kissing him back and her lovely, ink-stained, capable fingers were starting to explore him in a totally less than scientific manner. And whoa, there went her lips, after them.

“I love how you sort of shiver just before I get there.” Hermione noted.

“Thought you might. `Cause I've got total control over that, mind you,” Harry said.

She laughed, but Harry was well beyond caring at that point,

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“Harry it's… Oh!” the voice in the fireplace said.

“Are they not home?” came another, deeper voice behind the first.

“No, they're home. Come see!”

“What is…Tonks!”

“They're so cute.”

“Good Lord, Tonks, have you no shame whatsoever?”

“Nope. None. I'd have gotten nowhere with you if I had.”

“Get your head out of that fireplace young lady.”

“Doesn't that just make you want to have little witches and wizards of your own?”

“Merlin's beard, Tonks, his parents were my best friends. It doesn't seem possible that he's old enough to be doing that. No, that sight just makes me want to have a nice stiff drink.”

“That's a start…”

“Out! We'll talk to them later. When they're awake. And… in clothes. Fully. Preferably coats and hats as well.”

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Hermione stirred, lifted her head and gazed around the sitting room. The fire, being magical, was still burning cheerfully; the rest of the room, and the house, seemed still. The clock on the mantel revealed it to be two in the afternoon, and she did not expect Ron had any hope of returning before evening at the earliest.

Funny, she'd thought she'd heard voices.

They had fallen asleep exactly as they'd… finished, both exhausted. There'd been no retribution this time; she had seen him growing tense again after, moving tentatively, waiting. She could feel him slowly unknot in her arms as the minutes ticked by and nothing happened.

“Maybe I was supposed to die a virgin and he was just peeved because you'd screwed it up and now he's got to find another one,” he'd told her, grinning gently, green eyes dark and heavy.

She'd laughed at that. “He's got Pettigrew right there; you can't honestly tell me anyone ever found him attractive.”

“Or Snape. It'd explain so much…”

Being a perfect gentleman, Harry had sleepily conjured a blanket for them which, as soon as he was fast asleep, practical Hermione had exchanged with a smile for a much more comfortable puffy down quilt. He'd half kicked it off and that, combined with the unusual (for nightmare prone Harry) boneless quality of his splayed limbs made it pretty evident what they'd been up to - if there had been anyone there to care.

Since there wasn't, Hermione snuggled back down under the quilt and nestled contentedly against Harry's peacefully rising chest and wished you could stop a time turner mid-spin and just freeze things for a little while. Was that really so much to ask?

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Malfoy had been in Tonbridge Wells. Thankfully not a Death Eater hotspot, as it turned out. Unless they couldn't be bothered with him either. He had - not without at least some reason, as far as Hermione could see, been royally pissed off and extremely verbal with it. Since they were once again planning something he just couldn't be party to, he was promptly dispatched to Lupin's for safekeeping.

Despite Ron's assertion that all they had to do was apparate to Godric's Hollow, Hermione spent the better part of the evening preparing things. It wasn't so much a matter of packing, but mentally inventorying for what they might - or might not - find, and the potential effect on Harry either way.

Hermione liked to be prepared, to think things through and be equipped with answers before the questions were asked. They were about to go back to the place where it all began, where Harry was born just like any other child and lived for twenty months safe, secure and loved. The place where he became, in a single flash of green light, unlike any other wizard child before and lost all that he had known.

She was eager and dreaded it all at once, and knew that the ground was shifting beneath their feet once more and their world would likely never be the same.

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Godric's Hollow turned out to be pretty much as Hermione had imagined it. The property was on the outskirts of the village, overgrown and deliberately forgotten; the sort of place Muggle children would send one another on a dare to prove their bravery. It practically screamed its past as a place of violence and shattering despair before the house even came into view. And the house…

It had obviously been little more than a cottage, and far from in its heyday even when Lily and James had lived there. Its blown-out windows gave it a strange sense of blindness, an air of perpetual waiting, while its collapsing roofline gave away its hopeless defeat; the sad admission that it had failed to protect its inhabitants.

She bumped shoulders with Harry as they made their cautious way down the overgrown track that led on from the road, and his eyes when he glanced her way were so apprehensive that she broke her own rule about unnecessary contact in front of Ron and felt blindly for his hand. The fingers that slowly curled in answer around her own were stiff and cold.

It was a grey, blustery day, a storm clearly in the offing for the not-too-distant future. A gusty wind snuck through trees thickly hung with encroaching creeper on either side of the path.

Harry stopped, abruptly, listening. “Something's not right,” he said, his voice low and cautious.

“It's just the wind, Harry,” Ron said, but Hermione could see he wasn't entirely convinced even as he spoke the words aloud.

“Wands out and stay close to me. If anything happens, try not to get separated. If he really wants me alive they won't risk anything yet.”

They made their way the rest of the distance to the house without incident and tentatively circled the structure, picking their way through tall grass that obscured items seemingly blown or thrown from the interior. Some were beyond recognition after fifteen years exposure to the elements, others oddly incongruous but easily identifiable. Hermione's trainer crunched on something and she froze, heart thumping, only to find the shards of a child's pottery cereal bowl decorated in a pattern of dragons beneath her feet. Harry's, surely. He spotted it, a flash of sudden recognition in his eyes.

“Sorry,” she mouthed, and he shook his head, staring for a moment before moving on, as if fixing the image in his memory.

They arrived back at the front door without any sign of danger and were about to enter when Harry drew up abruptly and pointed his wand at a pile of firewood near the corner of the house. There was a sharp squeak and the woodpile collapsed around the suddenly too-large figure of a man crouching within it.

Wormtail.

Peter Pettigrew's uncovering was all it took to bring a flock of Death Eaters from the interior of the house, and suddenly the scene took on the nightmarish quality that Hermione had been both dreading and expecting for so long. She moved behind Harry as he had asked, but managed to stun one even as she did. They were hard to count in their swirling robes as Harry, Ron and Hermione moved as one to try and find cover, but Hermione thought there were six of them, including Pettigrew.

“Bind them as you soon as you hit them with something so it takes longer to get them back in the fight,” Ron instructed quickly. “It's two to one counting Pettigrew. We can do this.”

Cords snaked around the arms and legs of the one she had stunned.

Hermione heard herself gasp as something that stung and burned connected with one of her shoulder blades; she whirled around but Harry had already felled her attacker with a Reducto, and Hermione finished up after him with the tying up.

Two down.

Unfortunately, the other four turned out to be quite a bit harder to deal with. Curses flew and were blocked or blasted other than their intended targets; something struck an abandoned wooden-handled shovel propped against the side of the house and it joined the fray temporarily until its rotted wood gave way and Ron banished it into the woods. Hermione saw Harry's eyes flicker toward the trees as it went and then gleam; a moment later a flock of bats swooped into their midst like a cloud.

“Run!” he instructed them, and took off into the swarm, wand flaring. “He didn't say which way,” Ron said, and followed him. Hermione circled the flapping, fluttering cloud, realizing that while Harry had clearly called them, he kept them with a swarm of insects circling a particularly vicious Death Eater who kept aiming for Ron. Their natural instinct would have had them sleeping this time of day, and yet they were happily feeding on midges in a most distracting way. For all rats and bats might share a common ancestry somewhere, Pettigrew didn't seem very fond of them.

She managed to hit another Death Eater with a tripping jinx but before she could secure them the nasty one tried a Relashio to drive back the bats; a jet of fiery sparks burst from his wand, scattering the flapping bodies but lighting the tinder-dry woodpile on fire. Her victim yelped as his robes burst into flame and jumped to his feet, cursing and spinning in circles as he attempted to douse them. Ron hit him with a leg locker and quickly bound him, then sent him rolling across the grass to extinguish the last embers. Harry had cornered another but was gesturing desperately to her, pointing to his mouth; she realized he'd been Silencioed.

`Finite Incantatem' she cast, and yelled warningly, “Non-verbal, Harry.”

“The house!” he croaked out.

She and Ron spun around to see flames licking at the ruined house and quickly taking hold.

“Shite!” Ron howled, jumping back and dragging Hermione with him; the heat was swiftly growing intense.

“Aguamenti!” Hermione cried, and steadied the stream of water from her wand at the fire.
”Ron, you take over there!”

She managed to keep the flames contained where she was, but could not manage to put them out. She glanced over hopefully towards where Ron should have been.

Should have been; but wasn't. Because he was stretched out on the ground, hopefully please, please, please, only Petrified. And Peter Pettigrew was standing over him, clutching his wand.

“Harry!” she screamed, unthinking, and saw him turn to her in panic only to go down to his knees as a Reducter curse blew away the very ground beneath his feet. Fury, with his attacker and with herself, for her idiocy, claimed her consciousness and she heard herself shout Sectumsempra! as her wand found the one who'd cast the spell. The flare of the spell cut across the Death Eater's forearm, and to her abject horror his wand hand fell, severed, from his arm.

His howls followed her as she ran to Harry, now struggling to rise, his eyes on Ron and Pettigrew.

“Oho, Harry Potter!” the watery-eyed little wizard chortled gleefully over the snap and hiss of the flames. “Look what I have!” He waved his silver hand over Ron's still form.

Hermione saw one pale, red-blond lashed eye blink through the encroaching smoke. Ron was alive, but clearly stunned rigid. She leaned down to help Harry to his feet, grabbing his arm and whispering “he's alive, I saw him blink.”

Harry came up slowly, breathing heavily. His jeans were torn open at the knees and bloodied and he seemed not to want to stand too long on one leg, his hand clutched hers tightly but his attention was totally focused on Pettigrew and Ron.

“What you have is lost,” Harry said clearly. “There's only one of you, now, and three of us.”

“I didn't spend twelve years as his family's rat for nothing!” Pettigrew smiled, an unpleasant glitter in his eyes. “I have him. You won't leave him. Master will be pleased with me this day!”

“Your Master,” Harry told him, releasing Hermione's hand and limping closer, “couldn't give a rat's ass about you. Your own, as a matter of fact.”

The balding, pasty little wizard clicked his teeth; Hermione could have sworn his nose wiggled. Clearly nobody was meant to spend twelve years in their animagus form.

“The Dark Lord will reward me handsomely for Harry Potter!”

“No he won't. Because if you want to live, you're going to get your scabby little foot off my friend and run for the nearest sewer.”

Pettigrew pointed his wand more firmly in Ron's direction. Like he could miss, at that range. Hermione saw both Ron's eyes blinking furiously now.

“No closer. Come no closer or he dies! Drop your wand!” he squeaked.

Harry's fingers loosened and dropped his wand without a moment's hesitation, never taking his eyes from Peter's face.

“I don't need a wand for you to die, Peter,” he hissed. “And what an appropriate place for you to do it.”

Hermione's blood ran cold at the sound of his voice; she had never heard Harry sound quite like that before. And why in Merlin's name would he willingly drop his wand? She raised her own.

“Get away from him, Pettig…”

“Expelliarmus!” the rat-like little wizard squealed. Her wand flew from her fingers into his. Clearly he'd been paying more attention then she thought.

“Come here, Potter,” he snarled, showing his yellowed teeth in a parody of a smile. “There's a good boy. Time to meet your fate.”

“It's alright, Hermione,” Harry said softly, not turning back. “Stay here.”

Two of the hardest words in the English language under the circumstances.

She watched as he limped his way quite close; it became clear how much he'd grown with each step as he drew up to his full height before the smaller man skulking over his friend. Harry wasn't thirteen anymore. Pettigrew's nose twitched again.

“You owe me a little debt, Peter,” Harry informed him conversationally. “Do you remember that night in the Shrieking Shack, when Sirius and Remus would have killed you? You thanked me when I stopped them. You told me that night that it was more than you deserved. I learned how very right you were a year later when you killed Cedric and stole my blood to give your Master a body for that stinking scrap of soul that keeps him alive. Well, I'm calling it in now. Step away from Ron and you can still live; I hear Azkaban's lovely this time of year.”

He laughed; a high, slightly panicked sound. “Don't be a silly little boy. I don't owe you….”

“Oh yes,” Harry said without the slightest trace of hesitation. “Yes, you do. Go on. Try it. It's not me you need to be afraid of, is it, it's bigger than that. A wizard's debt… that's the kind of magic Voldemort's been playing with, right? The kind my mother used that night. Old Magic you didn't learn at Hogwarts. Go on, Peter. Cross that line.”

Hermione watched, fascinated, as Pettigrew faltered and his eyes took on the same darting, trapped look they'd held that night in the Shrieking Shack.

“No, it's not real. He told me. Not real,” he muttered, agitated. Hermione noticed Harry shifting closer still to Ron. Behind them the fire moved on to engulf the second floor with a triumphant howl of sucking hot air.

“Your Dark Lord thought he could kill me too. He was wrong. He's been wrong about a lot of things, actually.“ Harry said. “Bit of an eff-up, your Dark Lord.”

Pettigrew's eyes widened in horror, as if even hearing Harry's words implicated him in their meaning.

“No! You lie. Avada…”

“Aequitas Grandaevus Meus” Harry cut in softly.

The burning building behind him, Harry's childhood home forever cursed by the betrayal of its family, reached out with fiery arms and drew Pettigrew hungrily inside. He glowed, burning brightly for a moment, and was gone in a dropping pillar of ash. There was a faint, metallic thunk as Voldemort's shining gift dropped and began to melt somewhere inside.

“Finite incatatem,” Harry said gently, crouching over Ron. His wand lay still where he had dropped it, but Hermione noticed the spell worked first time around, and he seemed unaware of its absence. Ron groaned and pushed himself upright, staring at Harry's proffered hand.

“I don't know whether to buy you a firewhisky or beat the snot out of you,” he said, shaking his head. “What in Merlin's name was that all about? You almost…”

“I would never let anything happen to you, Ron. I would have taken the AK if I had to,” Harry said. “I just didn't want to… he made a choice.”

“How?” Hermione asked, moving forward and taking hold of Ron's other arm. “How did you know he would? What did you do? That wasn't a curse, or a hex or a spell. It was just… you said…”

“'The old justice is mine'.” Harry agreed. “It's what you say, to call in a Wizard's debt. Dumbledore told me once.”

“Hell, Harry,” Ron said, still white-faced. “Remind me never to owe you anything.”

Together they hauled Ron to his feet, but once standing Hermione reckoned he was doing more to hold them up then the other way round. One of Harry's legs shook when he tried to put his weight on it, and she…

“Sweet Merlin, I cut off someone's hand,” she said wonderingly. “Right off. Wand and all!”

“He was a Death Eater, Hermione. He'd have killed us both if you hadn't. I'm sure Voldemort will make him a new one. Clearly he knows how.” Harry said tiredly.

“You did not! Wicked!” was Ron's contribution.

Behind them, what was left of the roof fell in on the little cottage, consuming it. They stood watching for a moment, entranced by the flames.

“Well, that was a bust,” Harry said regretfully. “I was really hoping this whole thing would go… well, not like that, anyway.”

“I think we ought to get out of here before Death Eater central sends reinforcements.” Ron reasoned.

“Oh, he knows,' Harry said, lifting his fringe and wincing. His scar literally pulsed; they could see the skin shift and contract. “But you're right. We should go. And I guess we need to tell someone about them.” He motioned to the still bound Death Eaters scattered about. Of Hermione's there was no sign.

“Wait!” Hermione begged. “Just give me one minute.”

They watched her run toward the burning building, but just when Ron could feel Harry start to stiffen, as if to call her back, she crouched down and seemed to pick through the grass. They watched as she waved her wand at something and rose again, returning to them. In her hand was the small china child's bowl she had stepped on when they first arrived, pieced together as if nothing had ever befallen it. The dragons round the brim flew bravely on.

“I thought you might want it,” she explained. “For some day.”

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15. Chapter 14

Official Fine Print: Nope. Not mine. The brainchildren of the mighty pen of JK Rowling. Just playing with them. Honest.

Quick A/N: Many MANY thanks to all who have reviewed; I wish I could thank you individually but I have a hard enough time stealing minutes from work, my kids, my disbelieving husband and three jealous cats to write. Keep in mind a great deal of this was written at 2am to very loud music on earphones in the dark! Explains so much, doesn't it? Just know I read them when I can and appreciate them all, positive and negative. To those of you inspired or starting to write yourselves (Xstar and Magorian) Awesome! Have fun with it, wherever it takes you. More Harry & Hermione is always a good thing. On the plus side, the reason this took so long was that it came out as essentially one huge unwieldy word hurl - so here's half, and I'm proofing and tweaking the other half now - it'll be there in a day or two at most. Thanks, you guys.

To JazzyGeorgie, for always being there and listening. You really are the best. I'm sorry about losing Malfoy, but really - he had it coming. He's back, safe and sound. For awhile, anyway. Found that flipping birdy icon yet?

Magic Never Dies

Chapter 14

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Lupin assured them that he would call in the Aurors for them, but he wanted to go and check out the scene before he did.

“You'll have to have your little friend back while I go,” he told them, and it took them a moment to drag their minds back to Malfoy.

He staggered out of the fireplace a few moments later, shaking off Floo powder like an offended cat. His hands were still bound and his eyes were furious.

“You,” he said to Ron, narrowing them to slits. “You utter, total…”

Harry flicked his wand silently in Malfoy's direction and his lips continued to move soundlessly. It did not seem to put him off a bit; he kept right on as if they could hear every word.

“Lot he needs to get off his chest, that one,” said Ron, shaking his head. He went straight to the cabinet where they housed their store of butterbeer and like supplies, and pulled out the firewhiskey bottle and three glasses.

They dropped into chairs round the table, aching for things they were too tired to pursue; Ron was ravenously hungry, Hermione badly wanted a bath and Harry badly wanted Hermione.

Ron poured three glasses and pushed two across the table to Harry and Hermione, then raised his.

“To you, Harry. Now I owe you.”

Harry shook his head. “No. I remember the Shrieking Shack, Ron. I'll always remember that. And the chess match. Both of you, how many times have you saved me, one way or another? You could never owe me. It doesn't work like that.” He lifted his own glass. “To friends.”

“Friends, then,” Ron agreed.

“Friends.” Hermione raised her glass as well. Malfoy made a gagging noise as they drank.

Hermione downed half of hers in one go and sputtered. Harry made to pat her back and saw the angry spell burn running across her shoulder. He dragged himself to his feet and made his way across the kitchen while Ron goggled at her.

“Easy on there, Hermione. We've got a full bottle and the night ahead of us,” he said wonderingly.

“I can see why it's called firewhiskey now,” she managed. “I always thought it was the smoke, but it burns a good bit going down, doesn't it.”

“Makes your mouth feel like your cat's left a dead mouse in it the next morning as well, just to warn you,” Harry reminded her. He brought a bowl of water and a clean cloth back to the table with him, slopping slightly as he limped, and sat down again behind her. “My turn to take care of you,” he told her, gingerly pushing her hair away over her other shoulder. “You've got quite a little burn back here. Drink up.”

She felt him lay the wet towel on her shoulder to soak loose where her shirt had stuck and hastily followed his instructions, downing the second half of the glass. Ow, ow, ow.

Malfoy came and sat in Harry's abandoned chair, mouth finally still but clearly sulky and furious. They continued to ignore him; the lack of attention seemed to sap him entirely of the creativity required to escape.

“What spell did you use that actually took someone's hand off?” Ron asked, refilling her glass.

“It's not what it sounds like,” she found herself saying to Malfoy. Wow, firewhiskey must work fast if she felt the need to explain herself to him. “I didn't mean to, it just sort of happened.”

“I think Hermione owes a little thank you to Snape for that one,” Harry muttered from behind her; he was carefully tearing the rip in her shirt larger to gain better access to the wound. Ron winced at the sound.

“I had no idea that it could do that!” she said indignantly. “I didn't choose it for that; I didn't consciously choose it at all. I just saw Ron lying there with Pettigrew pointing a wand at him and I yelled for you without thinking, and then you got hit… ”

Harry snorted. Hermione knew he was remembering her stubborn dislike of the Half Blood Prince's potions text. She had come down hard on him for using the spell against Malfoy when he had only read the author's handwritten note `for enemies.' She'd known what she was using and what it did, or thought she had. In her moment of panic she had reached for the worst thing she could think of short of an unforgivable and Harry's shock and self-disgust at the wounds it had produced the one time he used it had stood out clearly in her mind. Whatever side he was on, she knew what Snape was capable of and she knew the spell was his. She should have known that anything he designed would amplify the emotions of the caster.

She looked down; Harry was straddling the back of her chair as he worked behind her and she could see his torn and bloodied knees on either side of her. She lifted her eyes to Ron in time to see him blink and it hit her, suddenly and quite hard, how differently this whole day could have ended. She downed another mouthful from her glass. It didn't even make her eyes water this time.

“That was…”

“Only the beginning,” Harry said tiredly, wringing out the cloth. Clearly their minds were running their usual parallel course.

“Harry, what if there was a hor… a thingie in the house? Will we know somehow if it was destroyed? How do we keep from chasing something that isn't there?” Ron asked with a sideways glance at Malfoy.

Harry cast a Muffliato. “Who's forgetting they're a wizard now?” he asked with a grin as Malfoy's expression grew, if possible, more annoyed.

“We don't know if there was one there to start with, but I seriously doubt it,” he continued. “If I really am one, and it's looking more and more that way after what happened with the wand, then there shouldn't have been anything but an empty object he intended to use that night still there. If it had been anything recognizable or valuable the Ministry would have found it when they went through the house. That's sort of all I was hoping to find out, just to see if there was anything there and maybe eliminate possibilities for the final one we're missing. It was always a long shot anyway. He certainly wouldn't have gone back and put something there; that house can't have had good memories for him.”

Ron nodded and then asked, “but why were the Death Eaters there? If they weren't guarding something, how did they know we were coming?”

“I'm hoping that they were waiting, that they'd warded the house and were just waiting for someone to trigger it. Because the alternative is that they knew we were coming, and no one knew but us. And the only one of us I don't trust right about now,” Harry said regretfully, “is me.”

“But you don't think… you haven't felt him in your scar since…” Hermione reached for her glass again.

“Before today? Not since that night, no.”

“Wait a minute, your scar's been going off and you never said? Harry that's always meant something before.” Ron protested.

“It hasn't been going off all the time. There was one incident, he was furious.”

“Yeah, but that's the sort of thing we should be telling Lupin or my Dad, they need to check those times to see if it lines up with any of the stuff that's going on they can't place,” Ron said. “Dad was just saying the other day that there are all these…”

“Ron,” Harry cut in.

“What?”

“It was me, okay? He was furious with me, because I was very, very happy, if you get my drift. I don't think either of us were expecting the connection at that particular moment. And I haven't had a twitch since until today. He's blocked me out because he knows it goes both ways.”

Ron's expression was one of confusion; he appeared to be thinking hard.

“Oh for goodness sake, Ron, Voldemort knew when Harry er, achieved, um…” Hermione started, before realizing that her vocabulary with Ron thus far hadn't contained any of the necessary verbage and she wasn't entirely sure she wanted to change that fact. How weird. “You know…”

Harry snorted again. “She's trying to tell you I was The Boy Who Got Off at the time.”

“No way,” Ron's eyes grew wide. Hermione watched Malfoy's interest shifting round the three of them, speculating, and almost laughed aloud. She'd actually like to hear what he thought they were talking about this time.

“He was so not happy for me. I can only imagine what it was like to actually be around him. If I were Wormtail I'd have volunteered to hang out in Godric's Hollow as long as it took for someone to show up, too. But it hasn't happened since under the same ah, circumstances, so I think, I hope, anyway, that it was a one-off.”

“I'm impressed you actually tried it again, mate.” Ron said with a low whistle. “That would put me right off.”

“Nah,” Harry said, ducking his head behind her. “You would. Worth it, this one.”

Worth it, this one. She was torn between wanting to kiss him and slap him but she got the chance to do neither; he had finished washing out the burn and pulled the last bit of blackened fabric from the edge.

It stung fiercely and she clutched at the edge of the table. “Sorry, love. Almost done,” he told her, quickly reaching for his wand. “Just another minute.” He muttered a healing charm and she felt the cut warm and tighten… only to slowly return to the burning sensation again.

“Not that one, obviously.” He tried Curatio and then Finite Incantatem in case it was an active hex that caused the wound to reopen. Neither worked even as well as the first he had tried; the cut remained, not bleeding badly but not healing either. “I'm just rubbish at healing charms, I always have been. Ron, maybe you should…”

Malfoy began to move agitatedly, gesturing. All he could do was watch; the muffliato had kept him from being able to make out their conversation, but he seemed to have something to say about Hermione's injury. Harry watched him warily a moment then flicked his wand in his direction again.

“Please make me not regret this,” he said.

“Snape was working on transforming one of his own old spells while I was with him,” Malfoy said hoarsely, shaking his head as if to rid his ears of the buzzing from the conversation-muffling spell. “I recognized the incantation because it was what you yelled at me in that creepy bathroom in Hogwarts.”

“The one that sort of cut off the unforgivable you were tossing Harry's way?” Ron jumped in. “I heard you were playing with your Dad's favorite curse. There's a reason he's in Azkaban, you know.”

Hermione saw Harry's head lift, and one green eye fix on Malfoy. “Sectumsempra? Was that it?”

Malfoy nodded, his eyes calculating. “That's the one. He was reworking it to open gashes that would be hard to close, too complicated to heal easily, especially in the middle of a battle. The Dark Lord wants you weakened now, not dead.”

“There's irony for you,” Hermione grimaced. “I suppose I deserve this after using…”

“No!” Harry cut in sharply. “You don't. Don't say that.” He thought for a moment then called for Fawkes, sleeping on his perch in the sitting room, past infant stage now but not by much.

Sure enough, the sudden midair pop in response deposited a quite young phoenix onto Harry's shoulder.

“Hermione needs you,” he told the little bird, showing it the stubbornly resistant wound.

Fawkes trilled something and cocked his head at Harry. Hermione saw both Ron and Malfoy eyeing Harry as if he'd lost his mind and turned herself.

It seemed the two were having something of a battle of wills without a word; she'd seen that look on Harry's face before. Fiercely, stubbornly determined that he was right, damn it, and no one was going to convince him otherwise. The funny thing was that the young phoenix wore almost exactly the same expression.

Harry finally seemed to clue in that they were all watching him and flushed slightly. “Excuse us a minute,” he said, and rose stiffly, limping away to the other room with an equally determined-looking phoenix clinging to his forearm.

“What the hell is that all about? He's finally completely lost his mind, has he?” Malfoy asked. “It wouldn't be quite so hard to lure people to join your side if he wasn't so…. Potterish, you know.“

“He's under a lot of strain,” said Ron defensively.

“There's nothing wrong with Harry. Phoenixes are highly intelligent magical creatures and that one must have spent well over a hundred years with Dumbledore.” Hermione pointed out. “Magical creatures by their very nature have personalities and ideas of their own. You can't treat them like… beasts, or anything. There has to be give and take.”

“Well, if that bird spent as long as that with Dumbledore, Potter ought to be used to taking whatever it gives,” Malfoy sneered. “He's been the old man's puppet ever since he was born.”

Hermione saw Ron's eyes start to narrow; she considered refilling his glass but was torn as to whether that might just make it worse. As soon as she decided it probably would he reached out and poured it for himself.

“How the hell would you know, Malfoy,” he said, his voice sounding to Hermione almost a full octave lower than usual. “What do you really know about him anyway? Only what your Daddy and his Dark Lord told you, and it seems to me you've had plenty of time just lately to see what chronic liars and manipulators they are. You were more of a puppet than he's ever been until Dumbledore cut your strings for you.”

“Shut up, Weasley. If I ever wanted your opinion, I'd ask you for it. And I'm not interested in Potter's hard luck story. Dumbledore's a Muggle-lover, he was always going to raise his little weapon the same way. The so-called savior of the Wizarding world and he's barely a wizard himself.”

Ron choked on the sip he had so foolishly attempted while Malfoy was speaking; Hermione had known nothing good would come from that.

“You shut up, Malfoy. You're sitting in his bloody kitchen and he's the only reason we haven't turned you in to the Ministry or sent you back to Snape. You think you've got balls the size of bludgers, but I'm telling you for the last time if you don't change your tune I'm sure Fred or George left a bat round somewhere we could make use of,” he blazed. “We've all had rotten enough day without your crap on top of it.”

Even Hermione winced at that image.

Harry and Fawkes reappeared from the next room and made their way back behind Hermione. They seemed to have reached some kind of agreement; the little phoenix was back on his shoulder near his ear again and Harry's expression, while mutinous, was also resigned.

He dropped back into his chair and took a hasty gulp from his glass without lifting his head or meeting any of their eyes, even hers. Ron and Malfoy were glaring at each other, as if each were somehow waiting for Harry to take their side and complete their point. She turned in time to see Fawkes make his way along his arm closer to her back and cock his head over her aching shoulder.

The pain vanished. She could feel a wonderful seeping warmth and a sort of tingle as the phoenix tear dripped and Harry gently drew his finger from one end to the other, spreading the healing liquid. She had a sudden flash of being on the roof the day Fawkes had appeared, how he had healed the stubborn spell wound on Harry's arm and Harry had moved at the last minute so that a tear had fallen on her own hand and she could feel for herself the power of its magic even on her healthy skin.

“Snape knows you have Fawkes now,” she said slowly. He could and would, she knew, perfect whatever he was teaching the Death Eaters with that in mind; he could let his imagination run wild on ways to weaken Harry while pleasing Voldemort and still being able to claim loyalty to the Order. Somehow, he always managed to have it both ways.

Harry cast the Muffliato over Malfoy again and drew Hermione to him, eyes meeting Ron's over her shoulder.

“There is some very strange stuff going on with me just now,” he said evenly. “I don't want to scare you guys and I don't feel like it's all bad necessarily, but that wand's changed things somehow…. and it's as if it set something else off inside me in response to it as well. Whatever it is, Ron, promise me that if I do anything not right that you'll stun the crap out of me and take me to Lupin.”

“What do you mean, not right?” asked Ron hesitantly. “How not right?”

“I don't know. That's the problem,” he admitted.

Hermione pushed off his chest and sat up. “Fawkes made you tell us. You made a….a deal with him, didn't you?”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed. “He did. He would have healed you anyway, Hermione, honestly. It was me that he…”

“Why didn't you just tell us?” she asked him fiercely.

“I was going to, if it got bad enough. It's confusing, sometimes I feel fine and then out of nowhere I can sort of feel other stuff that's not me. Just little traces and flashes, but it's like it's, I don't know, floating around, looking for a way out. Or a way in. Then I feel fine again. But Fawkes can feel it, too.”

Hermione thought he sounded both resigned and slightly frightened and knew that their worst fears had been realized. Harry was starting to feel the effect of the soul fragment from within the wand inside him. He'd had one fragment with him from the night he became the Boy-Who-Lived. If Dumbledore was correct in his theories he had absorbed a second when he had destroyed the diary and the spectral form it had been trying to create by drawing strength from Ginny Weasley four years ago. The third was starting to tip the balance, to make him aware and uncomfortable with the malevolence he carried. And that only accounted for three of Voldemort's magical seven.

“Harry, give me that frog card.”

She reached around him, groping the back pockets of his jeans and hearing Ron's faux- scandalized `Hermione!' and Malfoy's snicker.

“Not that that's not very nice, Hermione, but what are you… holy hell, it's in my robes!” Harry yelped as she moved on to the front ones. “Over there!”

She jumped up and stalked across the kitchen to where Harry and Ron had dumped their robes in a heap of crumpled black, reeking of smoke. She found the special envelope she had derived for him with several variants of impervious charms to protect it. She pulled out the card, unsurprised to find the frame vacant.

“Albus Dumbledore!” she called commandingly.

“Hermione!” the old wizard greeted her jovially from the card several moments later. “How goes it? Harry alright I trust?”

Perfect. Fine. Starting to feel a little full of Voldemort, mind you…

“Talk horcruxes with me,” she said grimly.

“Of course, my dear girl,” the portrait agreed with her. “Although, as I am gone and quite deliberately avoided their study until I realized Voldemort's fascination with them just before I died, there is probably little I can illuminate for you.”

Hermione walked the card back over to the table so that the boys could hear their conversation.

“Goodness, is that Mr. Malfoy I see over there?” Dumbledore asked; his eyes hopeful.

“He's got a muffling charm on him. He can see you but he can't make out what you're saying. Just because he couldn't work up the nerve to actually murder you doesn't seem like a reason to trust him.” Harry told him.

Dumbledore sighed, and nodded regretfully.

“Seven Horcruxes. Seven soul fragments. Harry and Voldemort have one each. That leaves us with five,” Hermione counted off.

“Ah, but the horcrux within the ring was destroyed. The soul fragment was not simply released to be reabsorbed, I assure you it was quite decimated.” Dumbledore's portrait told her. “As was my hand.”

“So we are working with six active soul fragments, then. Not counting Harry and Voldemort would make it a total of four.”

“In so far as we have been able to determine, yes.” Dumbledore agreed.

“The locket, which we have. The diary, which was released and absorbed by Harry. Ravenclaw's wand, which was released and absorbed by Harry. And one more, perhaps the Hufflepuff Cup, or something of Gryffindors'.”

“Indeed.”

“So the race for the last horcrux is on.”

“Hermione, remember. You three are attempting to destroy the horcruxes. Voldemort is not. He is more interested in killing Harry and putting the prophecy he believes so detrimental to his cause behind him. I do not believe he wishes to reincorporate his soul, only to keep the fragments safe to protect his immortality.”

“And what more twisted way to do it,” Hermione said angrily, “than to have some of them safely inside Harry! Inside a younger, less powerful wizard no one else would wish to kill?”

“My dear Miss Granger,” said the card in surprise.

“You told Harry once that Voldemort underestimated the strength of an intact soul. Here's a question for you. At what point did you figure the fragments inside Harry would stop being fragments and find each other?”

“Who can say? You are working on the very frontiers of magic as we know it here, and…”

“I knew it! This is not an experiment! This is Harry's life. Harry's one life. Has it not occurred to you that if we put too much of Voldemort's soul in Harry he becomes more Voldemort than Harry? If the pieces of the soul can unite in him Voldemort might have more control than Harry himself and ….

“And what is new? What has changed since the last time we had this discussion?” Dumbledore asked sharply. “Other than perhaps your feelings for Harry? Are innocent people not still dying? Is Voldemort not still at large?”

Hermione froze. She had never spoken to the Headmaster that way in life, nor had he ever said such things to her. His voice was terrible and there was no twinkle in those resolute blue eyes.

“You said you sought to find a way to help him, Hermione. This is not it. Raging at a Chocolate Frog Card only helps those you fight against. What is done, is done. I can only give you ideas, directions in which to look. Ask yourself why he has been able to cope with the fragments so far. Is one truly contained within the scar, or is it just an indicator of what lies inside? Why has Voldemort's connection to Harry grown stronger yet left him still unable to withstand possessing him in the Department of Mysteries? Is there any difference, any significance amongst the fragments in relation to those who died in the process to make them? Wizard or Muggle, blood relation or stranger? And lastly, most importantly, how can Harry's own soul withstand the assault within? If what you feel for Harry is more than sentimentality and teenaged hormones, Miss Granger, I believe you already know one answer to that question. Do not doubt him.”

“Don't,” Harry's voice shook, there was a fire in his eyes that made Dumbledore's most thought-provoking twinkle seem like a birthday candle beside a torch. “Don't ever speak to her like that again. You LEFT us. You're on to your next great adventure. You battled your dark wizard and made your choices. You made all mine for me long after you should have because you couldn't let go. You told me that night after Sirius died that you yourself feared the uses he could put me to, the possibility he would try and possess me. You'd already guessed about the horcruxes then, hadn't you? You told me then you thought you saw his shadow stir behind my eyes and you tried to protect me by distancing yourself from me. You excused yourself for neglecting to tell me about the prophecy by saying that you `cared more for my life then for others that might be lost, and who could blame you?' You said, `What did I care if numbers of nameless and faceless people and creatures were slaughtered in the vague future' if in the here and now I was alive and well and happy. Well how is it any different for her? Loving me has always cost more than it should. Look what it took from my parents, and Sirius. At least you got to chose. She's right to be frightened and angry. I should never have let myself, never…”

He had stood up in his fury, towering over the small card in her hand as Dumbledore had towered over Harry in life. His eyes seemed unable to contain the swell of emotions and raw churning magic surging inside him; she saw within them all she had known so long was there, all she had reached out for.

And then, without a sound, he was gone.

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16. Chapter 15

Official Fine Print: Nope. Not mine. The brainchildren of the mighty pen of JK Rowling. Just playing with them. Honest.

Magic Never Dies

Chapter 15

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“What the bloody hell was that?” Ron asked incredulously.

“That,” came the voice from the Chocolate Frog card still in Hermione's hand, “was Harry Potter's long overdue declaration of independence. Much in the way it is celebrated in the United States, I believe fireworks will shortly follow.”

“Long overdue?” Hermione felt like screaming, she was only holding on to herself by the constant reminder that panic wouldn't bring him back. “Would you care to explain that?”

“I take it that Harry confessed to you at some point this evening that he has been feeling the effects of the absorption of the third soul fragment?”

“That's right,” Ron said. “He made me promise to stun him and take him to Lupin if he did anything strange.”

Dumbledore's likeness sighed.

“Harry is a very potent wizard. Rather, let me rephrase that; Harry is a very strong magical force. He is a potentially potent wizard. We were arguing about what it meant to care for Harry when he left us, but in great part what makes us appreciate him in the first place is that he himself is more concerned with those around him than the concentrated development of that latent power. “

`Not that you ever gave him a real choice,' Hermione thought. She knew that Harry believed Dumbledore had liked and to an extent trusted him, but she had never gotten any sense that Harry thought Dumbledore believed him to be anything but curiously unpredictable due to the connection of his famous scar to Voldemort. Dumbledore had always praised his human qualities rather than any specifically Wizard ones.

“Tom Riddle never knew the distraction of sympathy or empathy for another,” the card continued, “his attention was always on his own magical abilities. His deep disdain for emotional attachment of any kind comes from the belief that it diffuses the focus of power. You will remember from all your trophy cleaning, Ron, that although fit and athletic enough Tom Riddle never played Quidditch. He scorned it as a game for children. You and I know, however, that Quidditch has done much for Harry. I believe it gave him a great deal of confidence, taught him both to be a part of a team -something Voldemort could never bring himself to be - and, over time, to lead. They are as different as night and day and yet both carry a tremendous power within. Harry is living proof that sort of magical power need not corrupt.

To finally defeat Voldemort, however, Harry will have to come to terms with being Harry. He can not fight my fight. My strength was age and experience and the knowledge that comes with those, things Harry does not have the luxury of developing. It is time, therefore, for him to blaze his own path. That would be the slight… burning smell you might have noticed when he left.”

“To be honest, Sir, I think he was just right pissed off,” Ron said hesitantly.

“Yes, Ron,” Dumbledore's portrait smiled. “That sums it up rather nicely. And at this stage of the game, I believe that when Harry is… pissed off, as you say, it is rather overwhelming for him. His more positive emotions are still his own, it is the negative ones, ones which Voldemort possesses in such abundance, that will become amplified.”

“Excuse me, Sir,” Hermione said, with exaggerated and careful politeness, “but how exactly did you mean for him to cope with that? Harry's past is hardly full of touching moments of family members setting him sterling examples of emotional control. You sort of chose to let him grow up in a place where he was basically abused, neglected and relegated to a closet most of the time. What else have you given him to draw on before deciding to expose him to this?”

Those blue eyes actually had the nerve to, to… twinkle at her.

“Harry's and Voldemort's experiences growing up are not fundamentally different, and yet they themselves still are. In that sense the Durselys turned out to have been a gift of sorts to Harry; that he did not blow them all up like Aunt Marge by the time he was three proves there is an innate capacity for control. He has had to learn to rein in his emotions, far more thoroughly then either you, Hermione, or Ron. And with some few exceptions, he did so.”

“There is a rather vast difference,” said Hermione furiously, “between repression and control.”

“Trust me when I tell you, Hermione, that you would be equally glad to have Harry repress or control what will begin to fill him now. Either may save your life… or Ron's. Which leads us nicely to the point at which he left us.” Dumbledore stroked his beard with a reminiscent smile.

“Harry must now embark upon his own personal journey to understand and control both his magic and his destiny. I am sure he has felt it all start to overwhelm him, and he has chosen the time-honored path of those whom life selects for greatness. He will have retreated to a place of great comfort to him and will likely spend the next several days and weeks mastering and coming to terms with the changes within him, and finding the source of his power. You and Ron will have to shoulder on without him for the next bit I am afraid, but he will return stronger and more determined then ever to do the right thing. I highly recommend using this time to call a meeting of the DA and take Mr. Longbottom up on his kind offer of support.”

Ron and Hermione looked at each other.

“Er….” said Ron. “What?”

Dumbledore smiled wider, if possible. “Harry is on the path of great Wizards throughout time. I am quite sure that even as we speak he is reaching the shores of his own Avalon, about to begin his great journey to explore himself and take charge of the magic within him. I remember my own journey well, as if it were only yesterday…”

“Sounds like there were some questionable potions research going on to me,” Ron mouthed behind the card.

“Exactly what powers do you think Harry is… exploring?” Hermione asked, crossing her eyes at Ron.

“Have you noticed him doing anything unusual lately?” Dumbledore inquired.

“Like disapparating without a sound? Wandless magic he doesn't realize he can do? Talking to Fawkes? That sort of thing?”

The portrait of their old Headmaster seemed impressed. “Really? He can actually talk to Fawkes?”

“No, well, he talks to him quite regularly, it's just that he seems to understand him, and Fawkes seems to agree, so he can't actually be making it up. They made a deal with each other earlier this evening.”

“Fascinating. Harry has never had time, nor indeed progressed far enough in his transfiguration classes to discover if he has an animagus form, but that sort of connection suggests he might. Perhaps that is one of the powers he will pursue. That could come in quite handy if he could manage it.”

“What, a phoenix? Harry? I always thought he'd be a stag like his patronus. Or a dog, like Sirius. Harry seems more of a dog sort of person, really,' Ron said.

The urge to scream at both of them was almost overpowering. No wonder Harry had lost it... They were both barking mad, really. “Animagus transformation is a really complicated and difficult thing. It took Harry's Dad three years to figure it out outside of classes and he had Sirius to help. Harry hasn't got three years. I shouldn't be surprised if he's got three months the way things are going, and he's got a couple of other things on his mind to cope with.”

“Precisely my point, Hermione. You must put aside all that you think that you have learned from your books; it simply no longer applies to Harry. Pressure is a fascinating crucible. You never know what is going to come of it. The diamond, for example, begins as a simple lump of coal before pressure is applied.”

I've got it, Hermione thought. Dumbledore is the most powerful and famous wizard of his age. He must have quite a few magical portraits to inhabit. Perhaps he's horcruxed his brain, just ripped the whole thing into neat slices and left one tiny piece for each. Because there must be at least some reason that he's making absolutely NO EFFING SENSE!.

“I really, really have to get some sleep now,” she told them; Ron, the Chocolate Frog Card and the silently fuming Malfoy.

Harry Potter, you'd better make this good, she thought. If you don't come back like a, a…. Wizard Ninja with a huge sword and some seriously deadly spells I'm going to hex your lovely bum into the next millennium. Right into the jaws of a hungry Horntail. So be okay. Please?

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So it was, then, that Hermione was nothing less than stunned hexless to finally drag herself up the endless stairs and enter her bedroom only to find Harry Potter obviously freshly showered, clad in a pair of clean, un-ripped jeans and her favorite green sweatshirt and waiting cross-legged on her bed. Her traitorous cat gazed gloatingly from his lap.

They'd been listening to Dumbledore… and he'd been having a shower.

He raised his head as she entered; his expression contrite, eyes full of apology.

It would be like kicking a puppy to try and stay mad at that face.

“Aren't you supposed to be in some monastery in Tibet mastering your inner magic and your outer swordsman right now?” she asked suspiciously. “Dumbledore just gave us the shores of Avalon speech about how you needed to be free to find your magical core, or something.”

“I'm rubbish with swords,” he said slowly. “But I'd love it if you'd consider helping out with the magical core bit. Mine's a little… tense at the moment.”

Good lord. Nothing looked the slightest bit tense that she could see. His hair was still slightly damp and he'd obviously healed his own knees from his ease with Crookshanks on them. Green eyes met hers through a veil of dark fringe and her heart melted.

She moved slowly to the edge of the bed. “Do you want to tell me what that was all about?”

“What, downstairs?” he asked, giving the cat a gentle push and crawling over the bed toward her. Hermione felt herself flush just watching him.

He came up on his knees and their eyes were level.

“Yes,” she said. “downstairs. That was quite the little outburst. Dumbledore called it your declaration of independence; he made a joke about fireworks afterward.”

One of his hands found its way to her face, traced her cheekbone, pushed her hair gently behind her ear. “I hate that he always thinks he knows what I'm going to do before I do it.”

Hermione felt herself leaning into his touch. “Well he was completely wrong this time. He had Ron and I convinced we wouldn't see you for weeks.”

His eyes flicked away and back again; rising to meet hers.

“I keep thinking of the night he died. Trelawney had just told me it was Snape that had overheard the prophecy and I was so furious with him, that he knew and never told me, that he let him go on teaching there after what he'd done. I wanted to have it out with him so badly… but I wanted to go with him after the horcrux as well. It's always been like that with Dumbledore and me, always two sides. He couldn't just come and help in the Chamber, or send Fawkes along with a note, it's always pulling swords that aren't there out of hats or the stone the homicidal maniac beside you wants out of your pocket and realizing you don't have the first bloody clue what you're supposed to do with it once you've got it.

I was just so angry all of a sudden that I couldn't hold on to it, and with all the extra stuff in me right now I was afraid I was going to make something really…destructive happen. I knew I couldn't, not with you and Ron there. I apparated away without really thinking about where I was going and I did end up somewhere I never actually intended. Luckily enough in one piece. No great guru or Lady of the Lake or anything. The giant squid sends his regards, though.”

Harry ducked his head and grinned; her already puddled heart gave a wicked off-rhythm thump.

“Hogwarts?” she asked.

He nodded. “The lake. I guess I thought I needed to calm down, but when I got there I couldn't stop thinking about you and Ron. Mostly about you, to be honest. I wasn't there more than five minutes, I'd wager. I knew what I'd done as soon as I left, it was just like being fifteen again, and I know I'm not anymore. I didn't mean that about not having let myself love you, Hermione. You'd just proved you could hold your own with us not an hour before and there I was falling into that same old thing, being responsible for everyone and everything. I'm so sor…”

Well, she couldn't let him finish that. Not that she hadn't been waiting long enough, mind you; she'd gradually accepted the fact that it was all so deeply ingrained in his nature that he probably never could or would say those words and mean them. It was actually the happy realization that Dumbledore had been wrong for once; the wisest, most powerful wizard she'd ever known had vastly underestimated his protégé. The very fact that he had returned could mean only one thing. Well, two things, perhaps, both equally good. He really did love her. And he wanted to live, was determined to survive his confrontation with Voldemort because of it. Because of her.

Sentimentality and teenaged hormones is it? thought Hermione Granger as she took complete and full possession of Harry Potter's lips, and from the sound of it most of his self control with them. I'll show you what teenaged hormones can do. Old lizard heart will never know what hit him.

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It came to her later, after, that despite his enthusiastic response he'd kept a fairly tight rein on himself and had to be… encouraged to let himself go in the end. Not that she was complaining, his reluctance had extended the natural course of things a good bit, with happy consequences for her. She was fairly certain, though, that he was being cautious in light of the changes he had spoke of and was uneasy with losing control.

There had to be something they could do… Her research had turned up comparatively little, and most of it was useless given what they were attempting. Dumbledore certainly had a point about being on the frontiers of magic, although Hermione was still deeply unhappy with the blithe way he had lead Harry there, knowing Harry's nature as he did.

He stirred in his sleep then, shifting closer, his eyes moving rapidly beneath their lids. Dreaming. No boneless sprawl of limbs this time; the sinuous ripple of muscle under skin, while lovely to watch, bespoke a restlessness that would leave him waking exhausted instead.

Identify the problem, Hermione.

Three fold, as far as she could see it.

Find a way to help Harry cope with the soul fragments already inside him. Find out how to destroy the others without having them join the ones in already in him, if possible. And last but never least, figure out how to get close to Voldemort and use his demise to rid Harry of the last bit of corrupting soul forever.

It was the last bit that was really starting to worry Hermione. Her initial idea; to find out how to make a horcrux and have Harry use Voldemort's death as the instigation to rip his soul apart from Harry's own was no less theoretical now than it had been in the beginning, and so no closer to being useable. The fact that it was predicated on Harry's ability to kill Voldemort while containing more of his soul then Voldemort himself possessed was a rather enormous potential pitfall, to begin with. There was no predicting, really, how the two of them might react to each other face-to-face. Other than the blind need to kill each other, of course.

Harry groaned and stiffened beside her, shaking his head.

That's not good.

“No,” he muttered. “No. I… won't.” Whatever was being asked of him in his dream clearly made him anxious; she could see his breathing quicken and the head shaking became more adamant.

“Harry, wake up,” she said softly, taking his upper arm into her hands and jostling him.

“No, please, I can't,” he begged, but she could see he was still deeply asleep.

“Wake up, Harry, you're dreaming. It's just a…”

The realization that it was more than a dream came with his heartsickening scream as his back arched helplessly off the bed. His muscles seemed to convulse under her fingers, the vibration of the over-stimulated nerve endings like an electric current through him.

Cruciatus. She'd memorized the signs in Snape's class last year; he'd taken such pleasure explaining the marked difference between it and other torturous spells and, well, it was what she did, wasn't it? Memorize the details. Harry wasn't dreaming, and the pain wasn't isolated in his scar this time.

Is it Voldemort? How? And how do I break it? she thought frantically as he cried out again. How do you fight someone or something you can't even see?

Ron crashed through the door, the sudden illumination of his wand blinding her. Harry's eyes flew open but he didn't seem to see either of them; he was entirely focused on whatever was going on inside him. Even as the convulsions of the Cruciatus subsided and his breathing settled into a ragged panting his arms shakily pushed against the bed and his legs swung over the side.

“No, no, I won't.” he groaned, sitting on the edge of the bed and shaking.

Ron moved closer, raising the light from his wand out of Harry's eyes. “Won't what, mate?” he asked nervously. “Alright there, Harry?”

“Ron, I, stun. Won't. I…”

Hermione saw Ron's eyes shift to her, as if asking `what the hell is THAT supposed to mean?' when Harry convulsed again, falling from the bed to the floor with a solid thump. She scrambled after him, trying to hold him still as the spell ran its course. His skin was cold and slick with sweat, muscles taut with the agony of resistance.

“It's like he's being crucioed,” she told Ron. “I've never seen him like this, it's usually his scar but this is just like the real thing, as if …” His hoarse, tearing scream drowned out her words and Ron swore, as panicked by the urgency in it as she.

“What do we do now?”

Hermione shook her head, uncertain. “I don't know.”

The invisible caster seemed to cease his curse and almost as soon as the convulsions ceased as well Harry was on his knees and heading toward the door. Or his body was anyway; if possible he seemed to be fighting himself, struggling against every movement. Hermione froze, unsure whether to help him or stop him.

“Ron, ffffor fuck's sake will, will, you just stun me already,” Harry panted.

“Stunning you's not going to do a thing to stop a crucio from the inside, Harry…” Ron said, crouching over him. “What if it makes things worse?”

“Don't care about that,” he gasped, rocking on his knees. “Just keep me away from that bloody locket.”

The horcrux. He was going for…'

Harry suddenly staggered to his feet and charged for the door, careening off Ron and knocking him to the floor as he ran.

Ron rolled and aimed his wand after him, shouting out the incantation to stun him just seconds after Harry made it clear of the door. They scrambled up and ran after him, heard his feet thumping down the stairs. The door to the kitchen was off its hinges when they reached it; he'd simply run through it. They heard another resounding crash from within but Hermione was hopeful to note it sounded like wood rather than the tin flour canister the locket was hidden in.

They cleared the door to find Harry sprawled on the floor with Malfoy's still-bound hands triumphantly around his neck, throttling him as he pounded his head against the leg of the chair he'd been left sitting in.

“Silencio me again you Gryffindor goat's ass and I'll put your wand so far up your…” he was crowing.

“You, I can stun,” Ron gasped, out of breath. “Stupefy!”

Malfoy slumped on top of Harry, who was blinking dazedly.

“Alright there, mate? Better?” Ron asked cautiously.

Hermione didn't like the look in Harry's eyes. Perhaps because they didn't actually look like Harry's eyes; there was a coldness and calculation there that he had never had.

“Yessss,” Harry said, nodding vigorously.

“Ron…”

“Right,” Ron agreed, making his way around Harry to place himself in between him and the horcruxes' hiding place.

“Give it to me,” Harry told him, struggling to his feet. Blood dribbled from a gash on his forehead where Malfoy had managed to clock him with the chair leg and purpling bruises were blooming around his neck yet he seemed oblivious to everything but his desire for the horcrux.

“Er, sorry Harry. I don't think…”

“GIVE IT TO ME!” he hissed, and threw himself toward the cabinet where the flour container was stored.

“Stupefy!” Ron shouted. It took three tries for the spell to bring Harry down; in the end it was Hermione and Ron together that did it and he hit the floor hard just short of the cabinet.

It was as Ron had feared however; even stupefied, Hermione could see his body stiffen to the attack of some internal enemy. Harry might be unconscious, but whatever had awakened inside him was definitely not.

“Use the fire,” she said, crouching over him. “Call Lupin and Tonks. We need help.”

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“I hate to say it,” said Lupin, watching Harry's seemingly unconscious form shudder and twitch, “but you need Snape. He could manage something to stop it, I'm sure.”

“Or something that will kill his last bit of resistance,” Ron said. “And how will we know which he's doing until he's already done it. It's not like we can trust him or any thing. Especially not where Harry's concerned.”

“We may have to,” Lupin reasoned. “What's our choice?”

“He's no genius,” Hermione said suddenly. “You know what makes Snape so good at medicinal potions? He's just so utterly heartless that it doesn't matter in the slightest to him if he ever gets it wrong. He certainly wouldn't hang back for fear of killing his subject, that's for sure.”

Her voice grew stronger. “Well, if he can do it, I can. I know enough not to hurt Harry, and anything else has to be better than this. I don't care if I give him hooves and a tail as long as this stops.”

“That's the spirit, Hermione,” said Tonks.

“That's insane, Hermione,” said Lupin. “Look, it's not that I don't think you're brilliant with potions or anything…”

“Then stand back and keep out of the way,” she said grimly. “And somebody find me a cauldron.”

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Hermione had her doubts about each of the cauldrons she unearthed in Grimmauld Place; they had the pitted, battered, poisonous appearance of having brewed some truly nasty stuff and never having a detention-suffering Harry or Ron forced to clean them. Nothing you'd want to take a chance with, anyway. In the end she had the twins bring her over a new one.

“And none of those cheap thin-bottomed imports Percy's always raging on about,” Fred informed her as he deposited it in front of her. “This is a Welsh one, the real deal. Black market, of course, but that's neither here nor there in the end, is it?”

“Good God, woman,” George said, surveying her ingredients quizzically. “What ARE you brewing?”

“A potion for Harry,” she said without losing her place in `Ingrid's Ingenious Ingredients for the Potion Arts.'

“What's he ever done to you to deserve this?” he said, holding a piece of desiccated Grindylow gallstone to his nose and shying away with a look of fascinated disgust.

“He's, well, having some problems. I'm trying to help him out a bit,” she explained distractedly. “Make things a little easier on him.”

“We've done a good bit of experimentation for the Wheezes,” Fred said. “Perhaps we could be of some assistance if we knew a little more about the problem. We've certainly put a whole range of ingredients to purposes for which they were never intended.”

“Well he's sort of… going stiff all over, shaking and moaning. It's like he wants to stop himself, but he can't.”

“So you want to keep him from going stiff all the time, is that it?” George asked with a grin. “It may not be a potion you're wanting after all, Hermione. I'd highly recommend you just give the boy a good…”

“Stop RIGHT there,” she warned him. “I knew better than to talk to the two of you seriously about anything, I really must be losing my mind over this.”

And to her abject horror, two tears escaped her eyes and ran free down her cheeks. She wiped them away furiously and returned to her book.

Missing Fred and George's exchanged glances over her head entirely.

“Look, Hermione, we know you and Ron and Harry have been up to something over here and we missed the Order meeting where it all came out, although to be honest I don't think most of the others are entirely clear on it either. No one could actually explain it well enough that we had a clue what they were on about. Far be it from us to get into anything smacking of seriousness or work, but well…” Fred started.

“… you're like another sister to us, and we feel like it's our responsibility to teach you what brothers are all about, just in case you and Harry ever have any delirious ideas of reproducing or anything. Much as we tease you, we're in for the rest of it, too. We honestly want to help. Especially if we can blow something up, or have a hand in helping Harry take down old Red Eyes,” George finished.

“You'll just have to tell us the actual problem,” Fred told her.

“Because Ron's led us to believe Harry's stiffness hasn't exactly been an issue up `til now.” George concluded.

“We think Harry's got three pieces of Voldemort's soul inside him,” Hermione said simply. “One from when he was just a baby and Voldemort tried to kill him, and another from when he saved Ginny in the Chamber. The night of the Order meeting he took on a third bit that was hidden in the wand he and Ron got from Mr. Ollivander. It's starting to be too much. He says he feels things happening and tonight he woke up screaming and showing all the signs of being exposed to a Cruciatus curse. Ron and I think the bits of Voldemort's soul are finding each other and uniting in Harry, and Voldemort is gaining more ability then he's ever had before to reach and harm Harry as they do. I've got to find something that will help Harry keep them separated so that Voldemort can't hurt him until we've got all the pieces together and can finish him for good.”

The twins whistled; one lower and one high but still in harmony.

“So thanks for your offer of help, you two, but…”

“Now, now, Hermione,” said Fred.

“Just a minute, my wicked little witch,” said George. “Let us converse a moment.”

Two shaggy red heads bent together, whispering. Hermione's eyes made their way back to her book; she was anxious to get going. The thought of what Harry was going through in the other room with Lupin and Ron and Tonks was almost more than she could bear.

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Much to her surprise, in the end the twins had come up with what Hermione considered a positively brilliant idea. It really was quite amazing the way their minds worked. With a small amount of applied practicality and tweaking, they had created a potion uniquely keyed to Harry's situation... and they had done it without a single banned dark arts ingredient.

On the one hand she was elated, because the combination of ingredients should, on parchment at least, provide Harry with some relief from Voldemort's assault through the soul fragments. And if it didn't? Side effects were an unknown factor, but there would doubtless be some. The only question would be if they were worth bearing or worse than the affliction itself.

She measured a dose into a small goblet and took a deep breath, closing her eyes and running over ingredients, stirring directions, and brewing time once more in her mind. It should work…

Lupin had used Mobilicorpus to move Harry up to his own bed where he lay now technically stunned but still twitching from the battle within. Tonks and Ron were with him; Lupin had gone to talk to Professor McGonagall, taking the Horcruxed locket with him for safekeeping. Hermione knew that if the potion was ineffective Lupin wanted Ron to contact Snape. He was afraid to try and take Harry to Hogwarts and Madam Pomfrey could only be spared from the school for brief periods. No one wanted to think of St. Mungo's.

“Do we have to ennervate him first?” Tonks asked, looking doubtfully from the swirling orange brew towards its intended target.

Hermione shook her head. “Just lift his head up a bit, so he won't choke. It shouldn't take much. We should be able to see if it has some sort of effect without even ennervating him, although there's no guarantee the effect will be as strong when we do.'

Harry's head pulled fretfully from side to side after she poured the measured portion of potion into his mouth. His face screwed up involuntarily; she'd know it wasn't going to taste good.

The sound of her own heartbeat reverberated deafeningly as she watched, and waited.

The restless movement began to slow, the taut muscles almost imperceptibly to let go.

Tonks was the first to voice what Ron and Hermione were desperately wishing.

“It's working. Merlin's beard, Hermione, I think you've gone and done it! I'm going to go use the fire to let Remus and Minerva know. Back in a jif!”

They heard her thump excitedly down the stairs and crash through the kitchen door.

Ron looked to Hermione. “Do you want to do it or shall I?”

“You do it, Ron. Please.”

Ron fumbled for his wand and aimed it between Harry's eyes. “Ennervate!”

They opened, feverishly bright against his pale, drawn face.

“No…” he whispered hoarsely. “Not yet. I was almost there…”

“Almost where, mate?” Ron asked gently.

“I can see where he hid it, the last one,” Harry said, and then hesitated, tensing himself as if waiting for something painful. After a moment he seemed to decide to make the best of it and continued hurriedly on. “It's both ways now, he can get to me, but I can get to him as well. He's not very happy about that. If I work at it I can get to places inside him no one's ever seen, not even Dumbledore. I think I found the memory of the cup. And I know where he is now, he knows I know and he's moving fast but Ron tell Lupin it's…” a guttural cry cut him off, clearly ripped from his own throat against his will.

Hermione measured another dose of the potion and guided it toward his lips. He seemed to see her for the first time and his eyes bored into her intently as his lips closed firmly against it. Three clear thoughts began to ghost their way through her mind, but she knew they were not her own.

He's near Hellesley, in Scotland. Tell Ron.

I love you. I know you're trying to help me.

Let me go. I need to do this. I'll be alright, I promise.

It brought her back to the night he first kissed her, the cup passing from his tongue to hers, the way she'd heard him say `don't tell' inside her somehow, without a sound.

Yes, he whispered in her mind.

`I can't do this, he's hurting you, it's too dangerous,' all flew through her mind as well, but she knew these for her own thoughts. Her heart screamed `No!' even as her mind reminded her that he had already come back to her once today, already proved that he had learned, listened, understood.

Had she?

“He said to tell you Voldemort's in Hellesley, in Scotland, but he's ready to move on. Still, they might find something,' she said slowly, and set the cup of potion back down on the bedside table. Harry's eyes fluttered closed again.

“Can't he have any more?” Ron asked. “That was awful, he looks as if he's been mauled from the inside.”

“He wants to go back,” Hermione told him. “He thinks he's seen the memory of where Voldemort hid the final horcrux. He wants to be sure. We'll give him an hour at most and then I'm upping the dose, whether he likes it or not. He'll need a break then. I know I will.”

“Is that safe?”

“No Ron. It's not safe. He's apparently wandering around in the subconscious mind of the most evil Wizard any of us can imagine with bits of the evil Wizard's evil soul inside him trying to phone home. Not what I'd choose for him to be doing just now at all.”

“Then why?” he asked, clearly puzzled. “Let's just pour the bloody stuff down his throat. I'll stun him again if you want, now that you can stop it.”

“Because he's close and he wants it to be over. He's starting to see the end of this whole thing, Ron, and we need to help him get there if we can, even if it scares us to let him go.”

“He's said it, hasn't he,” Ron said shrewdly, settling back in his chair. “I knew he would.”

“Divination always was your subject,” Hermione settled into hers as well. “Sooner or later you had to get something right.”

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A/N: Sorry this took longer than I intended to get this one up… thanks for reading anyway.
And yes, JG, Chapter 16 is when I FINALLY get to play with Harry in the snow. That's where all the good stuff ended up. `Til next time, then ~ Lynney.

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17. Chapter 16

Official Fine Print: Nope. Not mine. The brainchildren of the mighty pen of JK Rowling. Just playing with them. Honest.

Magic Never Dies

Chapter 16

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This time there was no fooling around, and both of them were fairly certain what the other wanted.

Harry had felt relatively safe at first. I'm only… in his mind. This isn't real. He can't actually do anything…

Wrong.

He could feel pain; he was still connected to his own body and Voldemort was more experienced in traveling the pathway between them than he. Voldemort swam through Harry's veins like a snake, nipping at nerve endings here, coiling and pressing on raw tissue there. He was everywhere; behind his eyes, at the base of his skull, sliding down his spine probing for anything that hurt. Harry knew that back there, where he really was, he was probably fighting a scream and thrashing around in a vain attempt to displace the sensations. Here in Voldemort's mind he experienced it as if from a distance without hope of affecting it in any way; shapeless, limbless, formless but still sensate.

Harry pushed back at the waves of hatred and disgust that rushed like a tide to keep him from his goal. Occasionally if he swam strongly enough against the current he could even see the view from Voldemort's own eyes, and it was with a small thrill of victory that he noted he too had brought his enemy down. Voldemort lay in the back of a darkened moving vehicle, repeatedly bumped and jolted as it careened over rough roads. It occurred to Harry that Voldemort was reduced to having to use Muggle transport because he could not risk apparition with Harry conscious within him.

`The great and powerful Lord Voldemort, and I could splinch him,' Harry thought, and a glimmer of laughter cut through his determination and unease. `I can see it now…Oops, the Dark Lord's lost his balls for real this time!'

Voldemort apparently missed the humor in this realization, and Harry realized the snakelike presence within his body was heading south as well. Big potential ouch. Time to get a move on, then.

It was a less like swimming now, more flinging himself against and through a flood of images, most of them twisted and horrific. A dementor would starve in here. This was the kind of black hole of anything hopeful and good Harry had never been able to imagine before and he felt it sapping his own limited supply of optimism like a ravenous, feeding beast. He knew now why Dumbledore had tried to show him that Voldemort had begun as human, had once been a child before the lure of his own magic had twisted him so. If there was anything human left in here it was buried deep. Harry tried to tell himself if he went back far enough the oppressive evil would diminish… but what he sought was in the very heart of the darkness.

He was not exactly sure when the missing horcrux had been made or hidden, but he did know what memories he would have to pass if his journey was a linear one. Voldemort would be sure to force Harry to relive that dreaded night… or would he? How closely was he willing or able to look at that moment? Did Voldemort perceive it as his ultimate triumph and glory for the fact that his sick horcrux plan had worked to ensured his raw survival, or did he see it as a power-sapping humiliation at the hands of a woman and year- old child?

Images bombarded him; people screaming, begging, and the inevitable burst of green. He knew they were seeing Voldemort but as Harry worked through his enemies' memories and watched through his enemies' eyes his victims seemed to be imploring Harry himself. His heart felt quite literally like it was bleeding with the sheer wretched waste of so many lives, lost for so little.

I can't and I must were equally recurrent thoughts. He understood at last why Dumbledore had been grateful for him continuing to pour the poison between his lips; Harry wanted nothing more now than to curl up in a ball of despair and die to escape the pervasive horror. The worst of it was not being able to separate himself from what he was seeing; Harry felt every ounce of the immense guilt that Voldemort had insulated himself against, would never know.

Cedric's lifeless eyes. And that was… Tom Riddle's father, the handsome muggle who had run from Merope Gaunt's ensnarement, his frozen expression revealing no sign he'd known who his teenaged murderer really was. Not linear then, he'd have to find his way. Dear God, it would be like opening door after door to nothing but horrors, each more gut-wrenching than the last.

For the first time Harry quailed, doubting his strength to endure this. He felt himself pushed back, helpless, fighting again his brain's urge to flail, to kick out and grab and throttle and do something, anything with a body he did not possess here. He was reminded of his fear as the Inferi claimed him after he had broached their water in the lightless cave, sure that he was never going to see the light again. And there was no Dumbledore this time, he was on his own.

And then a wonderful feeling reached him, warmth and tenderness blossomed and drifted through whatever he was and he knew that back in Grimmauld Place Hermione was touching him, had perhaps spoken to him. He felt briefly anchored again, reassured that this was worth it because if he made it out alive…

He'd know where to find the last horcrux

But you still have to get it, you pathetic spawn of a mudblood. And that you'll never do.

I'll destroy it.

If you so much as try, it will seek itself in you. It will join with the others and I will be stronger. Stronger than you. I will bend you to my will then. I won't have to kill you, I will use you to destroy yourself and your pathetic followers with you, and your name will be reviled. No one will call you savior then.

So what? You won't get to enjoy it, because without those horcruxes when they kill you you WILL GO. There will be no cheating death this time. And if I die… you've given me so much to die for. I'm not afraid.

You lie. You live for that mudblood slut now, I knew the moment you took her. And when I get her you will come crawling on your knees.

Immeasurably distant now Harry felt a wave of cold sweat wash over his physical form, gut wrenching nausea forming at that thought.

She is not afraid of you. She has known you are against me from the very first, she has always known it could come to this. She is braver than you and smarter than me. Try whatever you will with me but you won't beat her.

And Harry knew this much to be true. He knew Hermione had made a conscious choice that included consideration of what Voldemort could or would do to them both because that was simply the way she was. She had never done anything half way, never leapt without looking. He could not help feeling guilty that fate had lead her here because of him, but nothing could change the truth that Hermione would never back away now.

And if I do this to you? And this? Listen to her. She cries for you like any other mudblood. Her supposed intellect can not withstand the pathetic pull of her emotions. She is worthless, except as…

The snake in Harry's nervous system had bitten hard with his words, the pain had ripped through him and he could only guess what his body was doing back at Grimmauld Place, the echoes were most unpleasant. The second bite almost undid him, he felt himself start to slip back toward himself, heard as if through a watery tunnel Ron arguing with Hermione about the potion and Hermione's voice, tearful and wretched with indecision, reminding him “we promised…”

And then he felt the tip of her wand, cool against his skin. “Quaero Excrucio.”

He'd heard Madam Pomfrey use that spell before. It sought out the source of pain in the body and worked on everything from isolating a break in a bone to finding a stubborn splinter. Her wand moved unerringly to exactly where Voldemort's snakelike presence had latched on. She whispered the incantation “Percutio.” A sudden piercing stab of something shot from the point of her wand through his skin, and Voldemort was cut off mid-word.

The watery tunnel sucked and sloshed; Harry heard a voice say sharply, “My Lord! Do you need me? What can I do?”

Bellatrix LeStrange.

Whatever Hermione had done worked; Voldemort had been taken off guard and Harry surged at his target as his enemy struggled to regroup.

Memory after memory, nightmare image after image, people he recognized and others unknown to him. He saw Mr. Ollivander trying to calm an explosive young Tom, explaining about the importance of the wand choosing the wizard as he made his way toward the dusty old one displayed in the shop window.

Too far.

A sudden vision of his own face, but not. Older, familiar... His father? Their eyes really were different; Harry saw that right away. Now James' were filled with a steely determination and with a heavy heart Harry saw he did not meet his death with either surprise or willingness, only the fierce desire to go on protecting his wife and child.

Dad….

He pushed on, but felt himself faltering.

Conversing with a young Cornelius Fudge. There was Slughorn again… Morfin Gaunt slumped to the ground in the filthy hovel while Voldemort reached for his wand…Lucius Malfoy and look, there was Malfoy as little boy or five or six. Pompous little wanker already. Voldemort took Draco's chin in hand and stared deeply into those young gray eyes, and Harry could suddenly see inside Malfoy as well. A jumble of childish images, disjointed. Voldemort left a nightmare waiting to happen in the corners of the young boy's mind, a creeping black thing with too many legs and eyes. Harry shuddered, hating the thought of even Malfoy drifting off to sleep and finding that.

He heard a high squeaky voice and knew it to be Hepzibah Smiths' house elf, Hokey.

Almost there!

“Mistress is sleeping,” it squealed in distress. “Mistress not to be disturbed.”

Followed by Tom Riddle's soulless laugh. “Your Mistress is dead, you sniveling little creature. You killed her yourself. Not commonly one of the duties of a house elf. I think you should punish yourself severely… when you awake. Stupefy.”

He was stealing the cup… the Hufflepuff cup, and the locket. Harry hung desperately on to the train of that memory, trying to follow it forward. There were jumbled events; Riddle quitting Borgin and Burkes, a journey somewhere, a Death Eater meeting. Sweet Merlin but they were sick, damaged people, those most loyal to him. Harry could feel Voldemort's own fascinated disgust when one of them presented an idea even he had not thought of. Avery, of course.

He could sense Voldemort's recovery from whatever Hermione had done returning his strength. Somewhere back in Grimmauld Place the snake within him stirred. Riddle had seemed until this point to have little interest in Harry's own thoughts or memories, wanting only to use the connection to remind him of their inextricable link. The snake turned once more, and headed back north.

Desperately Harry probed, searching. The cave, the lake, the locket, setting the protections.

I know you have it. That fool Dumbledore helped you. I know you have others, I can feel them in you. They belong to me. You can not win this game, Potter. Your precious Headmaster is already dead and you shall follow him blindly into that, too. Give up now, lay back and I will take you quickly. Fight me, and everyone you have ever loved will die.

Hmmm, nope, I think you'll just have to go fuck yourself instead, Harry thought. You did NOT kill Dumbledore. Dumbledore chose to die.

For the first time Harry felt the real power of that choice, and why Dumbledore had made it.

He concentrated on his body back at Grimmauld Place, arching his back to push himself off the mattress and ramming his own head against the headboard. Hermione reacted instantly with the same series of spells she had used last time to calm him, and Harry felt Voldemort reel once again, heard Bellatrix's anxious entreaties that he tell her what was happening, how to help.

He won't, Harry thought. He's too proud to let her see me.

He probed again the same strand of memory that had yielded the hiding of the locket. He felt Voldemort's resistance, his determination not to reveal the rest. They were both zeroing in on the same memory; Voldemort was slowly realizing which one he sought.

You'll never find it. And even if you did, you could never get to it without Dumbledore. You are barely a Wizard, even now. Your fight is over, Potter.

I will. Watch me. Ripping your soul to shreds because you're too afraid to die doesn't make you a Wizard. It makes you a scared little boy alone in an orphanage, angry because your mother left you. Angry because she loved a Muggle who didn't love her more than she cared what happened to you.

The retribution for that particular statement was instantaneous and fierce, almost unbearable. Almost. The stubborn need to find the location of horcrux drove him long past the point his brain agreed it was time to give up; Harry marveled for a moment he wasn't crazier than Neville's parents already.

Unless, of course, he was.

He pushed past that thought. It was like being back in the cemetery fourth year, in the globe of golden light, wands locked. Once again they were alone, unreachable by others. This time Harry could not just hang on for dear life however, he had to move forward, find what he had come for or die trying. He had been fighting for so long now; he was exhausted, bled dry but still stumbling on against the force resisting him. It was here, he knew it was. If he could just…

I bet you didn't think, when you killed my Mum, that I would ever live to grow up like you did. I might as well have been in an orphanage, they would have been at least as kind as my relatives. I lived in a cupboard under their stairs.

The snake moved again, creeping through Harry's veins and nerves on its relentless pathway toward his brain.

It makes you wonder, with no one magical to explain it all. You thought you were different, and special. My relatives thought I was an aberration. They were determined to beat and starve and bore the magic out of me.

He had to be close… he had to be.

You are mistaking me for that old Muggle lover Dumbledore. I don't care, boy. None of that matters to me. It would have pleased me if they had simply smothered you in your blankets when you arrived on their doorstep and saved me the trouble you have caused these last six years.

You don't think it made you stronger? You taught Quirrell that there was only power and those too weak to seek it. You sought it harder than anyone, went further than anyone before. If your mother had lived, if your father had loved her, what would you have been then?

Harry saw Voldemort, the last vestiges of the handsome Tom Riddle still present in his face, the distorted, snake-like visage he wore now only just emerging. He bent over something, his wand pointed not to his temple, as Dumbledore did when withdrawing a memory for the pensieve, but his mouth. As Harry watched, utterly repulsed, he drew a writhing silvery snake-like… thing from his lips. It seemed to go on and on, coiling back upon itself, disgorging itself from Voldemort's mouth until the tail emerged. Seeing the pale, skull-thin face with the soul fragment snaking from its drawn lips made it only too horrifyingly clear what the origins of the Dark Mark had been. The wand moved to the cup. There was a flash of bright greenish light, and the snake-like thing was sucked into the very substance of the cup, disappearing completely.

I have gone further than any Wizard before or to come because I do not let foolish Muggle sentiments like love and pity weaken me. That is why I will live forever and history will never miss you.

Harry knew that Voldemort had let him see the creation of the horcrux because he was proud of it, of himself for managing it and the others.

Voldemort might not feel himself vulnerable through love or pity… but pride was a human emotion as well.

Harry put everything he had into one last effort back at Grimmauld Place, arching off the bed and reaching blindly for Ron or Hermione, praying they would give him one more chance before administering the potion. He needed Hermione to do that Percutio thing now. Right now.

Please…

He heard Hermione crying and the sound tore at him. He was hurting her, scaring her, he was so close to the horcrux, he could find it, he could… don't cry.

He heard her tell Ron to hold him down, knew they meant to pour it down his throat. He found Ron's wrists as his hands reached for him and grabbed them hard enough to hear Ron curse. He'd never had the connection with Ron he had with Hermione, the legilmency with her had been so easy, almost effortless. He'd never even needed his eyes with her and he didn't have that luxury now with Ron either, the physical contact would have to suffice. He had to focus harder on Ron, cast the incantation in his mind and hope his new-found ability wouldn't fail him now.

“Hermione, wait…” Ron said suddenly.

Come ON Ron, please…

“Do that thing again. The perc-whatever thing. I think it was working, he wants you to.”

Hermione didn't question or hesitate, stop to wonder why Ron and not herself. Oh how he loved her for that. He heard her cast the Excrucio, felt her wand seek and find Voldemort coiled now behind his eyes.

“Ron I can't, not there, what if I…”

Do it, Harry screamed through Ron.

“Do it!” Ron yelled, surprising himself.

“Percutio!” Hermione cast hurriedly, closing her own eyes as she did.

Harry felt the penetrating stab behind his left eye and an explosion of brightness. Voldemort's snakelike presence hissed and bit, writhing in agony in Harry's head..

Every last bit of presence, energy, awareness and power Harry possessed shoved its way through Voldemort's twisted mind and into the memory tat had contained the Hufflepuff cup..

High windows sending down shafts of weak sunlight alive with motes of swirling dust. A vast space, filled with neglected objects of all kinds… The Room of Requirement, just as he had found it when he was desperate to hide the Potions text from Snape. And there was Snape himself… The memory had a slightly stuttering, muted look, and Harry realized at once that what he saw had probably been extracted from Snape's mind for Voldemort as proof of a mission accomplished. Harry watched as Snape moved through the mountainous alleys of objects; it looked quite different from Harry's hurried trip to hide the book last year and he realized many objects had not yet been deposited in the places he'd run past them.

Snape paused and crouched in front of a pile of stacked cauldrons that seemed to have an identical substance adhering firmly to their insides, too stubbornly affixed to clean and so abandoned. Several firmly corked bottles, their contents gleaming malevolently, were on the floor beside the cauldrons; Snape removed another bottle, this one filled with a glowing green liquid, from his robes and set it with the others. He waved his wand over the bottles, muttering, and the one he added became dark and dusty and indistinguishable from the others. Snape began to stand, but before he could see any more Harry heard an angry, hissed NO! and felt himself flung with overwhelming force back through the connection between his mind and Voldemort's. The snakelike presence withdrew with a agonizing slither, leaving Harry shaking against the sensation of sandpapery scales dragging along already traumatized nerves.

He felt Ron's hands again, struggling to hold him steady, and Hermione's steadying his jaw and pouring the noxious orange potion between his lips. It burned, it was wretched, and he was gone.

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Harry swam up toward consciousness again from the bottom of a deep, cool pool. It took him some time, but oddly enough he was not concerned about air until he was almost at the top. Just before he broke the surface he felt his lungs burning and knew he would die if he could not breathe at once… but there was nothing to be afraid of really, he was already there. He opened his mouth, his lungs contracting…

And aspirated some sort of fluid, lighter and slicker than water. He gasped, desperately choking and heaving to rid his lungs of the substance but it was so slippery in feel that he could not cough it out. The dimness was suddenly brightly lit; he heard voices over the roaring in his ears. He was pulled forward, his body screaming in response to the sudden movement. His back was slapped firmly, bringing tears to his eyes.

“Purgo,” cast a deep, hated voice.

It was a cleansing charm, surely meant to expunge the liquid from his lungs. Harry obediently sicked up the meager contents of both esophagus and stomach in the general direction of his least favorite Professor ever.

“Dear Gods,” came the voice again, repulsed. “Can you do nothing right?”

“He's awake!” came a second voice, as loved as the first was hated. Hermione.

“What's wrong with him? What did you do? Madam Pomfrey told you not to try anything yet, he wasn't strong enough.” That was Ron, tired, sleepy and angry with Snape. So Snape was the source of whatever he had choked on… “I told Lupin we shouldn't have let you come,” Ron finished.

“Step back, the lot of you, or I'll clear the whole ward. Go on.” Madam Pomfrey… Back at Hogwarts, then.

Harry could dimly make out their blurred shapes now, and fumbled blindly for his glasses. Madam Pomfrey pushed his hand away, but her voice was kind when she said “not just yet, Potter.”

He realized then a thick gauze patch covered one of his eyes, stiff and itchy against his cheek.

Madam Pomfrey murmured a quick cleaning charm over the bed. Somewhere near the foot he heard with some satisfaction Snape using the same charm on his robes. He tried to angle his head so that he could see Hermione out of his uncovered eye, but without his glasses the figures were just far enough away to be too blurred to make out.

“It would seem that he could not yet tolerate your potion… exactly as I warned you,” scolded Madam Pomfrey.

Snape muttered something in which the words `useless' and `idiot' were prominently featured.

Back at you, Harry thought tiredly, and shifted on his pillows. Madam Pomfrey's examination seemed to consist of prodding with either fingers or wand every sore or tender spot on his body.

“It seems that once again you will live after all, Mr. Potter, but certainly not for want of trying.” Madam Pomfrey said.

“And not for long,” Snape added. “That, Potter, was perhaps the single most profound act of ill-advised bravado I have ever known or heard of. You have always been at best a feeble Occlumens. Whatever possessed you to think you could take on Voldemort mind to mind? The prerequisite to such a showdown is possession of an actual mind to begin with.”

Yeah? Well try this on for size, you oversized bat dropping. Turns out I've got one after all. So eff off. Harry sent Snapes' way. Even weakened he noted that he now had no trouble thrusting the thought into Snape's mind. Master Occlumens and all.

Harry could not see it, but Ron and Hermione noticed Snape's eyes grow suddenly wide, and immediately after, furious.

“What are you playing at, Potter?” he snarled.

Compensation for all the nasty stuff. Harry sent his way. Turns out there are a few good parts to having Voldemort inside you. He really is quite the Legilemens.

“I'm afraid you are mistaken as to the origins of this highly annoying little party trick of yours,” Snape said coldly. “But it bears no resemblance to the Dark Lord's use of Legilmency, I assure you. I have been assaulted by that particular skill of his more times than I ever cared to count. This is… quite different in nature.”

Maybe you've had it wrong all these years and he's been playing you for the fool.

Harry almost smiled at the thought, but it hurt. He tried peering past Madam Pomfrey again, attempting vainly to focus enough to see Ron or Hermione.

“And maybe you are an ignorant little boy playing with more than you can understand,” Snape told him angrily. “Speak aloud if you wish to be taken seriously.”

But Professor, don't you remember? The night you killed Dumbledore, the night you told me my father was too cowardly to approach you unless it was four on one… you remember my Dad, the one who saved your bitter snitching little ass when you tried to find out where Lupin went? You said never to call you coward that night, not to use your own sick spells against the mighty Half Blood Prince and one other thing… what was it… oh yeah. You told me I'd be blocked again and again and again unless I learned to keep my mouth shut and my mind closed.

And for good measure, Harry used a silent Inflamare to make his point.

The hem of Snapes robes flared, but not nearly as hot as the flames in his coal black eyes. Which, for better or worse, Harry could not see.

Madam Pomfrey shrieked and rushed to assist Snape in dousing his robes, allowing Hermione and Ron to push past them and reach the bed at last.

“Harry,” said Hermione, and Harry reckoned she could make an entire language out of his name. Five simple letters, but depending on her inflection they could mean everything from `pass the pumpkin juice' to `you blithering idiot' to `O I love you, you've just shown me nirvana, stop moving and die.' He wasn't entirely sure which one she was going for here, but since there was no pumpkin juice in sight and it was unlikely he'd get to do any of the nirvana-inducing activities in the Hospital wing under Madam Pomfrey's watchful eyes, he was putting his money on blithering idiot.

“Sorry,” he said preemptively. “I know that was an awful lot to ask you guys to watch.”

“Never mind that, mate, just tell us it was all worth it. Did you find it?” Ron asked.

“I think so…” Harry said slowly, “or something to do with it. It wasn't what I expected at all, but he seemed so dead set on guarding the memory it must be important somehow.”

“Unless he was just trying to throw you off…” Hermione said, her voice unsteady. Harry thought she looked pale and tired and older somehow, and took hold of her hand, threading his fingers through hers.

“There's one way to know for sure,” Harry looked up to meet Snape's glaring black gaze. “He was there.”

“I was where?”

“In the one memory Voldemort really didn't want me to have.” Harry told him.

Had Harry seen it, Snape's face grew cautious, closed. “And?”

“You were in the Room of Requirement. It must have been just a little while after you started here. It can't have been a horcrux or anything like that, because he would have already done his number on me and been floating around darkest Albania by then, wouldn't he? What were you doing?”

“I have been in the Room of Requirement in several of its many guises more than once during my seventeen years as a teacher, Potter. How should I know? You'll have to be more specific than that.” Snape said, but Harry thought his voice sounded funny, cagey. He wished he could see for himself.

“It was like an attic, full of cast-off things. Like it was for… but you never knew about Malfoy and the Vanishing cabinet, did you? Trelawney hid her sherry bottles in it; I can only imagine what the rest of you teachers used it for. You had a bottle of something, something green.”

Hermione's fingers curled and her thumb tickled his palm; he knew she was telling him something. He stayed silent, waiting.

“Ah,” Snape said. “Yes.”

“Ah yes what?” demanded Ron.

The distraction of half-sight overwhelmed him; Harry closed his eyes.

Snape cleared his throat. “It was an… experiment. One I could not safely destroy yet wished to disappear. I could not think what else to do with it at the time.”

“Why did Voldemort have your memory? Why didn't he want me to see?”

“I'm afraid I don't know. I was not as strong an Occlumens in those days, perhaps he…”

There was a flare of color behind Harry's closed eyelids, a burst of magical energy and it came from Snape, he was certain. Harry was making no effort to penetrate Snape's mind - his strength lay in communicating with others, he had never even thought to try and extract unwilling memories. He remembered the feeling of violation when Snape had done it to him, sensed Snape actually feared Harry now.

“You're lying.” Harry said.

“You did not, you could not.” Snape flared. “I would know. I don't care what you think you can do now Potter, but you did NOT reach me…”

“I didn't try. I hated that, from you and Dumbledore both. At least he'd say `do you have anything you wish to tell me?' or something smarmy like that before he did it. You'd just barge on in. Still, you've just as good as confirmed it, haven't you, so tell us the truth.”

Hermione's fingers tightened warningly, Ron let out a low laugh and said `brilliant, Harry!' in an undertone, just loud enough for Snape to hear.

“Brilliant, Weasley, is one thing Potter will never be. Dead, undoubtedly, but the dearly departed are rarely credited as brilliant for causing their own demise.”

“Eff off,” said Harry coldly, “and get to the bloody point. I've had enough of your divination for now, thanks. Stick to the facts. What were you doing in there? What did you hide? And why didn't Voldemort want me to see it?”

“The facts, Potter, are more than your tiny brain can assimilate.”

“So draw it out for me!” Harry snarled, losing his patience. “Give me the cartoon version if you think I'm so helpless. But for the love of Merlin do it now or I'm going to figure for once and for all you ARE a murderer, you ARE a Death Eater and the only one dying tonight will be you.”

Every single glass object in the Hospital wing - of which there were many, considering the nature of what went on there - spontaneously shattered. The sound was thunderous at first, followed by a cacophonous tinkling that seemed to go on and on.

Hermione was wordless; Ron gave a low whistle and a “whoa, mate.”

“Oops,” said Harry. “You were saying?” His eyes were still closed, and there was a pretty healthy burst of magical energy radiating from Madam Pomfrey's office right about then as well.

“You don't scare me,” Snape said evenly. “And you'll never scare him.”

“Felt good, though,” Harry told him, and concentrated on reversing the damage. Much quieter, anyway. He was tiring and it sapped him further, fixing it all; he wanted to know the answer from Snape and then he wanted Hermione to climb up into the bed with him and to sleep for twenty-four hours straight. Scratch that, he wanted a big, comfortable normal bed, not a hospital one, and he wanted it somewhere no one else would be when they woke up and felt better. He bet Voldemort never fixed his own magical eruptions. Perhaps minions had their uses…

“It shouldn't surprise me he didn't want you to see that memory, because it surprised me at first that he wished to see it from me,” Snape said, with something like a sigh. “He asked until he was returned to a corporeal form, after your skirmish with him in the graveyard. He called us all back then, and Dumbledore… wished for me to go.”

“Seems to me you must have been a pretty good Occlumens then.” Harry said. “Dumbledore certainly thought you were good enough. And that wasn't exactly a skirmish you know. He tied me up, took my blood, got his body back and tried to kill me.”

“I gave it willingly, that memory.” Harry noticed Snape's energy form was shifting, sort of folding in on itself, like wings. “There seemed no reason not to, it was… innocent enough, I suppose. I had concocted a potion for the Dark Lord, at his request. It was a special one, made only for him. He did not wish me to duplicate it, ever, for anyone else. I could not destroy the remainder of the batch using usual means… it was a highly unstable mixture. So I left it there, in the Room of Requirement, along with many other abandoned potions. I altered the bottle so that it would match some others, and left it.”

“So Voldemort wanted to see the memory as proof of what you did with the remaining potion? How did that guarantee you'd never make it again for someone else?” Hermione asked.

“Because he obliviated the memory of how to make it immediately after I finished it.”

“Then how are you telling us?” Ron wondered.

“Because I lied,” Snape said simply. “And I gave him a manufactured memory, later. It had become… necessary for me to make more of the potion even before I delivered the first batch and I could not let him see that. He was reasonably strong in the potion arts, but looked upon it as busy work to be delegated while he himself performed more critical tasks. I gave him a close facsimile of what I made, but one that would yield a slightly different finished effect.”

“So you made the one he wanted,” Hermione surmised. “But the one you gave him wasn't it?”

Snape inclined his head her way, but said nothing.

“Why did you have to make two?” Harry asked. “What happened?”

“It came to me, during this time, what he was using it for. Not what he was hiding of course, but that he had something to hide. The Dark Lord is not the most forth coming of Wizards and he has many secrets, but it sparked my curiosity that he actually felt the need to hide something using deadly force, as powerful as he is.”

“We are, of course, talking about Slytherin's locket.” Hermione confirmed.

Snape inclined his head once again.

“The Dark Lord acts almost entirely alone. This has the effect, however, of incurring a great deal of gossip and bragging when he actually enlists someone's assistance, no matter how small or menial the task. The was a good deal of speculation among his Death Eaters what he was up to then, but none of them knew the truth,” Snape said. “It was about this time that I met Sirius Black's younger, and may I add much more tolerable, brother.”

“Regulus,” Hermione breathed. “You knew Regulus Black.”

“We realized shortly after we first served on a… mission together that we had two things in common,” Snape said. “We both despised Sirius. And we both thought that the Dark Lord was not only going further than any Wizard before him - although we were still not sure exactly what he was doing - but that he was going too far for any of us to wish to follow him. Regulus was simply younger and braver, or as it turns out, more foolhardy than I. He was killed not long after.”

“But in the meantime you helped him.” Harry said. “You made it possible for him to steal the locket horcrux.”

“Quite so,” Snape said. “Although I had no idea at the time what it was really was. The potion I gave Voldemort was flawed. After he hid the horcrux he returned the remainder to me and asked me to dispose of it; he wished no one to be able to analyze it and unlock its secrets. I gave the real potion to Regulus, to pour back in the object's hiding place when he removed it and placed the fake. I thought he wanted the locket for the powers of Slytherin it was said to hold; his thought was to strengthen the Death Eaters so that they would remain powerful if the Dark Lord spun further into madness.”

“But Regulus was caught out somehow…” Hermione said.

“Or did you betray him, too?” Harry wondered aloud.

Snape raised his wand and wordlessly let fire. Harry blinked and raised a shield around himself and Ron and Hermione. The spell careened across the ward and shattered the glass doors to the bandage cabinet.

“I just fixed those,” Harry said calmly, though his heart pounded. “Your turn this time. So, did you?”

“Regulus chose his own path,” Snape blazed. “He managed to achieve stealing and replacing the locket without being found out, but I think perhaps his success made him cocky, or careless. It was not long after that he refused to commit a certain… task, shall we say, for the Dark Lord. He was dead within days. And no, Potter, I did not betray him. Nor did he betray…”

“Sirius. Voldemort wanted him to do something to Sirius, didn't he. To get to Harry. He wanted to use Sirius to get to Harry and his parents.” Hermione filled in.

“Regulus was raised to hate half bloods and incompetents; he was not soulless or evil enough to use unforgivables on his own brother. Not all who followed Voldemort in those early days had his distaste for humanity itself. Many thought they were protecting Wizard kind in the best way they knew how, by keeping a line of purebred Wizards alive in Britain. Voldemort went a great deal farther than most were prepared to go. Regulus was an example. I do not believe the Dark Lord ever even knew the locket was missing.”

“I still don't get why Voldemort cared so much if Harry saw what you were doing.” Ron said stubbornly. “And it sure looked like he cared from where I was sitting. He was really having at Harry over it.”

“I would hazard a guess that he does not know that Harry has already collected the object it was guarding and does not want him to be able to circumvent the potion's effect, which is the irrevocable draining of one's magical powers.”

Harry felt as if the floor had dropped beneath the bed; he reeled and felt Hermione clutch at him.

“You see now why Dumbledore begged me to end it,” Snape sneered. “You might have lived a squib if you had drunk it, but he was old, his connection to magic too ingrained to survive losing it. He must have sensed what it was doing. He was prepared to die for Draco anyway, if it meant I could keep my cover and help you.”

“How could you even think of making such a thing?” Hermione asked; her voice thick with disgust. Her arm, warm and steadying, slid around Harry's shoulder.

“He asked me, full of flattery. `Only you, Severus, could concoct such a complex and potent draught.' And I was young and stupid and honored and I didn't want to die.”

“Did he know before?” Harry asked numbly. “He didn't seem to; we had to figure out at first that it could only be drunk to empty…”

“Of course not!” Snape snapped. “We were still keeping our secrets, Albus and I. He did not tell me where he was going that night, and I never told him what I had done. I thought that there was time.”

They were silent, all of them, realizing that there was less time now then ever.

“Why are you here?” Harry asked Snape.

“Lupin used the method of the Order to call me and ask for my help. I brought several potions I thought might be useful given the injuries you were likely to sustain in such an encounter. Not exactly the type of thing Poppy normally encounters in a school setting. And I confess I was curious to see how you survived.”

“If that potion was powerful enough to drain Dumbledore,” Ron said thoughtfully, “Wouldn't it be powerful enough to drain Voldemort as well?”

“In theory, yes. But he alone has the memory of how to make it. “

“But we have a bottle of the real thing in the Room of Requirement, right?” Ron persisted. “You can't deconcoct from that?”

“I...” Snape's silky, perfectly controlled, insulting voice failed him, for the first time Harry could ever remember.

“That would mean a commitment,” Harry said. “He could never go back if he does that.”

“Go and get it,” Snape hissed. “And see.”

“You're on,” Harry told him, stripping the bedclothes from his knees and sliding from the bed. His body seemed quite literally to scream at him - or that might have been Hermione.

“Harry, don't be ridiculous. You're in no shape to go anywhere. Ron and I can go, we'll bring it back here.”

“You'll never find it,” Harry said. “There's years more stuff in there than there was when I saw it. I'll have a hard enough time as it is.”

“Then we'll do it in the morning. Harry you can't do anymore tonight, and Ron and I are exhausted as well.”

“Under one condition,” Harry said, trying hard to remain steady on his feet as he did. SO much more impressive when you didn't fall over when bargaining…

“What?” she asked. And smiled, sweetly.

“Not that. Erm, no, I mean, okay, but… Snape has to agree to stay here, And we need to take turns watching him.”

“You must be joking…” Snape sputtered.

“They've hardly been keeping the old Slytherin Head of House quarters for you, you know,” Ron pointed out. “No one else knows you're here. Most of them still think you murdered Dumbledore, and I'm a bit on the fence myself. Nice hospital bed looks like the best on offer.” He stepped back and stretched out on the one next to Harry's with a tired sigh. “You don't think the house elves might still be up, do you? I'm starved.”

“And I,” Snape said, withdrawing to the bed on the other side. “Am finally, truly experiencing hell on earth. If the two of you,” he glanced meaningfully at Harry and Hermione, who were already making themselves comfortable on Harry's bed, “make so much as one questionable noise throughout the remainder of the evening, I shall ensure that each and every one of your future children bears a striking resemblance to a certain Mr. Malfoy. Am I quite understood?”

“He's not actually that bad looking,” Hermione mused aloud, waving her wand and enlarging the bed. Effectively putting them closer still to their former potions professor.

Harry made gagging noises. But he made them against her neck and they tickled. Quite nicely.

“Mind your manners then,” Ron yawned. “Uncle Ron's not babysitting any little ferret children.”

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A/N: First of all, let me apologize. Holy Carp, but this got a bit out of hand. Not at all where I thought I was going at the end of the last chapter… what I thought was going to be an interlude before the retrieval of the final horcrux just went wild. I took a bat to it and it still wouldn't die… so you just read it. I know this one was freaking confusing, so I will make a HUGE effort to answer any honest review questions other than why do I suck? And why is Harry with Hermione?

NEXT chapter is one I actually quite like and thought was going to be this one… lots of mystery and battling unexpected foes and rampant post fight Harry and Hermione love in a cave. Oh, and Ron finally hooks up with Luna, too. And it snows… Snowy Harry. Love snowy Harry. Until next time…only 45 days til GOF. Thanks to all who stick with it … ~ Lynney

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18. Chapter 17

Official Fine Print: Nope. Not mine. The brainchildren of the mighty pen of JK Rowling. Just playing with them. Honest.

Magic Never Dies

Chapter 17

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Harry slept fitfully despite his exhaustion. His encounter with Voldemort left him feeling like the subject for a Death Eater training session on casting the Cruciatus; his nervous system thoroughly assaulted and in no hurry to uncoil and act properly again. Hermione's comforting presence lulled him into periods of relative ease only to be broken by a sound he couldn't place or one he regretfully could; Ron's rattling snores.

He awoke at some point to a sense of something out of place and lay still, listening intently to the darkness. He lifted his head to peer at Snape's bed over Hermione, nestled against his side, and saw the sheets turned back, the mattress empty.

Cursing inwardly he sorted his limbs from hers and slid quietly from the bed. He did not have his wand; he hoped that Hermione had thought to bring it from Grimmauld Place but did not want to wake her now. He sensed somehow that he didn't need it quite so much anymore, but it gave him confidence and focused him all the same. He borrowed hers from the nightstand and crept through the darkness, feeling for Snape's trail.

He found it far more easily than he'd counted on. A grim black form stumbled directly into the extended point of the wand and cursed colorfully… and effectively. Something wordless caught Harry and inverted him midair, twisting and flailing.

Ironically enough, he'd chosen the same spell.

“Lumos!”

Harry and Snape surveyed each other, both hanging bat-like a good distance from the floor.

“Where were you?” Harry asked accusingly.

“If you must know, I was using the loo. “ Snape snarled, working diligently to keep his robes from billowing down over his head.

Harry had never appreciated his jeans quite so much.

“Exactly what, by the way, did you do with my old potions text - other than use it to learn levicorpus and falsely impress Horace Slughorn?” Snape asked, finally casting a stiffening charm on his robes. They sprung at once up to his ankles.

Of course, thought Harry grumpily, He probably sleeps like this all the time, the great sucking vampire bat.

“It's in the Room of Requirement. I honestly didn't know it was yours until you said. I should have, though. You always told me I thought rules were for other people. You weren't exactly by the book yourself, you know. You practically rewrote the whole bloody thing as a matter of fact,” Harry said. “Are you going to let me down now?”

“You first, Mr. Potter. When I am safely on my feet, you shall be as well. Drop me, and down on your head you go.”

Harry sighed and cast Wingardium Leviosa first, then ended the Levicorpus spell, gently righting Snape and floating him down on his feet.

Snape simply ended his spell and allowed Harry to drop. Only by some last minute cat-like twisting did he manage to land on his bum instead of his head. He glared daggers up from the floor.

“Slytherins seldom keep their word. It is a matter of honor. Always remember that. Voldemort was a Slytherin, you know,” Snape told him, and made his way with great dignity back to his bed.

Harry crawled to his feet, feeling oh-so-in-touch with his Slytherin side.

Damn it. Now he needed the loo as well.

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Madam Pomfrey was not happy with Harry's self-proclamation of fitness in the morning, but as he was no longer a student there was little she could do hold him. She made him sit still long enough to peel the gauze patch over his eye and fussed when she saw the result, making him follow the lit beam of her wand around the room while she gazed within it. Hermione thought it seemed to move slightly more sluggishly than the other one but it appeared otherwise uninjured. Perhaps he'd finally been lucky after all.

Professor McGonagall decided that Professor Snape was to have his breakfast in the Head's office with her; and that the rest were welcome to partake in the Great Hall. Harry got the sense she wasn't anxious for anyone else to know that Snape was there.

“Eat something and then go and retrieve the potion and bring it to my office,” she instructed. “We can Floo Lupin and decide our next step there.”

It was a Sunday and still early; attendance at the house tables was spotty at best. They made their way to familiar places at a Gryffindor table noticeably devoid of sixth and seventh years and deduced that it must have been a Hogsmeade weekend. Ah, memories… They began the comfortable and familiar ritual of pouring pumpkin juice for each other and choosing their meal.

Harry reckoned Ron was in heaven.

Hermione curled her fingers around her tea and snuggled sleepily closer against Harry's side on the bench. He was stunned rigid for a moment and then realized… it was okay. Well, it was Hermione, actually, so it was better than okay. He loved the feeling of her there, warm and small and for the moment at least, safe and happy. Professor McGonagall might not exactly approve of such conduct in the Great Hall, but hey… there was hardly anyone there, it wasn't like the sorting feast or anything. And they weren't students, anymore. Harry drew her closer still and very gently and as chastely as he could manage, kissed her. Ron had become so accustomed to them by this point that he never even missed a mouthful.

“Mmm,” Hermione said softly, grinning. “Bacon. So that's what I wanted.”

“Eww…gross!” piped up a third year boy halfway down the near-empty table. “I'm telling.”

The girl across from him clearly kicked him under the table, for he dove down in the direction of his shins with a howl. “Never mind Quentin,” she said with a blush. “He's an idiot.”

Harry smiled at her and the blush deepened to quite frightening proportions; he was afraid she might actually injure herself and ducked back to his breakfast, ignoring Hermione's amusement.

“I think you have an admirer,” she said.

“I think you do,” he told her. “That `gross' was code word for `you're something else again, get rid of the loser and I'll show you what gross can really look like' in thirteen year old boy.”

“You never told me I was gross,” Hermione laughed. “Should I be offended?”

“I was never your average thirteen year old boy…” he started, then stopped, feeling the truth of it.

“I knew you were here somewhere!” came a happy voice across his darker thoughts, and Luna Lovegood appeared before them. Her earrings had changed to some rather intriguing substance that looked a bit like iridescent icicles, but the butterbeer cap necklace was still there, sporting more additions.

“Hey, Luna,” he said cautiously. “How are you?”

“Hi Luna,” Hermione said brightly, and a little on the loud side for her, Harry thought.

Ron's still groggy head snapped up from his plate and his sausage consumption visibly slowed.

So he does fancy her, Harry thought, remembering their conversation on the way to Hagrid's hut. It seemed years ago somehow. More than just fancy her - look, he's stopped eating. This is serious.

“Hey, Luna,” Ron said, carefully swallowing first. Might even be love… Harry thought. He actually swallowed. “How's it going?”

Luna sat down on the bench across from Ron and rested her prodigiously bulging book bag beside her with a relieved sigh.

“It's been quite a busy year for me actually,” she began. “I know sixth is supposed to be the lull between OWLs and NEWTs but with all that's happened just lately the Quibbler is flying off the presses and I've been doing a good bit of reporting for my father.”

“Have the Crumpled Horned Snorckacks chosen sides yet?” Hermione wondered.

“They have a long history of remaining independent,” Luna told her earnestly. “One of the reasons they're so notoriously hard to spot.” She turned back to Ron. “You've been quite busy yourselves. The latest issue of the Quibbler has the truth about you three defeating that cell of Death Eaters in Godric's Hollow.”

“Fascinating,” said Harry, “Only, that just happened and nobody but us and the Death Eaters were there. So how'd you manage that?”

“Oh, I saw it all,” Luna said airily. “My father had it on the presses before Peter Pettigrew's ashes had cooled.”

Harry saw Ron's eyes bulge.

“You were there?” Ron asked.

“On another plane, certainly. And Ron, I thought you were very, very brave. And a brilliant fighter up until Pettigrew blindsided you.”

Harry noticed that Luna was every bit as… different as in years past, but not nearly as vague. It was as if something had finally focused her somehow. And the bit about Godric's Hollow was uncanny. If she'd been teaching divination, he might have paid attention. Or at least tried to.

“A plane? You mean one of those Muggle flying things? I never saw one while we were there.”

“Not an airplane, Ron. Luna means a plane of perception, I think,” Hermione told him. Harry noticed she too appeared intrigued.

“Either way she's been a bit of an airhead lately, haven't you, Luna?” came a voice Harry recognized only too well; Ginny had arrived to greet the day. He noticed Dean was not with her. Time to go then!

“Managed to walk right off the end of one of the staircases, didn't you?” Ginny continued, smiling at Luna as if she were a precocious five year old. “Something about you and your old rat Scabbers, Ron. She shouted `Look out!' and fell right off the end. Kind of funny, really, once we saw she was okay.”

“Are you really alright?” Ron asked, and Harry could hear the concern in his voice. So it seemed, could Ginny. She glared at Hermione and sat down beside Luna, opposite Harry.

“Oh, I'm fine,” Luna said. “It just got rather exciting at that point and I forgot to stop. It was only the second floor and I did an Arresto Momentum on the way down.”

Harry, personally familiar with the fact that the spell slowed but did not entirely check one's fall, winced.

“So have you two made up yet?” Ginny asked Hermione, pouring herself a glass of pumpkin juice.

Hermione looked as her quizzically. “Er, we haven't argued. Yet, at least. Quite a refreshing change actually.”

Ginny looked up, her expression visibly brighter. “I knew it! I knew it wouldn't last. It was just an infatuation from all living together, wasn't it. Your little threesome joke was the talk of the school, by the way.”

“Ginny, I don't mean to be dim, but I have no idea what you're saying. Except about the joke, of course, and it WAS a joke.”

“You and Harry, your little flinglet with Harry back in September. I thought for sure that the twins would start a pool on when you and Ron would get back together, but I guess the personal defense line has them pretty busy.”

“The twins didn't start a pool,” Hermione said, her voice even but cold as ice, “because even they knew there was nothing to bet on. “

“Nothing's changed, Ginny,” Harry told her tiredly. “Hermione and I are still together. I love her. I'll be with her as long as she'll have me.”

Ginny looked from one to the other incredulously. “You can't be serious. For six years everyone knew it was always going to be you and Ron, Hermione. Everyone. You and Harry were never anything but friends. You never flirted, you never snogged, never really fought; you never even got jealous of each other. What happened?”

Hermione looked at Harry, still hearing, `I love her. I'll be with her as long as she'll have me.'

“The problem,” she said quietly, reaching for his hand, “was that when you come right down to it, Ginny, flirting and fighting and jealousy just aren't what love is really all about.”

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They left the Great Hall as soon as they could after that; just as well because the upper classes had started trickling in and much as they would enjoy seeing more of their classmates this was proving not to be the time. Luna tagged along and Harry couldn't find it within him to stop her; she seemed so happy chattering away to a bemused but grinning Ron and she'd probably just see it all later anyway. Or maybe she already had.

They watched as he paced back and forth three times in front of the blank wall on the seventh floor, trying to mimic the urgency he'd felt when he needed to hide the Half Blood Prince's text. His relief when the door appeared left him a little shaky; he'd wasted so much time sixth year while Malfoy'd been repairing the vanishing cabinet. If only he could do it all over…

Ron opened the door and they proceeded single file into the cavernous space.

“Wow,” said Hermione. “Just look at all of those books! Harry, there could well be something about Horcruxes in here!” She moved toward an enormous mountain of stacked books, most likely banned, outdated or rendered useless through spills or missing pages. “Modern Methods in Transfiguration published in 1893. Hardly modern now, but Bertram was a genius according to Professor McGonagall. Oh, and a 1780 first edition of Glover Hipworth's Preparing the Pepperup Potion. That would be worth quite a bit, really. What's this now…” she mused, picking up a tattered black book.

The books had never really penetrated Harry's consciousness before. He'd known about this place all along, and it had simply never occurred to him to mention the books to her. Idiot.

“Do you want to look while we find the bottle?” he asked.

“I think we should all stay together,” said Luna, suddenly dreamy once more.

“She's right actually.” Ron said. “Far safer.”

“Oh alright, I suppose we should find it first. Now that I know these are here I can always come back and do a bit of searching.” Hermione agreed. Harry thought it highly suspect of Hermione to agree with Luna over anything, but let it go. He was happier by far to have her by his side anyway.

He led the way, cautiously following the path of Snape's memory. Many objects had been deposited during the remaining years and they had to do a good bit of poking around to find landmarks Harry recognized. It was perhaps twenty filthy, dusty minutes before Harry spotted the stacked and abandoned cauldrons, and the array of bottles before them. They appeared identical, rimed with dust and apparently untouched for quite some time at least. Harry quickly counted and it appeared they were all there.

“It's still here. I didn't honestly think it would be, the slimy git,” Harry said, and extended his hand for it. He could feel Hermione pressed anxiously against his side but was unprepared for Ron's whimper of terror and his hand attempting to knock Harry's aside with the warning “Spider!.” His fingers had already closed around the neck, and so it was with resignation rather than surprise that Harry felt a familiar tugging sensation in his midsection.

“Oh, shite,” were the last words to be heard in the Room of Requirement, but there was nobody left to hear them.

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They landed in a snow bank. In the middle of a snow storm, thick and white and utterly silent. All four of them; Harry reckoned they must all have been touching at just the right moment. The others' shock at the potion bottle being a portkey was complete.

“What the fuck…” said Ron.

“Oh look!” Luna squealed happily. “Snow!”

Hermione could feel Harry shaking next to her; a combination, she was sure of the sudden cold and his memories of the last time a portkey had taken him unawares.

The Tri Wizard Cup

She transfigured his old Gryffindor school robe into its heavy black wool winter counterpart. She realized as she moved to raise the red-lined hood over his head that he had somehow grown as well; she had to go up on her toes and stretch higher than she was sure she had before. When had that happened? It could only have been in the last day or two.

“Thanks,” he said, snapping out of whatever thoughts had possessed him and returning the favor for her. Her hood, as he raised it over her head, was fur-lined, white and soft. She looked at him in wonder and he smiled, now seemingly unafraid. “What's that?” he asked curiously. She looked down in her hand and saw the old book she'd been holding in the Room of Requirement. “I never got to look,” she said, and tapped it with her wand, shrinking it to fit in her robe pocket.

“What do you suppose this is all about?” Harry wondered, pocketing the potion as well.

“No idea. We need to get moving and find out where we are before anyone finds us first though,” she told him.

“Look, Ron; Harry and Hermione have transfigured their robes. What a good idea,” Luna said, and waved her wand over her own. They watched, transfixed, as they became a heavy woolen cloak in a patchwork of Hogwarts colors, blue and red and green and yellow.

“Erm, Luna, we may need to hide. Perhaps something a bit less…noticeable?” Hermione said.

“Oh! Oh, smart thinking, Hermione. That's why you're so good at this,” she agreed, unoffended, and quickly reversed them so that the outside was black and the colors inside.

Ron's became thick and woolly but two sizes too small in the process. “You know how wool shrinks,” he said defensively, and enlarged them. “Now where?”

“Good question. The problem is who made the potion bottle a portkey - Snape, or Voldemort?” Harry mused.

“Probably Snape, that wanker,” Ron said angrily. “That's why he sent us to get the bottle instead of going himself.”

“To be fair, although it's really more than he deserves,” Harry reminded him, “we went because we didn't trust him not to try and destroy or make off with it. It could have been Voldemort setting him up all those years ago.”

“Setting him up? How?”

“Think about it. If he went back for the potion, to use it himself or share with anyone else…”

“So Voldemort would have it set to send him…” Ron seemed to be developing a faintly greenish tinge.

“At least he obviously wasn't thinking instant death,” Harry noted.

“Or else the Oksumian Zabire got hungry and moved on.” Luna added helpfully. “They love snowy climates. Do you think this is Siberia?”

“Please not,” Hermione said feelingly. “So, which way do we go?”

“Whichever way whatever was supposed to be waiting for us, didn't.” Ron surveyed their surroundings.

All Hermione could see, no matter which direction she looked, was snow.

She noticed Harry's eyes were closed and he seemed to be… listening? He was intent, rapt. She'd swear she saw him sniff the air, assessing something. His eye opened and he caught her gaze and smiled sheepishly.

“I don't rightly know why,” he said, “but I think we should go this way.”

“Good enough for me, mate,” Ron said, starting off.

Luna fell into step beside him, and Harry and Hermione made their way behind them. The snow proved quite deep but before they had gone too far they came across a path, beaten down to smoothness. It was not wide and they reverted to single file with Ron in the lead and Harry bringing up the rear, the two girls sandwiched safely between.

They trudged on with only the hiss of the falling snow for company. Hermione heard what she thought was an owl overhead, but if it was it was too obscured by the swirling flakes to be sure. There was no other sign of life, no sign of who or what had made the trail.

We could be anywhere, she thought. Where would Voldemort send someone to get rid of them… unless he didn't really WANT to get rid of them? What if he thought he could use them another way?

Hermione knew Voldemort was no stranger to casual killing; Harry's chilling recounting of `kill the spare' was all the evidence required for that. But Snape? Snape was too smart, too useful for either faction to simply cast so easily aside. Voldemort might kill him, but he would make sure to gain something for his loss. The question was what?

A piercing cry echoed through the white blindness and they all froze.

“What the bloody hell was that?” Ron whispered.

“I know that sound,” Harry said slowly. “Hagrid used to it to call them. That's a…”

“Thestral,” Luna finished for him. “A hungry one.”

“Where is it?” Hermione asked. “Do you see it, Harry?”

But Harry wasn't the first to see it. Ron was.

“Bloody Hell! Luna, look out! Harry and Hermione, run! There's a… a…what the hell is that?”

An enormous black horse-like creature raised its head from the edge of the wood to the left of the path, some six or seven meters off. Its head was sleek and cruel and dragonish, its eyes dead white and pupil-less. Enormous leathery bat-like wings were furled against its skeletal sides but as it noticed them it unfurled them slightly, much in the way Buckbeak might to make himself look bigger and fiercer.

“That would be the thestral, Ron. I bet if we just leave it to its meal it'll ignore us too.” Harry told him.

“Harry, why am I seeing a thestral? I'm not supposed to see thestrals. You and Luna see thestrals. Me and Hermione just sit on them and see air.”

“Erm, that would because of Pettigrew buying it the other day, Ron. Sorry.”

“I rode one of those things? I never would have ridden one of those things if I could have seen it. Hermione? Can you see it? Did you know they looked like that?”

“Honestly, Ron, If you'd ever read your Care of Magical Creatures text, or the Bestiary, or even listened to Hagrid's lecture you'd have known. Harry's right, though. It should be more interested in its nice dead meal than live moving us, so let's move on.”

“Well, that one might be,” said Luna. “But this one seems to find us fascinating.”

The others spun around to find another thestral behind them, slightly smaller than the first and a darker, glossier black. This one was quite close. Uncomfortably so.

Ron stepped in front of Luna and raised his wand.

“Ron, don't,” Harry warned him. “They're not our enemies. Let's not piss them off before we know the lay of the land. They might possibly be willing to help.”

“Harry, Hogwarts thestrals are domesticated. Hagrid's bred them and trained them. If these are wild we don't stand a chance…” Hermione warned.

The thestral took a hesitant step toward Harry, one white eye clearly on Ron's wand.

“Put it away Ron. Or at least out of sight.”

“You're crazy, Harry. Listen to that.”

The sound of the other thestral near the edge of the wood crunching the bones of whatever it was eating was clear even through the muffling of the falling snow.

Harry winced, but stood his ground. The thestral took another step closer, its nostrils flaring. It made a sort of snuffling noise, like a sneeze.

“They can small fear, Ron,” Harry said softly.

“They can small blood too, remember,” Hermione reminded him, moving closer. “Madam Pomfrey pumped you full of blood replenishing potions last night, Harry. You probably smell extra delicious.”

Another step. Another. Ron backed up, drawing Luna behind him. Hermione noted wryly that she complied quite happily.

Harry extended his hand, palm up, fingers splayed to prove it defenseless and empty.

The thestral took two steps and stopped, extending its reptilian head. An enormous, rough tongue swept the length of Harry's palm. It took another step closer and raised its head to cock an empty white eye at him. Hermione watched him reach out and stroke the flat stretch above its nose. The thestral seemed to enjoy the attention, but she noticed with a start neither of them were blinking.

No way.

The connection held, and held. And then Harry blinked at last and patted the thestrals' nose, stepping back. “This one's name is Xavier. He won't hurt us. Voldemort has been here before us, and left bad feelings. He says the people won't welcome us, we need to find what we seek without approaching them or being seen or they won't hesitate to kill us.”

Ron looked at him incredulously. “That…thing, just told you that? Harry, I haven't liked to ask, but this is getting just too weird. What's going on with you anyway?”

Hermione saw green eyes sweep across the endless white and back to troubled blue. Please let them not fight, please let them not get into anything…

“He says there's a cave we can shelter in at the foot of some hills ahead of us. He'll lead us there. Let's get out of the snow and dry, Ron, and I'll tell you anything I can. The short answer is I don't really know what's going on. But I'd die before I let myself hurt any of you, so if that's what you're worried about, don't.”

“That's not it, Harry. I trust you, mate. Honestly.”

“We all do, Harry,” Luna said with a wide smile. “Some people might think talking with thestrals is a bit dark, but we know they're lovely creatures, really.”

The young thestral pawed the ground and thrust his nose at Harry.

“He thinks we should get going,” Hermione said. “Even I can tell that. Let's talk when we get to this cave. We can plan what to do next.”

Harry set off, and the thestral pushed ahead of him. Hermione fell into step behind him, with Luna behind her and Ron this time bringing up the rear. It turned out thestrals made excellent guides in the snow; no matter how the wind howled or the snow blew, Xavier's black form remained visible. It didn't take long for all of them to cast warming spells on themselves and transfigure their shoes into boots. Luna produced her school scarf from her book bag and Hermione transfigured it into four sets of woolen gloves. Luna shrunk her book bag, tucked it into the pocket of her cloak and trudged happily on, her pale blue eyes paler still and more ethereal against the white all around them.

It was good to be witches and wizards sometimes.

Hermione noticed that there was something about the snow that seemed to set Harry off as well. She had always thought he looked his best in Gryffindor robes, the black and dark red hood framing his fair skin and dark hair. But now, as he turned back to make sure she was getting along all right behind him she was struck anew by his familiar features, mesmerized by the way the snow seemed almost to linger in his eyelashes despite his glasses and caress his face as it fell. She could feel a desire to touch him strong enough to literally flutter her fingertips as she watched. He clearly noticed her observing him and smiled that uniquely Harry bittersweet smile that was, as usual, followed by his eyes dragging themselves dutifully away.

Whoa. Where did all that come from?

They trudged on in the whispering silence of the falling snow, the only other sound the occasional sneeze-snort from Xavier, usually announcing an obstacle or change in direction. The whiteness in front of them took on a more solid opacity; Hermione surmised they must be drawing close to the foothills they sought.

And then a shadow suddenly passed overhead, followed by a cloud of flame raining from the sky. It was everywhere; there was no telling which way to run. She heard Harry's voice and dimly made out his instructions to drop into the snow beside the trail and roll. She threw herself into the deeper snow, slushy and cooling, and burrowed in. Moments later she felt strong arms lifting her and pulling her still further off the trail toward a stand of snow-covered pines. She scrambled, half running, half dragged, until he paused long enough to scoop up her legs in his other arm and carry her the remaining distance. They broke through the edge of the trees and stumbled in, collapsing into a dense bed of pine needles and gasping for breath against the singed feeling of their lungs. A moment or two later Ron and Luna were thrust forcibly upon them by a shove from Xavier's wicked head. Both were smoldering as well but thankfully unhurt except for a small burn on the back of one of Luna's hands.

“That was a dragon,” Ron said, and Hermione was struck by how grim and yet relatively calm he seemed.

Harry nodded, still panting. “That's why Xavier wants us to get to a cave,” he managed.

“You might have said,” Ron accused. “A couple of good blasts to dry it out and we'll be roasted here. But we're so bloody slow in the snow, we're sitting ducks.”

The thestral moved restlessly in front of them, furling and half-unfurling its leathery wings.

“I think Xavier would take you.” Harry said. His voice sounded awful to Hermione; she wondered how much of the super-heated air he'd inhaled yelling to them.

“He could only carry one, or at most two of us at a time. That would mean two trips and we have no idea where we're going. I don't think we should separate.” Ron said decisively.

Luna beamed at Harry for some reason.

“No,” Harry agreed, but Hermione was struck now by what sounded like abject misery in his voice. “We don't have to, though. Hermione can go with me.”

He shut his eyes and with a low moan that ended as the same piercing cry they had heard earlier that afternoon, made a shuddery slow motion transfiguration into what was evidently his animagus form. A dully gleaming black thestral with a jagged white lightening bolt scar.

“Bloody bleeding hell,” Ron said softly. “Merlin's freaking beard.”

“He's beautiful!” Luna declared, and moved forward to stroke his neck. “Look, how funny. Even his mane won't lay right.”

One rolling white eye connected with Hermione's and if it was possible for an enormous winged dragonish horse that can only be observed by those that have looked death in the eye to appear sheepish and apologetic, this one did. She stood up and moved forward, took its bony black face in her hands and kissed the jagged white scar.

“Let's get out of here,” she said.

The Harry-thestral slid its front legs out in a kind of lowering bow, and she grabbed hold of his thick, silky mane and pulled herself astride onto his back. She leaned forward and stroked the softly gleaming neck, whispered in his pointed, flickering ears, “please tell me you know how to work those wings.”

He sneeze-snorted and rolled one white eye.

Great. Alright then. Dear Lord she didn't want to die this way…she hated flying.

`Shh. I love to fly. I know the air, I'd never hurt you,' filled her mind.

Ron helped Luna onto the anxious Xavier, and clambered up behind her. Xavier led the way, crashing through the pine branches and galloping out into the deep snow. Thestral Harry followed and Hermione felt the raw power of his muscles working between her legs as he thrashed through the snow toward the clearing of the trail. Once they reached it she felt a mighty bunching of muscle beneath her and his wings unfurled and beat as he launched them into the air.

Hermione knew Professor McGonagall would be horrified by the very thought of what they were doing. Harry should never have been able to transform that way, he probably shouldn't be able to fly first time out and she knew that most animagi took a good bit of time to learn to hold on to their new form. This was just another one of the contradictions that were second nature to Harry now. She remembered him sitting on her bed, mad and miserable after his confrontation with Dumbledore and saying he was rubbish with swords. She laughed aloud, feeling the rhythmic bunch and thrust of his wing muscles under her knees as they soared, then started guiltily and searched the sky for any sign of a return from the dragon.

Except now they were dragons. Plural. And closing fast.

A scream died in her throat as she saw Ron pull out his wand. She saw him cast, saw the bright burst of light fly from his wand. The snow above the first dragon seemed to thicken and melt all at once, collapsing as heavy slush onto its wings.

Brilliant, Ron! She sent a freezing spell after it. It took two tries as Harry dodged tongues of flames sent their way, but the second one connected, solidifying the weighty coating on the dragon's wings and causing it to shudder in its flight and plummet, struggling desperately to free them.

Luna had caught on and froze the next one after Ron hit it with the slushing spell. The two thestrals were straining, legs and wings beating to reach the cover and unburnable stone of the cave. Hermione could see what she thought they were aiming for now, a dark shadow in the sheer wet face of the rock.

Two dragons were down now, one still dogged them. Ron hit the first and it faltered, but Luna's freezing spell missed and it roared in fury, belching flames at Xavier. Hermione threw herself forward and cast a freezing spell hanging under Harry's extended thestral neck. She felt him squirm mid wing-beat to stay under her and keep her on his back. The freezing spell hit a quickly cast Aguamenti from Ron and the resulting ice shattered under the onslaught but still deflected the bulk of the fire. Hermione saw Luna beating out a tongue of flame on Ron's robe as Xavier tucked his legs and flew at a distressingly small opening in the rock face, and they disappeared.

Harry was forced to circle, put off course by the move to keep her seated, and the last dragon roared and dove at them. Hermione could see the cave opening, feel thestral-Harry stretching for it as the dragon closed in. She could not help herself; she closed her eyes and threw her arms around his sweating neck, buried her face in his mane, and waited for the hail of fire. With a determined thrust of his wings Harry reached the cave just as the dragon let lose. He brushed the opening on one side entering, catching his wing and her leg on the rough stone and crashing to the knees of his forelegs on landing. Ron had slid off of Xavier and was already behind him, casting a shield on the cave opening. Turning back Hermione saw the dragon's open, flaming snout collide with Ron's shield with reverberating force, enough to knock Ron from his feet, and then it slid slowly from view.

Nothing could be heard within the cave except for the sound of heavy, labored breathing.

Hermione felt an indescribable sensation of motion and change and found herself suddenly straddling a prone Harry on the rocky floor of the cave. She hastily rolled free, cursing herself for not remembering how desperately he must have needed to change back. Her knee stung, and she could see a rip in the shoulder of his cloak and what looked to be blood stiffening the edges. Ron was climbing shakily to his feet, apparently in one piece and Luna seemed uninjured other than her burned hand. One of Xavier's wing tips was smoking, but he was happily oblivious, chomping on what appeared to be a torn-off dragon wing. Hermione was happy she'd missed how that had occurred. It had close call for Ron and Luna written all over it.

Harry pushed himself up on his forearms and looked around wearily.

“Okay,” he said. “Who's going to play wizard and light us a fire? I'm cold, I'm soaking and I hurt in places I don't even have.”

“Oho,” Ron said, making his way over to them. “Little black horsie of death is tired, is he? I was hoping we could send you back out for take away, Mate.”

“Not bloody likely,” Harry moaned, slumping forward onto his arms. “This animagus stuff is hard work. Sure, flying looks easy, when you aren't the one flapping away. Besides, look what he's eating,” he said, nodding toward Xavier. “That looked awfully tasty to me a few minutes ago too.”

“Urgh,” Ron grimaced. “So what does it feel like to be a flying death horse? When did you know? Was that what you were practicing with Fawkes?”

“No,” said Harry, his voice muffled. “I didn't know until I found I could talk to Xavier. And then all of a sudden I just… knew. How to do it and everything. How weird is that?”

“From anyone else, mate, that'd be beyond belief. With you just lately, nothing could surprise me.”

“Wish it worked the other way round,” Harry said tiredly, pushing himself slowly upright. “If I could just be invisible to people who've seen more than their fair share of death already instead, it might've come in handy around Voldemort.”

“On the other hand,” Ron said with a grin, “That's the happiest I've ever seen Hermione about flying.”

“Ronald,” Luna chided gently coming to sit beside Harry. “Don't tease. It's funny, but it isn't nice.”

Suddenly the stress of the whole situation took hold of Hermione and she shed it in the only way she could think of that wouldn't freak Harry out. Tears were a Cho reminder and hence out of the question, so Hermione began to laugh.

“There is just no way…” she gasped, “of describing that experience that wouldn't come across as completely…” She cast about desperately for the right word.

“Erotic?” supplied Luna.

She hadn't been going there, exactly, but…

“Well, yes,” Hermione admitted, blushing but aware that if she couldn't be honest with these three, she'd never be with anyone. “What a rush. When you took off…it felt unbelievable.”

She thought Harry would be embarrassed as well, but perhaps the strangeness of the whole situation and the feeling of being somehow outside time had hit him too. His smile was both shy and sort of wolfish all at once.

“Really? You can er, fly me anytime you like, then” he told her. “Perhaps without the dragons next time, though.”

“Watch. If I suddenly turned out to be an animagus I'd be a ruddy wolfhound like Fang or something, drooling everywhere. Nobody'd get a thrill out of riding me,” Ron groaned pitifully.

“I think I could still enjoy riding you as Fang,” Luna mused.

Harry and Hermione quite deliberately avoided each other's eyes after that.

“Must find firewood,” Harry said, climbing to his feet. “Somewhere way over there.”

“Wait up,” Hermione begged.

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It was ironic how Ron and Luna suddenly had so much to say to each other; they were at a stage of their emerging relationship that Harry and Hermione had never had - that getting-to-know-you-hey-that's-my-favorite-flavor-too point that for them had happened entirely innocently and at eleven and twelve. All Harry wanted now was evident to her in those beautiful green eyes glancing off hers across the flickering firelight. Hermione experienced a wave of desire so strong she actually squirmed on her rock. Ouch. The thought of Harry, rock hard and moving within her was suddenly so strong she would not have put it past him to be sending it her way. Either that or her imagination was getting way more vivid than it used to be. She let her eyes close, and the feeling intensified.

Not that she wasn't happy for Ron and Luna, really she was, but if she had to listen to them and only watch him for five more minutes she was going to explode.

“Um, before we turn in we should really check out the back of the cave and make sure there aren't any signs of animal occupation,” she said. “Something could be living back there and just out hunting now. We don't want to wake up to anything like that coming home.”

Considering the state of her emotions it was an impressively logical, Hermione-like thing to say.

“I'll go,” she offered.

“We'll both go,” Harry said. “Luna and Ron can keep warm by the fire. It shouldn't take long.”

“Not long at all,” she said feelingly.

“Unless of course the cave requires repeated examinations to make sure it's safe.”

Good Lord. Could she still even walk if he kept that up? What had come over her?

Harry was getting to his feet and his face was half in shadow but she could hear the grin in his voice.

Ron coughed to cover his own sudden smile and said, “Thanks, mate. Just call if you need us.”

“Oh I think I've got this covered,” Harry told him. “You give us a yell if anything… unusual happens up here.”

Luna's smile was gentle and serene; despite the dangers inherent in their situation Hermione got the feeling she wouldn't want to be anywhere else, and the boys' unsubtle doubletalk wasn't fazing her a bit.

Hermione lit her wand tip and led the way around several Hagrid-sized boulders fallen at haphazard angles. They picked their way through a patch of smaller rocks, as if a larger one had fallen and shattered, and then the way smoothed out again. There was what seemed to be a second smaller chamber beyond the first and they prowled the perimeter, wands sweeping for danger. It proved unoccupied, and they saw no obvious signs of a nest or den.

Hermione turned and threw herself at him with the same force and enthusiasm as their first and second year hugs but all the knowledge of his body and desires she had only more recently acquired. The combination was highly effective, if she did say so herself.

He caught her and she wrapped her legs around his waist, wriggling closer as her fingers worked their way into his wayward hair and her lips found the spot on his neck that seemed as if it was directly connected to his… oh yes… it was.

He made a fierce, guttural sound, his arms drawing her against him as he leant back against the cave wall. She made her way from his neck to his lips, warm and eager against her own. He seemed to sense something of her need and teased her, kissing her back but letting her tongue bump against his teeth as if he didn't know she needed desperately to feel his tongue start what she wanted the rest of him to deliver. She bit his lower lip, softly at first but then harder, insistent. His jaw softened and she could feel the vibration of his muffled laughter in his chest as her tongue found his. It only took a few slow, promising strokes along the underside to lure him into her own mouth and start the sense of connection between them she so craved. She began to move against him in time to it, hands slipping down his chest to pull at the button of his jeans.

His head pulled back, his breathing satisfactorily ragged.

“Down, now,” he managed. “erm, please.”

Hermione undid her cloak and let it drop behind her, transfiguring the puddle of black wool into a mattress of sorts. She glanced behind her to be sure the spell went correctly and noticed that the fur lining he had given her hood remained in a patch in the very center. The thought of his warm skin above her and the fur beneath set off a fierce spasm of want within her, stronger than anything she had ever yet known.

“Harry.”

He must have heard it in her voice because he didn't have to be told twice; he laid her gently down and stretched out beside her on his side, reclaiming her lips. They started to shed each others clothes; unbuttoning, pulling, unzipping. The way his hips lifted as she slid his jeans down was somehow irresistibly erotic to her, watching them do it again as she drew down his boxers seemed to ignite a fire in her own groin, almost as much as the happy evidence of his desire for her when she carefully extricated it.

She curled her fingers around him firmly, possessively, and felt both his tongue and hips thrust back in response. He murmured her name, almost slurring it in his pleasure, and his hands finished with her outer clothes and began seeking her as well.

His fingers slipped beneath the waist of her knickers and her eyes closed to savor the intensity of her bodies' response to him; he stroked her just the way she liked, not teasing but still slow and tentatively enough to leave plenty of room for the more she always craved, and she could feel his own reaction to hers quivering in her palm.

It wasn't long before the probing of his fingers grew more inspired and the knickers seemed to be slowing him down. She felt them simply dissolve in a pulse of magical energy that caught her by surprise and almost pushed her over an edge she had been unaware was so close. She heard herself gasp and pulled his hand away; threading her fingers through his but still stroking him with the thumb of her other hand. She could feel his breathing match her movements; she sped up slightly and with a slight hitch so did he.

“You can't just make a girls' knickers disappear like that, Harry,”

“Do you want them back, then?” he growled.

Gods no.

“I don't know what's gotten in to me,” she said softly.

“I know what wants to,” he told her, and rolled them both over. He drew himself up over her, bracing his weight on his forearms and gazing down eye to eye. She thought that just the way he was looking at her, all the emotions swirling in those familiar eyes, would be enough to live on forever.

“I think that I could lose myself just watching you watch me,” she whispered.

“I think I'd like to watch that,” he whispered back.

Her hands skimmed up his sides to his shoulders and then down the taught, waiting muscles of his back, urging him closer. He shuddered and she felt him rear back, felt the lovely blind probing hardness against her, the way they worked together, barely breathing, to complete their coupling. She could not hold back an inarticulate cry as he buried himself and he stopped at once and made as if to withdraw.

“No, no, you're lovely, it's alright, I've just wanted you so much, all today,” she told him, and used her arms and legs and every muscle she still had control of to draw him closer, nearer, further in. “Please, Harry.”

She wasn't sure what she was asking for, or exactly what she wanted; she only knew the answer was somehow more.

As if in response she felt his arms slide under her, felt him draw back and lift her with him until they were both upright, still joined, and then settled back until she was straddling him and he was braced against the rock wall. They had had little enough time together that they hadn't explored much in the way of improvisation; had simply followed their instincts to completion. Hermione was floored by the difference a simple change of position could bring, not just the way she seemed to be able to maneuver him deeper still but the freedom of her movement and the increased… visibility. She watched their joined hips rocking and felt a wash of love and for some reason protectiveness that made her momentarily dizzy.

His arms moved more firmly around her, holding her against his chest.

“Okay?” he asked tentatively.

She nodded, framing his face with her hands and covering it with quick light kisses. “I love this,” she managed, almost breathless.

“I thought you might,” he grinned.

She felt herself smile in answer and changed their rhythm slightly, adding a small squirm against him at the height of each thrust. It was his turn for inarticulate expression; the sound that escaped him made no sense but she heard a low, urgent Oh, Hermione… somewhere inside her head.

His hands slid to her hips but rested there gently; he let her choose the speed and intensity of their movement together. He found her lips and took his possession there instead; as intense as what was happening between her legs might be, it was nothing compared to what was being wrested from her mouth. She let her own hands wander over him, everywhere. He was still wiry in his build, whippet strong and lean, and she couldn't imagine wanting anything else. Her fingers ran down his belly and shyly touched their joining; she felt his approval in a low hum that seemed to vibrate through her on a wavelength that weakened her knees and only brought him further into her as she settled more bonelessly astride him. Her need to reach wherever he was taking her grew more intense, the edges of her vision blurred until there was only Harry, only him. Even their kisses slowly ceased until they were simply breathing against each other, rapt.

So close.

She could feel him start to give in to the insistent pull; his head slid forward and he buried his face in her hair. She shifted against him, brought her hand up to join the other and frame his face, pulling it back in front of her. He protested the loss of the sensation of her hand between them, his eyes fluttering open.

“I want to see you,” she told him and he nodded, sweat darkening his fringe and making his eyes even greener in comparison.

“I will, Hermione, please, do what you were…”

She nodded back to show she understood and let one had slide back down his sweat-slicked skin, over the sharp angle of his hip bone and downward. It seemed a crime to part their skin even for the added intensity of stroking fingers so she changed her plan of attack, but his reaction when she reached home and cupped him was more than worth it. It was as if a door somewhere between them opened or an unknown wall finally fell; she was certain that she felt within her own body things she did not have the capacity or… equipment to feel. She knew simultaneously the pleasure he invoked in her and yet how she felt to him as well. She met his eyes and saw the effort in them, knew what he was giving her.

There was no shadow of evil in him at all; in this most vulnerable of times he was clearly focused only on loving her and she felt sure somehow that whatever he carried could never truly overtake him. Remember, said a voice in her mind, but it wasn't hers. Believe.

His eyes struggled against his own pleasure to remain open and she hurriedly kissed him, whispering small encouragements to let go.

“But you wanted,” his lips moved against hers.

She cradled his barely-resisting head against her shoulder. “It's okay,” she reassured him. “I love you, Harry. I hope we'll have a lifetime to watch each other. You just showed me something so much more.”

The feeling of his release was enough to ignite hers; she heard him stutter a wandless Silencio as she gave in.

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19. Capter 18

Official Fine Print: Nope. Not mine. The brainchildren of the mighty pen of JK Rowling. Just playing with them. Honest.

Magic Never Dies

Chapter 18

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Harry woke to the sense of something moving close by. Hermione was curled warmly against him, ruling her at least right out… and it would have been her he most preferred; none of the alternatives that immediately broached his sleep-stunned brain were really all that appealing.

He reached behind his head for his wand and pointed, tracking the sound. His eyes at last made out an indeterminate form moving within the relentless dark, but as he prepared to hex whatever it was, he heard the sound of a boot connecting solidly with rock and a stifled “bloody, bloody bloody hell.”

“Merlin, Ron,” he whispered in relief. “Quit creeping around. I almost hexed your stones off.”

He heard a grumbled lumos minima and the tip of Ron's wand glowed faintly, bobbing up and down as he hopped and cursed. Harry blinked into the light and met Ron's eyes; he saw Ron take in Hermione's satiated sprawl on his chest and drop his foot to raise the wand with quick strangled sound.

“Er, sorry, Harry, I hate to do this now and all, but there's something I need to talk to you about.”

“Something that really, really can't wait until morning, right?” Harry asked tiredly.

“Well, yeah.” Ron said. “Sorry. I really think you'll want to know.”

“Before I move, it's not you forgot the words to a certain charm or anything, something I can tell you all warm and comfortable right here?”

“Right, look, just get your randy arse up will you? Whatever fire you and Hermione had to go put out is your own business; I'm not going to do… that on a first date or anything,” Ron growled.

Harry sighed, squirmed free of the comfort of Hermione's entangling limbs and began scrambling about for his clothes. She made a soft murmur of protest and curled tighter into herself in reaction to losing his warmth and his heart seemed to physically contract within his chest. This had better be good.

“Ron, is it even possible to have a first date with Luna? She's probably two steps ahead of you already,” he whispered.

“Probably not,” admitted Ron, shielding the light from Hermione's eyes but lowering it so Harry could pull on his jeans and shove his feet into boots. As he pulled his sweatshirt over his head he heard, “Lavender was always two steps ahead of me. Luna's ten, at least. She's just far nicer about it.”

Harry started to follow Ron out of the back cavern but paused; he hoped he'd be returning quickly, but didn't like the idea of leaving Hermione alone to wake in the pitch dark. He turned and swiftly made his way back to where she lay, drawing the cloak more closely around her and murmuring a warming charm. He found her wand and placed it closer, within easy reach. Last of all, he found a small fist-sized stone and closed his fingers around it, focusing hard on what he wanted; a combination of a simple charm to make the stone give off a comforting glow and another to make a corresponding pebble grow warm in his pocket if she woke and touched it. He opened his fingers to the pale, greenish glow of success and set it down within easy reach, brushing her forehead with his lips as he did. He rose from his crouch and turned to catch up with Ron only to find him waiting and watching.

“That was nice... er, nice thing to do, Harry,” Ron mumbled as he turned and led the way. Harry said nothing, but grinned to himself in the darkness. Ron taking a fancy to Luna had the potential to take all kinds of heat off of him.

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Ron led him back through the fallen stones and leaning boulders toward the front of the cave, but rather than making for the fire as Harry had anticipated he headed instead in the opposite direction. Harry could just make out the shape of Luna's sleeping form, shrouded in cloaks beyond the glowing embers. Ron lowered his wand and Harry followed suit, picking his way behind him through the treacherous rubble of more scattered rocks and stones. The darkness had made the cave wall appear solid but as they approached Harry could see that it curved in significantly, forming a sort of rough depression; a hallway to nowhere that ended in solid stone.

“I needed to pee and I wasn't about to try messing with the wards you put up on the way we came in, so I went looking for an out of the way place,” explained Ron. “I found this.”

“Er, thanks for sharing, Ron,” Harry said, sincerely hoping there was more to it than that.

“No, Harry, this,” Ron said, indicated the wall above where he had presumably relieved himself.

Harry rolled his eyes and moved closer to the side of the cave lit by Ron's wand, causing the light from his own to join it. His eye caught what appeared to be a crudely drawn picture, done in some sort of black, charcoal-ish substance. It was an animal - or it had four legs, anyway - and what seemed to be two trees growing from its head. Harry moved his wand closer still, and made out some sort of writing beneath it. Humoring Ron, he crouched a bit and trailed his wand along the words…

`Prongs was here,'

“And look,” Ron pointed out, once he'd seen Harry understood why he'd woken him. “Sirius as well.”

The beam of Ron's wand illuminated another black drawing, clearly the gamboling form of Sirius as Snuffles raising his hind leg on the “P” in Prongs. The scratched `Padfoot' was almost unnecessary after that.

Harry carefully swept his wand around the wall, wondering what the Marauders might have been doing here, when they had been, and if Lupin or Pettigrew's names were there somewhere as well. A few feet lower and further along the wall there was a smudge of black that turned out to be nothing, but Harry followed it, clambering over more fallen stones in his search. Another meaningless smudge and then something larger. Ron came up behind him and added his light to Harry's.

The something larger was a hastily drawn heart with the initials J. P. and L. E. inside. Harry traced it with his fingers, his own heart suddenly full.

“My Mum and Dad and Sirius were all here… but where is here? And why?”

“Dunno, mate, but I thought you ought to know. I only saw the Padfoot and Prongs ones.” Ron told him.

They searched the other walls carefully, but found nothing more and at last gave up and made their way back toward the front of the cave. It was still snowing heavily outside but the sun was starting to make an appearance, the sky stained a faint pinkish gold through the white along the horizon. Though the wind whipped and howled outside, in the cavern all was calm and still. They moved as close to the opening as they could get, a good way away from where Luna was sleeping so as not to disturb her, and slid down opposite walls to sit facing one another.

“Harry? Don't get me wrong or anything, but you never did say yesterday. What's going on with you, I mean.” Ron reminded him. His attention was intent on sweeping pebbles from beneath his legs, his eyes carefully not on Harry.

Harry tossed a small, purple veined pebble from beneath his own knee over toward Ron's growing pile. “I don't know, exactly. It's not any one thing. It's more trying to connect the dots to see what it might be.”

“Clear as mud, that.” Ron told him, still not looking. Harry wondered suddenly if Ron was afraid of meeting his eyes, afraid of what Harry might now do if he did. He reached out and gave his friend a soft mental shove, no more than he might have done once with a shoulder standing on line for something at Hogwarts. A companionable greeting. Ron's head snapped up sharply, his eyes wide. “Harry…”

“Do you trust me, Ron? I mean, I haven't done anything to make you not, have I?”

“No. I mean yes, I trust you. I think.”

“Clear as mud, that,” Harry said, and laid his head back against the rough rock wall, letting his eyes close wearily.

“Okay, you're talking phoenix as well as parseltongue these days, not to mention thestral, doing magic with out a wand, wandering around in other people's minds and then you just skip this whole insanely complicated process and bang! you're a magical animal animagus. You've never exactly been normal, Harry, but even you've got to admit this is taking not normal to a whole other level.”

“I do admit it. It's beyond strange. And just so you know, it's not like I'm enjoying it or anything, either, I'm scared shitless half the time wondering what's next.”

“You don't have to explain that to me, Harry. I'm well over envying you any of it, honestly. Is it the horcruxes doing it? Hermione thinks it is, she doesn't want you anywhere near another one. You don't think he's actually letting you at them or anything? Trying to weaken you, or get, I don't know, control of you somehow?”

Harry could see Ron was genuinely concerned, and reflected for a moment how much more enjoyable it had been convincing Hermione to trust him. He sincerely hoped now that she did, although he wouldn't really have a problem reassuring her the same way. Twice daily, as a matter of fact.

“No, I don't think he's letting me at all. That's his shot at immortality. He's got plenty of better ways to kill me, and he can't replace them, can he? I mean, you can only shred your soul so far. Look at him.”

Ron shuddered. “Rather not, thanks.”

“They definitely do affect me right off,” Harry said, “but then…”

He wondered how to explain all that he had been agonizing over to Ron, to whom the acceptance of magic was as natural and unconscious as breathing.

“You know how at school when one of us got sick Madam Pomfrey'd always give us a potion for the worst symptoms or a pepper-up potion, and then say we should just have bed rest and let our magic take care of it?”

Ron nodded, clearly confused at this seeming change of subject.

“Well, think about Muggles, then. They don't have magic to take care of it. When I went to Muggle school with Dudley they made you get something called inoculations before you could go. They injected the stuff that caused the illness in the first place into your blood in small amounts, and your body was supposed to get used to it and build up an immunity to it - after that, it couldn't make you sick any more.”

“That's barbaric,” Ron said, looking scandalized. “Are you sure it wasn't just you? That awful Aunt and Uncle you lived with weren't just having you on, were they?”

Harry laughed. “Positive, because Dudley had to have them as well, and d'you know, the great whale would spend the morning pinching me and kicking me under the table and trying to slam bits of me in the car doors, and then he'd get his and he'd be wailing before the needle even touched him. They'd never have done it to Dudders if they hadn't absolutely had to.”

“Do you think they poisoned you, then?” Ron asked interestedly.

“No. No, what I meant was that I think something sort of like what they were trying to do then might be happening now with the Horcruxes. I'm starting to wonder if they aren't making me stronger instead of weaker, almost letting me have a look at what I have to fight so I can figure something to fight it with.”

The logic of this struck Ron. “So as long as you've got a break between them to sort of recover, you think you can actually take on the others? The locket and the cup, or whatever this last one is?”

Harry shrugged uncomfortably. “Dunno. But I'm a bit worried now about the ring one that got destroyed. If it was really supposed to happen this way, then maybe I'll still be missing something when and if I finally get to go after him. I'm just hoping it doesn't matter that much in the end.”

“But if Dumbledore destroyed it, he must not have thought you'd ever need it. He never said anything about you being able to use them or anything like that, did he?”

“No. But Dumbledore and I are at opposite ends of the spectrum magically. He was a really powerful wizard and he knew what he was doing because he had years of experience. He was in control. I think he wanted to believe in me, but he was getting nervous toward the end. I don't think I was shaping up quite the way he'd hoped.”

Harry felt the familiar sense of failure, of not quite understanding and never getting it in time rise up within him. He closed his eyes again, squashing it down firmly. He remembered Dumbledore's words as they returned from that other cave, `I am not afraid Harry. I am with you.'

“He was running out of time, and still felt responsible,” Harry continued more firmly. “But it wasn't ever his fight to begin with, that stupid prophecy made it mine. I can't do it the way he would have, even with the portrait to talk to. I have to find another way.”

Ron nodded his understanding of that idea. No one would ever quite fill Dumbledore's shoes. Especially those weird little pointy-toed buckle jobs. The thought of Harry dressed Dumbledore-style was enough to make Ron smile despite the topic, and Harry mistook this as a sign he was ready for more.

“Whenever I've been able to resist Imperious before, it was only because of this stubborn little voice in my mind that says no, and reminds me that there's another way. I only just realized a little while ago that it's my mum's voice. Now it's working with the soul fragments too. It's hard at first, like the scar on a really bad day, just sort of aching and filling you with the darkest thoughts and sights and feelings, but then it's like I can sense the worst of it just… giving up. I know it's there, but I don't have to let it take control if I don't want to. I'm a little scared of adding to it, but if that's what it takes to get rid of them I'll do it.”

“But then what?” Ron asked. “You've got five bits of Voldemort prowling around in you and you still can't kill him.”

“What if all those principles we learned about in transfiguration work on a larger scale as well? If nature is always seeking balance, and for every action there's an equal and opposite reaction, then maybe I'm just a reaction to Voldemort. He upset the balance of life and death. If I'm supposed to do something about that then that's what will happen, whether I know what to do or not. I can affect how it happens, but not the ultimate outcome. For awhile after I worked out about being a horcrux, I figured I had to die…”

Ron's head rose sharply and his eyes narrowed. “But you don't, right? Not anymore.”

“I don't think I have to. I might if I screw up. Me, mind you, not Hermione, or you, or anyone else. It's up to me to…listen, I think, and trust that if I do it right it'll be alright in the end, whatever happens. “

“So, Voldemort threw all of magic out of whack when he didn't die, and magic itself is using you to get back at him? That's why stuff like turning into a thestral just happens to you?” Ron asked.

Harry sat up, thunderstruck. “Shite, Ron, I was dreading telling you any of this, thinking how was I going to make you not laugh and get a bit of it, and there you've gone and summed it up in two sentences. Yeah, that's what I think. Am I not insane, then?”

Ron grinned. “A bit, perhaps, but it makes loads more sense than it would have before I spent half the night talking to Luna, so who am I to say?”

Harry grinned back, relief burning through him like light.

“So it's down to you, then, because Voldemort chose you to kill to make his last horcrux.” Ron said.

“Yeah. That, and because my mum tried to fight back. She gave up her own life to stop something so evil from taking mine, and that changed the balance again and set the whole backswing against him in motion. Now I've got to finish it somehow.”

“The long and short of it, though, is you're telling me the thestral business is nature or magic or whatever's way of helping you survive long enough to get to the bad guy, not Voldemort's soul taking you over.” Ron clarified.

“Right,” Harry agreed. “So far as I can tell, anyway.”

“Good enough for me, mate. So what do we do now?”

“That's the question, isn't it.” Harry looked out over the snowy dawn. There was no sign of the dragons. For now, anyway. “According to Xavier, there are people not far, but the impression I got was that Voldemort had been here before us and they wouldn't welcome us, whatever that means. We also know now that my Mum and Dad and Sirius were here, and it was at least eighteen years ago, because whoever put the initials in the heart used Evans rather than Potter as Mum's surname. They weren't married yet. So it could have been a bit longer than that, but not much less.”

“But we're still thinking that Voldemort intended the bottle as a portlkey for Snape, right? If he ever went back and tried to use or analyze the potion?”

“It's the only thing that approaches sense in all of this. Why else make it a portkey at all?”

“So the people Xavier was talking about might be expecting Snape, not us. They might be happy to see us, maybe even make us breakfast.”

Harry laughed. “And Lucius Malfoy might tip his house elves at Christmas. Not bloody likely.” There was a sudden warmth against his hip and he reached for the pebble. “Hermione's awake. Why don't you wake up Luna, and we'll meet back at the fire and decide what to do next.”

Ron nodded his agreement and they shoved off the cave walls and to their feet. As they met in the middle, brushing crushed stone from the seats of their jeans Ron gave Harry a gentle shove, the physical equivalent of Harry's earlier mental one.

“You're alright, you know. Dumbledore was off his game. If anyone can do it, you can. I'm sorry it worked out this way, but honestly, I think we're all better off it's you.”

Harry hung his head. If life gave you friends like that, how could you possibly fail? He had to finish it.

“Thanks, Ron,” was the best he could manage in reply.

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Hermione was sitting up and blinking drowsily in the dimness of the back cavern when Harry arrived, the cloak clutched tightly around her.

“Hey,” he said softly, dropping down beside her. “Sorry not to be here. Ron found something he thought he should show me, and you were too peaceful to wake up.”

She burrowed drowsily against his shoulder and he drew her into his lap… and remembered too late she was still unclothed under the cloak. Wow. Those blood replenishing potions must have added a little something extra volume-wise, because with the speed the rest of it plummeted south he should have passed out with a completely bloodless brain…now. And look! Still conscious, still erm…

He felt Hermione's smile bloom against his neck and her cold nose nuzzle for warmth beneath his ear.

“Good morning to you, too, Mr. Potter.”

Her `Mr. Potter' brought to mind his parent's initials in the front of the cave. Had they? Here? While Sirius slept, perhaps? Had it been winter, or summer? Had they sought shelter from rain, or dragons? First time, or lovers of some familiarity already? Could he perhaps even have been conceived here? There was something about the place.

He growled, a combination of frustration with understanding so few pieces of the puzzle that was his own life and the movement of Hermione's hands against his chest. He wondered if he lived through Voldemort's undoing whether he could possibly ever get used to waking up with her each new day.

“I told Ron we'd meet him and Luna by the fire from last night, to talk about how to get out of here,” he admitted.

“Did you say when?” she asked. Her fingers, still toasty from cocooning in the cloak with his warming charm slipped under the hem of his sweatshirt and gently climbed the chilled ladder of his ribs. Harry imagined their eventual descent again and shivered.

“I don't see a clock anywhere,” he said, and the crooked, hesitant smile she loved so much made it's appearance. “And I don't imagine for a minute Luna's a huge stickler about time.”

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Luna and Ron watched in amusement as Harry and Hermione made their way back into the front of the cavern, tucking in their clothes and generally straightening up as they came. Harry lifted Hermione's long hair free of the back of her cloak for her while she rubbed at something on the side of his chin.

“It's left a bruise, I tell you,” Harry was saying, wincing as he pushed the lining of his jeans pocket down over one hip.

“Oh for goodness sake, let me see. You insist you're alright when Voldemort tries to take your eye out and then it's the princess and the pea with one little book in the pocket of…”

“The mattress. Your average bed doesn't have pockets for a reason. You get the fur and I get the lumps, is that how it works, then?”.

“I forgot it was there. You couldn't have just moved or something?” Hermione was pulling at the waistband of his jeans most successfully; Harry's had always hung off his hips to begin with, having usually started out as Dudley's at some point. He'd gotten better at spelling his clothes to fit but it had never been much of a priority for him and Ron had always sort of liked that. He'd certainly never felt bad wearing the twin's hand-me-downs around Harry.

“Not unless you did first, at that point,” Harry said, mock-grumpily.

Luna chortled.

“Stop ripping the boy's clothes off already, Hermione,” Ron told her. “We'll never get out of here unless you two lay off each other.”

She had the grace to flush slightly as she turned toward them; Ron thought he'd never seen her look quite so beautiful. Not even the night of the yule ball in her gown and sleaked smooth hair. The familiar stab of un-nameable something rose up in him only to be effectively quelled by the evident happiness in her eyes as she grabbed Harry's hand and tugged him after her and Luna's shoulder gently bumping against his as she poked at a log in the fire. Quite unnecessarily, considering it was a magical one.

Hermione pulled out her wand as she settled on a rock near the fire, tapping a small object in her hand and enlarging it until Ron could see it was the book she'd been holding in the Room of Requirement when the portkey had activated.

“Turn out to be any use?” he asked.

“I, erm…. haven't had a chance to look at it until just now,” she said. “Carry on with the plans and I'll just check through it while I listen.”

Surprisingly enough it was Luna who took charge of things. “I think we need to imagine that we are Professor Snape.”

“Twenty points from Ravenclaw for having the audacity to believe for a moment that you could manage to rearrange your pathetic little brain to achieve such a goal!” Ron mimicked in Snape's voice.

“If you aren't actually channeling Professor Snape that was a marvelous impression, Ronald,” she said seriously.

“He's not an easy read when you take him out of the dungeon.” Harry thought out slowly. “I think he'd be trying to outthink Voldemort and stay alive, but who knows what that would lead him to do. Here's a thought though. We have the potion. If Voldemort were going to send Snape somewhere with a potion that he didn't want copied or revealed…”

“Or used. Maybe Voldemort thought Snape would try and use it.” Hermione interjected absently; she was perusing the table of contents of the re-enlarged book. “Maybe he even wanted him to try.”

“What would Voldemort want a magic-draining potion to be used for at some point in the future that he couldn't actually predict?” Harry wondered.

“Maybe it wasn't a trap. Maybe he left it with Snape intending to get him to use it later, just the way he left the diary with Malfoy. Snape could well have known it was a set up and just sent us, hoping to get us out of the way or killed.” Ron said.

“Pretty big risk when Voldemort finds out, don't you think? What if it led right to a horcrux or something?” Hermione pointed out.

“He doesn't need them back, you know. The horcruxes,” Harry said. “They just have to be out there, hidden or not, to work. He never needs more than the scrap of soul he has; the horcruxes just make that bit unwilling to leave our world because it isn't whole. That's why seven was such a magic number for him, it left enough room to play twisted little games like he did with the diary, and like leaving the wand there in the open, right in front of the eyes of every witch and wizard in Diagon Alley. It's the thrill of it, the `I'm so much cleverer than you,' bit, the same thing that makes him so sure he's superior to every other wizard. The hard part is wrapping your mind around something that egotistical.”

“Shame we left Malfoy home, then,” Ron laughed. “Hope the twins remember to check in and feed him occasionally.”

“Of course not just anywhere has dragons anymore…” Luna said dreamily.

Hermione's head snapped up this time. “Durmstrang!”

“The Seven Dragons,” Luna agreed. “Even though we only saw three. Goodness! Did Xavier really eat one of the wings of the Seven Dragons of Durmstrang? That can't be good.”

“Translation? Anyone?” Harry asked patiently.

Hermione sighed. “Once again, playing hangman in History of Magic has caught up with you.”

“If they were going to teach us anything important, they shouldn't have left it up to Binns,” Harry told her. “What are the Seven Dragons of Durmstrang and why is one being down a wing such a bad thing?”

“Well, first of all, we're only guessing that we're somewhere near Durmstrang, but it would make at least some sense. The snow, the anti-apparition wards, the dragons - Luna's right, there aren't just wild dragons anymore, they're regulated - even why your parents might have been around here, Harry. They might have been observing things for the Order. Durmstrang has always had a reputation for teaching dark arts and it doesn't admit Muggle-borns. It's quite likely the Voldemort spent time here in the past and knew it well. A good number of known Death Eaters have come from here…”

“Fraternizing with the enemy,” Ron hacked into his hand.

“Of which Viktor Krum was not one. There have been plenty of Death Eaters from Hogwarts too, Ron, not to mention Voldemort himself…”

“Erm, back to the whole seven dragons thing?” Harry suggested.

“They're the guardians of Durmstrang,” Luna said. “It would be as if someone just blew a wing off the winged boars at Hogwarts' front gate. Only about a hundred times worse, because they're the very image of the school; they're supposed to embody the seven things every Durmstrang student is meant to aspire to be. Warriors; adept, noble and keen. Enchanters; resourceful and skilled.”

Having just been instrumental in the destruction of one of the Hogwarts boars' wings, Harry felt that it was only par for their course to take out one of Durmstrangs' mascots as well. Bloody hell but he was cursed. Unlucky just didn't cover it.

Ron goggled at her. “You learned that in Binns' class? And remembered it?”

Luna blushed, something Harry had never suspected she could do. “Actually, it was quite easy to remember. If you take the first letter of each of them when you write them out it makes them wankers.”

There was a momentary silence until Harry and Ron gave in to the stress of the situation and fell over themselves laughing.

“I always knew Viktor was a…..wan…wank….wanker!” Ron gasped happily.

“Does this mean we have to actually get in to Durmstrang?” Hermione asked.

“Think we'd want to go the other way. Far enough and we should be able to apparate right out of here.” Ron grinned. “Unless you feel like visiting head wanker Krum, of course.” He was off in another gale of laughter. Luna looked like someone had handed her a thousand galleons, just watching him.

Hermione glanced over at Harry and found her answer there. His laughter had died and he appeared to be thinking.

“We could do this,” she said. “Or we could go back to Hogwarts, plan, and do this right. Use the resources of everyone who will help you. Talk to Dumbledore's portrait. Confront Snape. Ask Lupin about why your Mum and Dad might have been here. Come back prepared. Please, Harry.”

She could see in his face his desire to just go, to fling himself at the problem and hope for the best the way he always had. She knew that part of him was growing eager and restless to end all of this, finish it once and for all.

“If you are thinking the cup is there, Harry, it will still be there when we come back.”

He nodded slowly. “Okay. How about this. I make like a thestral and fly around to make sure these are really Durmstrangs' grounds and find out exactly where the school is. Once I'm sure where we are, I'll come back here and we'll head beyond the grounds until we can apparate back to Hogsmeade and Hogwarts.”

Hermione nodded her acquiescence.

“I just need you to promise me two things,” he said seriously, and Ron and Luna fell silent as well at the gravity of his voice. “If I don't come back within two hours, you leave and make your way out of here as fast as you can. Find Xavier, see if he can help you with another thestral and then fly back to Hogwarts or at least somewhere you can apparate from.”

“Alright,” Hermione agreed cautiously. Ron and Luna nodded their agreement as well.

“And when we get back, assuming I'm with you, you'll give me the locket.”

Hermione met his eyes levelly. “Alright.”

“Right then. As soon as we can. You and I go get it.”

She'd agreed so quickly because he hadn't specified when; she'd had an out. Obviously he knew… “Harry James…” she started, her eyes narrowing.

“I didn't. I wouldn't, ever, and you know it!” he cut her off. “I've known you long enough and well enough not to have to have a roll around in your mind to figure that one out. Promise me. We go get it as soon as we can.”

“Or what?”

“Or nothing. Just promise me, Hermione. I'm trying, I'm listening, I'm not being stupid or impulsive even though I really, really want to be. I need to start tying up any loose ends, and that means the locket. We'll need to act fast once we've got the last one, I know it. I want the locket under my belt before that happens.”

“It's safe, Harry, we know where it is. Why not let it be the last? Focus on finding the cup?”

“Because we have it, and we don't know what's going to happen next. Every time I leave a place now I wonder if I'll ever see it again. What if the cup is destroyed somehow and Voldemort is right there? It's snowballing, and I need to be in control. How about just because I need it, Hermione. You know I can handle it now. Please, promise me.”

“Take Ron with you now,” she bargained.

She saw the anger flare in his eyes. “A thestral alone isn't suspicious. Most people can't even see one. Someone riding thin air is.”

“So you can't go as far. You can't take as many risks. You'd have to come back.”

“I said I'd come back!” he answered her, stung.

“Take Ron, and when we're back at Hogwarts we'll get the locket,” she maintained.

Their eyes met again. The next part of the conversation was too easy to predict; even Professor Trelawney could write those lines.

Why are you doing this?

Because I love you.

If you loved me you'd trust me… let me do what I have to do.

“Please,” Hermione said, her voice breaking, unlike her even to her own ears. “You're afraid you may never get to go back for the locket now. But if that happens, I've lost you. I won't let that happen. Please trust me, too.”

Harry changed without another word, morphing smoothly into the thestral form.

Hermione realized how appropriate it was; his sharp dragonish face had the same grave beauty his human one could hold at times. For all he was so easily identified by his mother's green eyes, the thestral white obscured him to her not at all; Hermione thought she would know that expression anywhere, on any form. Worried, wondering, but not yet weakened by despair. There was still hope despite the imminence of some end to his life's struggle, still a will to put one foot in front of the other and see if the next moment might bring relief from the last.

`If you could only bottle that,' she thought. `We'd all be stronger. Voldemort would never have risen in the first place.'

And she wouldn't have to live like each moment now might be her last with him in it.

He thrust his muzzle at her and she stroked his nose, lifted the thick forelock and kissed the white lightening scar beneath. He moved on to Ron and made the same extended leg bow to lower his back and make mounting easier that he had done for her. Ron scrambled on to his back, twining his fingers into the thick black mane and shifting forward to snug his knees behind Harry's wing joints.

“Okay,” he said.

The thestral remained still; one white eye rolled back at him.

“Er, giddyup?”

Harry's ears pinned back; he snorted and stamped one powerful hind leg, tail twitching.

Hermione heard `tell him to bloody kiss her already, so we can be off.' It was Harry's voice, reverberating in her head. She knew he was still hurt by her insistence and that his efforts were as much an apology of sorts to her as a nudge to Ron. She watched as long slender black legs sidled and sidestepped toward Luna until Ron was right in front of her.

“His says to, um, kiss her already,” Hermione translated.

Ron's ears and cheekbones burned, but before he could protest Luna reached up and grabbed the front of his robes.

“You'll be safe, Ronald,” she said quite certainly, “but you'll need to be brave. Just remember that Morgausian Trulets will sacrifice both front limbs for their pod members, and twice as many grow back after.”

“Er, Holy crap?” said Ron.

And then she kissed him.

Hermione reckoned that for someone so vague about the rest of life, Luna sure knew how to focus on a kiss. Wow. Why did Harry have to be a horse now?

“Holy er…hmm,” said Ron, both stunned and appreciative until Harry's restless movements to be off finally maneuvered them apart.

“Bye!” said Luna brightly, waving.

Hermione heard, `close the wards after us.' And with a mighty leap and an unfurling of leathery wings, they were off.

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20. Chapter 19

Official Fine Print: Nope. Not mine. The brainchildren of the mighty pen of JK Rowling. Just playing with them. Honest.

A/N: This first bit is for faithful reader Heidi Ho ~ I know you didn't like what Hermione was doing. Neither did I, but this is why! Sorry. *grins*. Thanks for sticking with it.

Magic Never Dies

Chapter 19

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Time dragged without them. Hermione sat just inside the mouth of the cave, unconsciously choosing the same spot that Harry had earlier that morning. She immersed herself in the book, and was able to pay attention for whole words at a time.

Whole words.

Hermione Granger, bookworm. She'd been wise enough almost seven years ago to tell him, “Books! And Cleverness! There are more important things - friendship and bravery - oh Harry - be careful!” Clever as that at twelve, why then had she wasted so much time? And how could she have forgotten the most important thing? If she loved him - and she knew she did, hopelessly now - how was she ever going to let go enough to let him do what he needed? She knew she shouldn't have bargained with him, knew that he thought he was being restrained and cautious for her sake. But she'd only just got the feel of him; enough to realize that the hold he had on her heart ran deeper than she could have imagined. The thought of life without him had been incomprehensible at the start of this but she understood it well enough now. It was… unbearable.

She gave up her attempt at making sense of the words in front of her and rested her head in her hands.

Luna came and sat beside her, humming.

Hermione had never really warmed up to Luna. She knew Harry liked her, was aware that there was far more to her than met the eye after the Department of Mysteries, but really. They were so very different; Hermione grounded and practical and sensible, Luna with her nose in the Quibbler and her head in the clouds.

“Harry has the biggest heart, doesn't he?” Luna said dreamily, making a pattern in pebbles between them. “I wonder if it's because he's had to feel so much so young.”

Then again, maybe Luna was just really perceptive and misunderstood.

Hermione felt the proper girl thing to do would be to respond with something like, “Ron certainly seems to fancy you,” or “Ron really is brave, isn't he?” Luna, however, hardly seemed the type to observe social proprieties and Hermione didn't think she was talking about Harry's heart in an attempt to make Hermione reveal something else more personal about him the way Lavender might have.

“I think you're right. He does, and that's exactly why,” she said slowly. It felt strangely good to say aloud. She and Ron had always talked about Harry, but never the way she needed to now. “I shouldn't have done that. Forced him take Ron, I mean. I just keep feeling like things are happening so fast now that the tiniest mistake could change everything. There's so much we still need to figure out and there isn't enough time to do it, and I'm afraid he's going to get reckless and…

“Maybe he needs to get reckless,” Luna said. “He doesn't have much else to fall back on, does he? Without Dumbledore actually around, I mean.”

Hermione recognized the uncomfortable truth in that; she knew Harry felt the same.

“He'd be just as dead if he was careful for you, you know. Even if he lived. His whole life has been leading to this; he needs to believe he gave it everything. He wouldn't be Harry after otherwise. You'd still have him to hold on to, but everything that makes him what he is would die.” Luna continued.

Hermione's eyes widened. It was still Luna speaking, but not. Her voice, yes, but those were not her own words, Hermione was sure of it. Her eyes were unfocused, her body perfectly still. Her hands had ceased playing with the pebbles, their pattern complete. Hermione saw they spelled out a word, a name.

LILY

Hermione realized she wasn't breathing and sucked in a mighty gasp of air. She didn't believe in this sort of thing; she liked her magic explained. Quantifiable, repeatable; theory tested and written neatly down. Spells, hexes, curses and counter curses were all manipulations of magic force, graspable and understood. This was beyond the woolliness of divination, well beyond her comfort level.

“He knows how you feel for him,” Luna continued. “He has always been able to love others, but for the first time he understands what it is to be loved by someone else. Someone… alive to him. It's a burden as well as a gift after all, it changes everything. For the better, but it changes still. I would have died a thousand times and still chosen to have him. He would die a thousand deaths for you, but I think he wants to live now. He hopes. I can help him with the burden of evil he carries within, Hermione, but only you could make him chose life.”

“I…” Hermione opened and shut her mouth helplessly. “Luna?”

Luna's body remained perfectly still. She gazed at her Hermione and blinked, as if at a very bright light. To Hermione's knowledge Luna's eyes had never been quite that focused before, that intent.

“I am what you believe, Hermione. But you have to believe for us to speak, or I will have to go. Luna would never wish to frighten or anger you,” not-Luna said.

Okay. All right. There was no logical reason, no printed magical explanation for Harry anywhere, either. He shouldn't have survived that killing curse, shouldn't be able to resist Imperious, shouldn't have been able to call up the patronus that saved Sirius third year; yet Dumbledore, a learned wizard if there aver was one, had accepted it all. Harry shouldn't be able to do most of the things he was doing now; the wandless magic, the odd sort of hybrid legillimency, the thestral transformation - yet she'd seen it with her own eyes, knew it to be true. Wandering around in Voldemort's mind…. If she accepted all of that, why couldn't this be real? Lily was his mother, after all.

“Lily?” Hermione asked softly, hesitantly, half-hoping Luna would look at her in askance or laugh.

“Yes,” Luna's mouth said simply. “Hullo, Hermione Granger. I'm very pleased to meet you. More than you can imagine.”

“How… no, never mind. You wouldn't be here if it wasn't something… well…” Hermione struggled.

“Important. Yes. But I'm so glad to have this chance to know you for a bit. I've missed so much of him, you see.” Luna's body reached out gently, and laid her hand over Hermione's.

The pain in that voice was shattering; Hermione, an only child and never before in any conscious way maternal about even the far-off thought of children felt for a moment the exquisite loss of a child, even though it was the mother who had died, the child who lived. The emptiness where the warm, trusting little body had been, the silence even the most fretful cry would joyfully fill. The thought of all of that overwhelming love lost, wasted while Harry had curled in upon himself in the Dursley's cupboard under the stairs struck her like a blow, and she felt tears of despair form in her own eyes.

“I'm so sorry,” was all she could manage to choke out, overwhelmed by the rawness of the emotion surging through her.

“You feel it.” Lily said knowingly through Luna's lips. “And if you do you will understand why all this is happening. Voldemort has wronged more than James and I, or Harry. He has violated the very nature of magic with what he has done and there is always a cost for that. No one of us can ever be more than that, usurp that force. It falls on Harry as the last of his victims then to be the one to stop him now.”

“He's trying,” Hermione whispered. “He's found or destroyed all but one of the horcruxes. He's looking for the last one now. He has to take on this one and one more we found but kept.”

Luna's eyes brimmed then as well. “My poor boy,” she said softly. “Little lamb. This should never have been his life.”

“Do you know it all, then?” Hermione asked. “Have you… do you see… us? Where you are?” She felt awkward intruding, but incredibly curious. She sensed Lily's remembrance of Harry as the small boy he had been when Dumbledore delivered him to Privet Drive, and wondered what she made of the man he was becoming.

“No,” Lily said gravely. Luna's voice had never sounded like this before, Hermione was certain. “What sort of next life would that be? Who could watch the joy and pain of life and not be able to touch and guide the ones they love? No, I've been called back again, just for a bit. I have one small role left to play in this that I have always known would come. I will be glad when it is finally done. He will be with me, or he will be with you. Either way, I know now that he will be loved and safe at last, and for that I will be eternally grateful. I've dreaded this. I have no wish for him to die, but to have him again… I miss him so. I've missed so much!”

Lily's eyes burned through Luna's pale ones, and the anguish in her awoke instincts in Hermione she had never known were there. She thought of the gift he had given her the night before, that moment so entwined that she had felt through his skin, seen herself the way he did. She wished she had a pensieve, she could think of so many moments in Harry's life since she had met him that she would love Lily to see.

She laid her hand over Luna's on her arm and thought of Harry, of all he'd been saying lately. Listening for things, following instincts... She thought of every happy moment he'd had since she'd known him, few enough but all the more powerful because of it. All the times she had been so proud of him, proud to know him and be his friend. The more she searched the more memories she found, like flipping through the pages of a photo album. Harry on his broom, doing what he loved best. Hogwarts would be familiar to Lily; she thought of him in the Great Hall, sleepy in the morning, in class, avoiding potions. In the Common Room, reading, so intent and then stretching and grinning and playing with Crookshanks on her lap. The image of him on the day of her birthday, appearing in the kitchen door to greet her…. She halted abruptly, remembering what came after, and raised her eyes.

Luna's were a million miles away but rapt; she felt almost certain that Lily had seen what she wanted.

“Thank you, Hermione,” she said softly. “Thank you for that. Where you stopped, was that… not long ago?”

Hermione wondered if there had been something in Harry's eyes then that she had not known enough to see. She had seen want in him since, learned to know that look well; it gave her the shivers thinking of it.

“Yes. Not too long.”

They stared at each other for a long moment.

“Thank you,” Lily said again through Luna's lips.

“What have you come back to do?” Hermione asked.

“It was to be my choice,” she said, Luna's eyes magnified by tears. “My gift, for all that we have been through. There are two roads from here. Both lead to Voldemort's undoing; Harry himself has brought that to pass. One leads Harry to me, the other leaves him in this world. I must be honest with you, there are costs to him, and so to you, either way. I can not ensure he will survive unscathed. I had thought to set him on the road toward myself and James and Sirius and Dumbledore; that he had been through so much here already that he had earned, deserved, peace. Now I see that I can not, you have shown me that. All I can do for all that you have given me is to tell you this; he will live now. Believe this, hold strong to it. It is up to you what that will mean.”

Hermione's heart leaped. She heard the warning in those words, knew by now the depth and breadth of what they could contain. Was it selfish to want him if it meant holding him to a life that could make the alternative a release? Could she really make that worth it all?

She knew she herself would die trying if only she could.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “You won't regret it, I promise. He will have a full life in whatever time he has, I promise you.”

Luna's voice was low and urgent, hurried now. “He will not come back safely from that school. There will be…. something, it could be almost anything at any time, I know not what… something will present an opportunity for you to help him. You will wish to, strongly, unthinkingly, I'm sure. You must not. Luna may do the thing, if possible, or Ron may. You must not, no matter how much better you think you can handle the situation for him. Do not leave him. As long as you heed this advice, the path forward will be hard, but he will live, somehow.”

Hermione felt herself concentrating fiercely, committing every word and nuance of the telling to memory. There was no timeturner now, no chance to do it over. She had to get it right.

“Voldemort is an evil man,” Lily continued through Luna once more. “But he is just a man in the end, and Dumbledore has shown Harry where his weakness lies. Do not despair, and you will both do not just the wizarding world, but humankind a great service. Nothing is ever forgotten. You have my blessing, Hermione. Good bye.”

Goodbye…? “No!” begged Hermione. “Wait, I have to ask… wait!”

But she knew. Luna was Luna again. Not confused or frightened but calmly accepting that something had happened, probably just from the way Hermione's eyes were boring into her.

“Did I say something?” she asked. “I had the strangest little day dream just then. I was in a beautiful, sunny, grassy meadow, and there was this really friendly black dog and a tame stag…

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Ron had used a disillusionment charm on himself almost as soon as Harry had taken off from the cave. Harry would be visible to those who could see thestrals, but Ron reckoned he should remain invisible no matter what. Durmstrang seemed to him to likely be the kind of place where thestrals might easily be seen by most of the population and go basically unnoticed, but still… That was hardly a good sign in his book.

It was quiet different flying on Harry than it had been going to the Department of Mysteries two years before. Then he had never come across more than a written description of a thestral (and he hadn't paid much attention to it at that.) He had been distinctly uncomfortable being born through the air by something he couldn't see, and being unable to adjust to its movements meant he had never for a moment relaxed on its back. Now he could actually watch Harry's great wings flapping; could see as well as feel the muscles in his withers pumping and pulling to keep them aloft. It felt bizarre to hold on to the long, tangled mane; he kept envisioning his friends messy hair entwined beneath his fingers. Friends should probably not fly friends. Unless it was an emergency, of course.

The snow was softer somehow, but no less dense or thickly falling. Perhaps it was the height at which they flew? Ron observed with interest as they passed over rocky outcroppings, a lake similar in size to the one beside Hogwarts, its waters a cold, sluggish bluey green in color and another smaller one with water so dark and deep it appeared almost black. Not anything you'd want to fall in, at any rate. He tightened his grip on Harry's mane, squeezing tighter with his knees, and heard Harry sneeze-snort in commiseration. Dense forests heavily populated with evergreens encompassed the whole. As they cleared the top of one particularly dark band of trees Ron felt Harry shift beneath him and change direction. Through the snow ahead he could just make out a hulking shadow and the glimmer of lights against it slightly north of their bearing. Windows in stone walls.

Durmstrang, when they came upon it, was considerably smaller than Hogwarts, just four stories tall. It was a forbidding structure, austere and secretive in its appearance. If Ron had not had an idea of where they were there was little that would have given it away as a school. He could feel the magic of the place, however; it roiled and shimmered above it like heat except that it was quite the opposite; chilling in fact. He knew if he could feel it, it must be pummeling Harry.

Harry banked into a lazy circle, high and well short of the building. If anyone were to notice, he should appear nothing more than a hungry thestral scanning the edge of the woods for prey. Ron got a thestrals' eye view of the school as he did, scanning the layout of the building and scoping doors and escape routes. After a suitable interval Harry flew along the perimeter of the surrounding forest and Ron was able to do the same to the rest of the building. On the far side there was a Quidditch pitch spelled to stay free of falling snow and what appeared to be most of the student body was being put through the paces of an early morning workout; sit ups, push ups and running around the edge of the pitch seemed to be the order of the day.

Ron was never more sure Hogwarts was the Wizard school for him. The thought of McGonagall rousting them all for pre-breakfast exercise was really and truly off-putting.

Harry circled back slowly, losing himself in the forest for a bit and then landed on the far side of the pitch behind the stands that surrounded it. Ron slipped from his back and kept watch as he changed shape, then both ducked into the shadowy shelter of the risers.

“No matter how many times I see it, it'll still be brilliant Harry,” he whispered admiringly. Harry grinned, but Ron could see his face was pale and tired.

“What do you reckon?” Harry asked softly, nodding toward the building.

“Oh, it's Durmstrang all right. Look at the leaders of the drills. Probably prefects, or whatever they call them here. They get to stay nice and toasty in their uniforms,” Ron told him. The same uniform Krum had worn to Hogwarts for the Tri Wizard tournament. He wasn't likely to forget that anytime soon. The other students wore drab gray track suits.

“Technically, that means we should leave now and go get Hermione and Luna and head back to Hogwarts,” Harry said slowly.

“Yup,” Ron replied.

Harry's eyes closed; the struggle was easily apparent on his face. “Okay,” he said at last, beginning to turn back toward the woods. “Let's…”

He didn't finish, and Ron laughed aloud. “Hell, Harry, you didn't even make it to…”

The reason Harry hadn't made it through the sentence became painfully obvious once Ron turned around as well; he was staring down the length of a pointed wand.

“Good morning,” said its owner in perfect, if accented, English. “Or not, for you. Expelliarmus.”

Their still-sheathed wands flew into his outstretched hand. He appeared familiar, but in the sense of reminding Ron of someone, rather than actually being someone he simply couldn't place. Older than Bill, but not by too much. Dark hair, only just lighter than Harry's, and at least as tall as Ron. He had a face that might have been handsome if not for the malevolence of its expression and eyes as black and fathomless as Snape's.

An Incarcerous followed. Thick ropes tied fast their hands behind their backs.

“And now you will walk. Quietly. Or I will do this.”

A muttered spell and a flick of his wand later and Ron felt a strip of liquid fire erupt across his back. He cursed and stumbled forward, away, and heard Harry's barely stifled hiss beside him.

“Proceed. Silently. Eyes on the ground,” they were instructed again.

Ron reckoned there was nothing for it but to go along and hope for a better chance to overpower their captor and retrieve their wands closer to the school; they were heading back beyond it anyway. He could see Harry's eyes roving desperately, looking for an escape route. He tried to catch his attention and barely shook his head, hoping to indicate that they would have to play along to make a safe break. Harry nodded almost imperceptibly but Ron watched in alarm as he bit back a scream as the lashing spell came down across his best friends' shoulder. He winced in sympathy. This guy clearly meant business. Not good.

“Eyes on the ground!”

They were marched through the Quidditch pitch, to the evident interest of the students and the delight of the prefects.

“Look what Professor Ratsel has caught himself! A couple of little lost Hogwarts!” a voice chortled.

Ron could only see feet passing with his eyes on the ground. Krum's fellow Tri Wizard hopefuls should have all graduated by now; he wouldn't have recognized any of them anyway, he guessed. He could hear the students muttering amongst themselves as they moved by.

“Potter…” “It's Potter…” “Harry Potter…” made its way through the ranks around them.

There was a sudden movement beyond his range of vision and he saw Harry go down to his knees and buckle over without his hands to save him as a student at least as large as Crabbe and certainly as stupid shoved him and aimed a vicious kick at his midsection. Ron heard the air forced from his lungs with a gasp.

“That was my brother you sent to Azkaban with that Slytherin girl, and my cousin with him!”

Ron only just managed to stop himself from either stepping on Harry or falling over him as their captor flicked his wand first at the Durmstrang student - who had been moving on to Ron and was instead flung bodily back into the ranks of his class - and then at Harry, who was jerked to his feet like a puppet on strings. He swayed, panting, clearly trying to re-inflate his lungs.

“You will keep your petty grievances to yourselves!” their captor rapped out to the surrounding students. “The Dark Lord arrives tomorrow. He and he alone shall decide the fate of Dumbledore's chosen one. You will be lucky enough to watch and be able to say that you were there when our Lord brought Potter to heel, and finished him as Dumbledore was finished before him!”

He prodded Harry with his wand and Ron watched him stumble forward through the now silent ranks toward the school then followed after. Clearly the student body as a whole must now be nothing but Voldemort supporters. Effing brilliant. They would never be able to escape before entering the school building with those odds. Harry's initial panic was starting to seem like a perfectly viable option. Ron took a deep breath, eyes glued to the ground. Think! Keep thinking! Somehow, for some reason, he felt it was going to be his job to get them both out of this.

They were prodded in through heavy black walnut doors that slammed shut with an air of finality once they were inside, taking the snowblown brightness with it. Durmstrang was quite obviously old, if not as ancient as Hogwarts. It lacked what had always seemed to Ron to be Hogwarts worn, broken-in comfort, its sense of history in the endless ebb and flow of students through it. This building was cold, faintly sinister and yet austere; there was little to give away the nature of what went on within.

Ron thought they would be taken to the equivalent of Dumbledore's office, to be shown off to whoever had taken Karkaroff's place after he had fled following the Tri Wizard tournament; it seemed only logical that this Professor Ratsel would want to show off his catch. There might still be a chance to escape there. If there was a Floo-networked fireplace in this hell-hole; that would likely be the place.

Alas, unless the Head of the Durmstrang Institute was quite Slytherin in his leanings - not an entirely impossible option, mind you - they were headed somewhere infinitely less escape-likely.

Durmstrang, it turned out, possessed dungeons. Not Draco Malfoy style silk-sheeted opulent rooms-without-windows, either. Cold stone and metal-barred chambers that stunk of fear. Who in their right bloody mind sent their kids of somewhere with actual working dungeons?

Duh, Ron, he chided himself. Same ones that thought Voldemort had an excellent national health policy. Kill the spare!

Filch would wet himself.

Ron found himself pushed across the main room into a cell-like enclosure with a barred door. The incarcerous spell was ended as he crossed the threshold. His wave of panic when the metal door closed behind him was nothing on the sight that greeted him when he turned around to grasp the bars with his freed hands. Harry was thrust against the wall opposite, his incarcerous removed and his limbs splayed and securely chained. Clearly they were a bit more concerned about Harry escaping than they were Ron. Not that he was complaining, mind you, but that was probably the real reason he felt he was going to have to be the one with the plan this time round. Harry looked like he was about to be otherwise occupied.

They needed to get out of there, fast.

Ratsel disappeared briefly and when he returned moved directly to Harry and fastened something around his neck. It appeared to Ron to be a heavy cord with some kind of medallion or charm on it; all he knew is that when it settled around his friends' throat and touched his skin Harry let out an unearthly sound, too raw and agonized even to qualify as a scream.

Ratsel's eyes glinted as he turned to Ron. “It opposes his magic, this little charm. Blocks it quite thoroughly. The more powerful the wizard, the more potent the backlash. He appears quite as strong as he was rumored to be.”

The sound had stopped; Harry was too preoccupied with throwing himself against the chains and straining to try and climb the wall behind him, anything to break the contact of the charm against his skin.

“A pity for him, really,” Ratsel continued. “He would have been better off were it truly a deception, like so much else of Dumbledore's supposed Wizardry.”

“Harry's never been known for his restraint,” Ron said, hearing the wobble in his voice and squeezing the bars hard to steady himself. “He'll fight that thing until something breaks, even if it's him. If you plan on making a gift of him to Vol.... the Dark Lord, you might want to reconsider.”

Ratsel moved closer to Ron's door, his boots clicking ominously against the stone. “You must be his friend from Hogwarts, then. Westley.”

“Er, Weasley, actually.” Ron told him. Like it matters, Ron! The anxiety that Harry's struggle evoked in him made it a fight not to scream himself. He wanted to rage and curse at the man before him, to hex him into tiny little pieces. The urge to reach through the bars and grab his neck and squeeze, ram his head against the metal again and again… until what? Even if he could somehow, he wouldn't be free of his cell, would be no closer to freeing Harry from his torment. “I've known him since he was eleven, trust me on this. If you want anything left for the Dark Lord, and I've heard he wants Harry alive, you're going to want to ramp it back a bit.”

The man seemed to Ron for a moment uncertain; his mind raced to find something, anything to convince him.

“It's Snape's fault, or course. D'you know Severus? Plays both sides, that one. He taught Harry a bit about the scar connection, Harry's known for awhile that if he hurts himself the Dark Lord feels it all as well, and Harry doesn't much care what he does as long as it gets to the Dark Lord too. A bit strange that way, Harry. They were at each other a few days ago; I heard your Lord was so sick he had to travel by Muggle car because he couldn't apparate. You might want to check that this isn't pissing him off, too.”

Wow. That was a whopper, Ron. Best hope that sodding Voldemort gets a headache right quick now!

Ratsel's eyes flickered and his wand followed them. Ron found his head suddenly through the bars which were tightening considerably around his neck.

“How do you know of this?” he asked harshly, his fingers grabbing hold of Ron's hair and pulling his head sharply upright. The bars seemed to be bending, molding themselves tighter still.

“Snape taught him how - so he can do it just for the hell of it or to distract the Dark Lord when something important is happening. The erm, Order needed the Dark Lord's attention elsewhere that day. Worked, didn't it? But I… I won't tell you any more than that!”

Holy crap am I full of it. This must be how naturally it comes to the twins, then. Though giving Snape up feels awfully good, I must say.

Harry had already worn the skin around his restraints raw; Ron could see a dark stain of blood seeping down one arm. His movements hadn't slowed in all this time, if anything they grew more frantic.

Come on, rat face! Give him a break!

Ratsel seemed to come to a decision, and flicked his wand in Harry's direction. The cord of the spelled medallion remained around his neck but the charm itself hovered in the air inches above Harry's chest. The relief was immediate; his body sagged against the wall, held upright only by the chains.

Ron felt as if a corresponding weight was lifted on his end. Of course, the bars closing around his neck were something of a problem now…

His oxygen deprived brain became aware of the sudden presence of another figure in the room, claiming Ratsel's attention. The choking sensation began to recede.

It was a student, Durmstrangs' equivalent to Head Boy by the look of the extra insignias encrusting his uniform. His eyes took in Harry's still form and Ron's gasping head protruding from the cell door with a lip-curl of disdain.

“We have searched thoroughly, Professor. They were alone. We have contacted Madam Lestrange as you requested, and she awaits you by the…usual method, in your office.”

“Thank you, Fraktor. You are to lock the door behind you, and no one is to be admitted without my personal approval. No one but myself is to approach Potter under any circumstances.”

“Yes, Professor.”

“Our Lord's reign will be renewed absolute upon that boy's death, but it must be at our Lord's own hands. You are responsible for seeing not only that he does not escape, but that he remains alive. If he gives sign of doing anything to damage himself, stop him and notify me immediately.”

“Yes, Professor Ratsel. And the other?”

“Sings like a canary,” said Ratsel with a sneer. “I doubt you'll have any problems with him.”

The door slammed shut behind the two. The sound of multiple locks clicking and grinding into place made Ron feel faint. They were well and truly effed now.

He noticed Harry didn't bat an eyelash. He was still hanging against his restraints but his eyes were open and fixed intently upon the medallion hovering around his neck.

He was used to the sound of locks, after all.

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Little bit of a cliffie there, sort of. *Grins* On the plus side, lots more of this bit written, so I hope not to leave you waiting as long for the next part. (Like a week is that long. I'm sweating it out for you guys, you know!) Lots of swashbuckling wand waving, flying spells and action!Harry and battleblazing!Ron. Hermione and Luna will return to kick some WANKER bum. “Guest appearances” abound. And no, I haven't forgotten Draco or the locket - they'll be making an appearance shortly as well. We're not facing the final battle or anything here - just a warm up. Nothing better than a good comfort shag after, too. *grins even wider* Dan's “I'm legal now!” MTV comments are…inspiring me.

Thanks for reading and reviewing - I love your comments.

~ Lynney

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21. Chapter 20

Official Fine Print: Nope. Not mine. The brainchildren of the mighty pen of JK Rowling. Just playing with them. Honest.

Magic Never Dies

Chapter 20

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It was three full hours before Hermione and Luna gave up their vigil. Harry's request had been clear enough and they had given it an extra hour. Hermione knew they had to go home to Hogwarts and get help. Fear clawed at the edges of her mind; she kept it at bay only by concentrating as fully as she could on exactly what she had to do. They made their way out of the cave and managed to help each other through the perilous climb down the rock face to level ground. Flying in with the Durmstrang dragons in pursuit they had not actually realized how high it was.

Not such a bad thing, really; Hermione found she still wasn't terribly fond of heights. It had been so different with Harry flying bravely beneath her.

Once clear of the rocks they made for the cover of the tree line and began looking for signs of the thestrals, hoping Xavier could take them beyond the apparition barriers around the school grounds.

They trudged onward through the snow in a generally westward direction utilizing Hermione's wand and a point-me spell, without a seeing a single sign of anything else alive.

“How do you call a thestral?” Luna wondered. “Other than having a nice freshly bloody carcass for a treat…”

“Hagrid does it, it's some sort of a high-pitched scream.” Hermione remembered. “I might as well give it a go, I'm in a perfect frame of mind to scream. I'm sure I can give the impression I'm killing something nice and bloody. I've got an image all picked out.”

Snape made excellent thestral bait; they were surrounded by a circle of the skeletal black beasts in no time at all. Identifying Xavier was slightly more difficult, but the wild ones were skittish enough that they quickly narrowed it down to two that allowed themselves to be approached. Hermione reckoned it didn't really matter if they guessed right at that point as long as at least one of the two was willing to take them where they needed to go. They clambered up onto the back of the quietest and asked to be taken beyond Durmstrangs' grounds.

The thestral galloped forward and left the ground with a mighty leap, thrusting them into the air as the leathery wings unfurled and caught the wind. Hermione was reminded painfully and powerfully of flying with Harry just the day before. Her heart felt trapped, constricted within her own chest at the thought of leaving him behind. She pushed the feeling from the forefront of her mind, forcing herself to focus again only on getting him back, quickly and safely. She began sorting through what she would have to say to Professor McGonagall, to Remus, to convince them that speed was of the essence. She didn't want to argue about why they had been portkeyed or about who knew what and when; all that could wait until Harry and Ron were safe. She just wanted them to help, quickly and surely, to step in and make it all right again. Well, as right as it ever was. She just wanted him back.

Luna sat serenely behind her, holding tight. She seemed less worried than eager to get started, to have some decisions made and some plan underway. Hermione wondered if she had some sense about what was to come, but found she couldn't bear to ask.

The thestral cleared a last band of predominantly evergreen forest and set them down beside the banks of a small stream. They slipped one by one from its back and made much of patting and petting it since they had no food with which to reward it. Hermione could sense at once the difference between Harry and the true beast; this thestral was entirely disinterested in their affections and simply raised its dragonish head, curling its nose and scenting the wind before moving off downstream.

“I'll apparate us just outside the gates,” Hermione said. “I'm going to go straight to Professor McGonagall to get things started with the Order.”

“Oh, never mind that, I can apparate myself,” said Luna. “I don't really believe that the Ministry should be able to license us just so they can track our movements. They've dumbed down witches and wizards no end so they can control us. The Rotfang conspiracy is only the beginning. I'm not afraid of them, and it hardly matters if they pick it up now. I'll go alert the DA while you talk to Professor McGonagall, shall I?”

It was one of life's small epiphany moments. Hermione had always believed Luna's reasoning simply… strange. Unfounded in reality, a product of reading the Quibbler for one's primary source of information. In truth, relying on the Daily Prophet, even with a hefty dose of salt, had probably left Hermione little better prepared or informed. Despite her unlikely theories Luna was the one in fact actually thinking for herself.

“Er, good idea, but we can't just crash in there and think we'll rescue them, we've got to have a plan…”

“Really?” said Luna as they began to rotate into their apparitions, “Why ever not? They'd never expect us not to have a plan.”

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“Harry?” Ron called softly. They'd been alone for some time now, at least a quarter hour or so, and he thought it should be safe enough to talk somewhat freely. “How're you hanging in there, mate?”

“If that was a joke, Ron, you're a sad, sick individual,” Harry's voice rasped back.

Ron winced. Oops. At least Harry's sense of humor was intact. He rose to his feet and made his way closer to the door of his cell. He was stiff and bitterly cold in the damp chill of the dungeons; he could only imagine how Harry was feeling still chained to the wall. He could see his friend shift against his restraints in search of a position to ease the discomfort of his weight pulling on his wrists. His attention still seemed to be entirely focused on the charm around his neck.

“Er, Sorry. Wasn't thinking is all. Does that thing,… is it still working when it's not touching you?”

Harry nodded and his eyes rose to Ron's

“Yeah. Listen, Ron, I'm really sorry about all of this…”

“Shut up, Harry. Don't even start. We're going to get out of here; it's going to be fine. Really. Hermione and Luna are probably already back at Hogwarts rousing the Order.”

“Even if I had a wand in my hand I'd be worse than useless with this effing thing on. If I could just get it off for a minute I could call Fawkes. He could bring the locket; we have to destroy it now, Ron. If he kills me tomorrow he'll still be essentially immortal. It only takes one.”

“What about the cup, though, Harry? We'd need that as well, wouldn't we?”

“It's here somewhere. I'm sure of it.”

“If we destroy the locket and the cup…” Ron said slowly. “Does he know that you're one of them?”

“You mean, does he think the connection runs deeper than just the scar? No idea. I should think he'd have figured it out by now though, even if it was accidental when he did it. I wonder how you tell there's a bit of your soul gone missing when you're already that… soulless. But since he knew what he was doing there at the time, the possibility of an accident should have occurred to him before Dumbledore figured it out.”

“If we destroy the locket and the cup,” Ron repeated, “and he realizes you're the last one, he might keep you alive, right? I mean without you he'd just be mortal again wouldn't he? Anything happens to you and he's right back vulnerable to an Avada Kedavra again, isn't he?”

“He'll still kill me. He thinks he has to because of the prophecy. Maybe he'll try and take it all back and start over. I've no idea what all the theories behind this are; I'm not even entirely sure there are any, which is probably why he got started with it in the first place. He was that powerful, he reckoned he could get away with anything he could manage.”

“Not right away he won't, though,” Ron insisted, suddenly enamored of the idea and conveniently ignoring the rest of what Harry told him. “It makes sense to keep you prisoner or something until he can figure out how. We've got to destroy the locket and cup and make sure he knows it. If I can find a way to get that thing off you, you can call Fawkes and have him bring the locket?”

“In theory,” Harry said tiredly. “But I've been trying and trying and I've just knackered myself for nothing…”

“Then you take it easy and leave it to me, mate. I'll think of something.”

Across the dungeon Ron saw a ghost of a smile pass across his friend's face. It hit him afresh that they were actually locked up in a dungeon, that Harry was chained to a wall. A year ago his worst worry for this point would have been revising for his N.E.W.T.s.

Effing Voldemort.

A strange thing occurred to Ron then. Once you were well and truly threatened, the thing doing the threatening lost its mystery and a fair bit of its initial power. No wonder Harry had been able to say `Voldemort' at such a young age, unimpressed. He'd been in the cross hairs already and had so little to lose.

Now that Ron was actually shut up in a dungeon awaiting Voldemort himself and his life options were narrowed down to living or dying, there seemed little point in being all that afraid. He would do one, or the other, and he had one decent shot at it. But if he could keep Harry alive as well, Harry was the one meant to finish this thing once and for all…. Ron couldn't destroy a horcrux, and he was pretty sure that Voldemort could wipe the floor with him. But keeping Harry alive? Ron reckoned he ought to be able to do at least something about that. And given what Harry had begun to be able to do lately, Ron figured Harry had at least a decent shot at Voldemort as well.

Ron was really getting tired of this whole shadow of evil thing. This was supposed to be his final year at Hogwarts. He was supposed to be having his best Quidditch year ever, figuring out what he wanted to do with his life and snogging someone senseless in empty classrooms. Someone like Luna, who cold still make him laugh in spite of it all. This dungeon crap was just not on the menu. He'd given up enough already; it was time to turn the tide a bit.

The sound of the lock scraping open reached their ears.

The door opened and closed again; peering through the gloom Ron saw the Head boy, Fraktor, and another figure. Whoever it was, they were shorter than Ratsel and stockier; Ron reckoned they were likely another student from the school. One point in their favor, anyway.

His theory was confirmed as the two moved toward Harry and began speaking.

“The mighty Harry Potter… doesn't look so mighty now, does he, Dolohov?”

Ron saw Harry's eyes spark at the name. It was the Death Eater Dolohov that had felled Hermione in the Department of Mysteries two years before; even if the name was nothing more than a coincidence Ron wouldn't want to be this one given the redoubled intensity of Harry's feelings for her now.

Dolohov the younger spit in Harry's direction in answer. “He is nothing. He has always been nothing. A puppet for Dumbledore. But since Dumbledore is no more, he will have to serve for this instead. This is for my father's imprisonment in Azkaban, you jumped up little shit. Crucio.”

It was the son, then. Harry didn't make a sound, and for a glorious moment Ron thought that Dolohov had not properly cast the spell, or was not powerful enough himself to really hurt him. Then Fraktor moved, clapping Dolohov on the shoulder and laughing and Ron saw his hope had been in vain. Harry's teeth were clenched against whatever sound he would have made, but the rest of him was clearly in the throes of an effective curse, jerking against his restraints for all he was worth.

It struck Ron that the two attacks on Harry since they had arrived were both revenge for other family members caught up in failed attacks for Voldemort. Ratsel had fed them the party line about the glory of being there when Voldemort arrived, but so far it seemed the students were all about themselves or their personal revenge. Fraktor was disobeying Ratsel's direct orders by bringing his friend in to have a go at Harry. Perhaps Voldemort's sway at the school wasn't as strong as it first appeared. Another point in their favor, perhaps. Any potential weakness was a good one.

Fat lot of good that does Harry right now, though… Ron felt a scream of sympathy twitch to be loosed in the back of his throat just having to watch.

Dolohov ended the curse and waited just long enough for Harry to sag in relief against his bonds before renewing it. As his body surged helplessly again in its involuntary attempt to escape the curse there was a hideous popping sound and Ron saw his struggle become uneven, one shoulder suddenly misshapen and the still chained arm angled strangely from it.

Dolohov and Fraktor doubled over in laughter, apparently finding a dislocated shoulder hysterically good fun.

The spell was broken and Harry sagged against his restraints again, breathing heavily. His disjointed shoulder stretched under his weight and Ron watched as Harry, suddenly finding considerably more leeway to shift about… thrust and twisted his head down and clear of the floating medallion's cord.

In the length of a disbelieving blink of Ron's eyes, Harry's ankle restraints dropped away and his legs kicked up at Dolohov, knocking aside his wand and twining around his neck in a single desperate motion. There was a sickening crack and the boy slumped to the ground, taking Harry with him as the chains that bound his arms broke open as well.

Fraktor seemed stunned for a moment then clearly decided it was time to share the feeling with Harry. Ron watched without daring to breathe, his heart pounding in his ears as the wand pointed at his friend.

“Petrificus totallus!”

Harry managed to roll away from the spell and staggered to his feet, crouching and dodging the next as well. The dislocated shoulder seemed to render his one arm almost useless; the other scrabbled madly for Dolohov's wand.

“You don't need it Harry! Don't waste time! Take him down now.” Ron bellowed, and saw realization dawn in Harry's pain-clouded eyes.

Fraktor swapped over to reductor and a glancing hit was enough to blow Harry back toward Ron's door. He seemed anxious to put some room between them, believing Ron was encouraging Harry to physically attack without the wand. Ron reached through the bars and grabbed what he could, heard Harry hiss as his fingers grasped the injured arm. He quickly let go and grasped a handful of sweatshirt instead and pulled Harry back against the door, helping him to gain his feet against it and hauling him upright. No words were spoken, but Fraktor suddenly hung upside down, dangling well clear of the floor.

His utter surprise bought time for a hoarsely whispered Expeliarmus to remove his wand and an Incarcerous bound his arms and legs.

“You can not…” Fraktor spluttered, until a Silencio finished his sentence for him.

Harry turned round, clinging to the door for support as his limbs uncramped. An “Alohamora” failed to achieve the desired effect, as did the next three unlocking, unsealing and opening spells he tried with Fraktor's claimed wand.

“Bloody fucking hell!” he screamed in hoarse frustration, at the end of his meager tether now. The door opened. Fell open, was more like it. Hinges and all.

Ron knew Harry wasn't the huggy sort, but under the circumstances felt that was really just too damn bad. A manly clap on the back looked likely to flatten him, anyway.

“Strange passwords they've got in this place,” Harry said, not even bothering to fight him off. “Suppose that works on the front door too?”

The charmed medallion still hung in mid-air across the room, the cord dangling now.

Harry broke away and moved toward it - uncomfortably close in Ron's opinion, given the effect it had on him.

He passed his hand above and below it, murmuring, ”Diffusium,” The medallion glowed, flared brightly and died out. “Hope that worked,” he said with a ghost of a grin, “but I'm not about to try it out. Let's get out of here.”

They took turns attempting to open the door, Ron using Fraktor's wand and Harry now the younger Dolohov's. All the usual opening spells failed once again. Bad language was no more successful, although they had an excellent and stress relieving session trying the worst and most inventive they could come up with. It was not until Harry kicked it in raw frustration once more that it fell open.

“You need to cultivate your inner beast,” Ron told him. “Save us all kinds of time. I know the way out. Follow me.”

“You go,” Harry said, looking wistful but determined. “The cup is here somewhere, I know it. I've got to at least try.”

“Harry!”

“Look, we've bloody just knocked the door down, d'you think no one's coming? Go - I'll meet you back at Hogwarts.”

“Forget it. Lead the way. I can't leave you here and we can't waste time arguing about it. If you were an evil minded Wanker, where would you hide the cup?”

Ron watched as Harry quickly surveyed their options: three hallways. One led to the stairs they had come down, one disappeared off in darkness, unlit and apparently unused. The last appeared to lead to someplace more commonly accessed; and Ron watched as Harry paused to sniff the air again. He was about to joke about not turning into a thestral in the hallway when the same smell accosted his nostrils, familiar and yet tantalizingly unnamable.

“Potions labs,” Harry said, turning away. “Let's not go there.” His shoulder brushed the wall and Ron saw him stagger again and almost lose his footing.

“Hang on,” he said, and stepped quickly back through the fallen door. He grabbed the struggling Fraktor's cloak off him and used his wand to tear off a strip of the heavy material. Fraktor swayed above him, cursing silently, his face magenta.

Back out in the hall he handed the strip to a puzzled Harry and righted the heavy door, shoving it into place so that it appeared - at least to the most casual observer - intact. He led the way into the darkness of the unused hallway, took the torn cloak back and knotted it into a makeshift sling.

“Didn't Lupin put it back in for you last time? Maybe we could..”

“No!” Harry interjected sharply. “Tonks did it wrong and it hurt worse than pulling it out. Besides, Lupin said something about how my Dad used it to convince someone he was hurt and not a threat and then got it back in joint later and was able to surprise them. It makes sense. I think I could get it to go back in if I had to, let's leave it for now just in case. It's not so bad at all once it's still in this,” he said, easing it into the sling.

“Alright,” Ron agreed doubtfully. “So where too?”

“We don't have much time,” Harry said. “They'll find us missing soon enough. We need to find…. Hmm. Do you reckon they use house elves?”

“These blokes? It's an all boys' school, Harry. Of course they use house elves, you'd be able to locate the place on smell alone else.”

Again the shadow of his old grin ghosted across his face. “To the kitchens then. They may not give us any information, but they may not take sides and report us right away either. Do a locator on something you'd find in the kitchens and let's see where that gets us. I'm going to try and call Fawkes while you do.”

Ron finished his own task and then watched Harry, his eyes closed and expression intent. It seemed to take longer than he would have thought; Ron figured Fawkes was giving Harry a hard time over something. Finally there was a nerve shattering “pop” in the silence and a single red-gold feather spiraled quickly down under the weight of Slytherins' locket. Ron quickly grabbed it before Harry could.

“Not here, mate. I know you've got to do your thing, but let's get someplace more secure first. We've got it safe, that's enough.” He stuffed it into the pocket of his robes.

Harry looked like he wanted to argue but thought better of it and bit back his words. “Okay. Let's go then. Lead on.”

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Professor McGonagall was so enormously pleased and relieved to see Hermione when she burst into her office that it took her several minutes more to truly take in what she was saying.

“Harry and Ron are at Durmstrang? Durmstrang?? My goodness whatever possessed you three to go there? Without a word to any of us? Professor Snape and I were beside ourselves with worry when you didn't return. And Durmstrang's gone quite dark these days if the rumors are to be credited.”

“It wasn't by choice,” Hermione said, glaring daggers at Snape. “That potion was a portkey. As soon as we touched it we were all transported there.”

“All four of you? Transported together? What were you doing?” purred Snape. “I'm sure the boys of Durmstrang were delighted to see you.”

At least he seemed not to know where the portkey had left them - or else he was doing an excellent job faking it, a task certainly well within his capabilities.

“It dumped us into a snow bank as a matter of fact. We had no idea where we were. It wasn't until Harry became a thestral and we were attacked by dragons on our way to the cave where James and Sirius and Lily had been that…” Hermione thought Professor McGonagall's eyes could get no wider without serious lasting injury.

“Hermione, perhaps we should call Madam Pomfrey first and then continue our conversation. Did you strike your head, dear?”

Hermione closed her eyes and took a deep, cleansing breath. “I'm not going to attempt to explain it all now. The most important thing is that Harry and Ron went to go and have a look at the school and they didn't come back. I'm sure they're being held there against their will, and we've got to get to them as soon as we can. So please, can you call Remus and Tonks and let's do something.”

There was a moment when Hermione realized things could have gone either way. It had not been easy for Minerva McGonagall to step into Dumbledore's shoes; she could run the school without question but had neither his omniscience nor, to be certain, his meddlesome tendencies beyond the school's walls. She saw her old Head of House turn to the Headmaster's portrait and raise an inquiring eyebrow.

Dumbledore's likeness raised two thumbs, eyes twinkling furiously. “Go get them Minerva. By Merlin I wish I had a portrait there to see this!”

Professor McGonagall sighed and headed for the fire. “I'll call Remus. We must plan and quickly. I imagine you wish to go along, Hermione?”

“Yes Ma'am,” she said politely, enormously relieved the Headmistress now accepted the fact. “I do. And I will. No matter what.”

It was at this point in Hermione's mind that Remus Lupin truly came in to his own as head of the Order. He listened without interrupting or displaying any real surprise to Professor McGonagall's explanation, then stepped through the fire in the Headmistress's office at once, wrapping his worn robes around him and brushing them free of ash and Floo powder, already focused on the problem. His eyes came to rest on Hermione and smiled.

“Just the one I was hoping to see. We'll get them back, never you mind. Tell me, when was the last time you spoke with Viktor Krum?”

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Harry and Ron had crept through the bowels of Durmstrang, dodging from shadow to shadow. It turned out, from what they could overhear here and there through doors and in one highly unpleasant instance, a laundry chute; that much of the school was tied up in preparations for Voldemort's apparently unanticipated arrival. The laundry chute had provided a quick, if odiferous and for Harry somewhat jolting and painful, escape from discovery by a gossiping group of students who had burst suddenly into the lavatory they were hiding in after finally succeeding in slowly working their way up to the main floors. On the down side, they found themselves back not far from where they had started in what was clearly the main laundry, but one major goal was still certainly achieved. They had come into contact with Durmstrang's house elves; and a more sulky, surly crew would be hard to come by.

Ron thought even Kreacher might have been depressed working with this lot.

The elves appeared roughly similar in physical makeup to the common British house elf, although these tended to have a pronounced greenish tinge to their skin and their tennis-ball sized eyes ran to an unhealthy seeming yellow. Their bat-like ears were smaller, and many were notched or forked at the tip. They drudged wearily about their tasks in the laundry room dressed in drab grey tea towels, and there was none of the cheerful chatter that had characterized either Ron or Harry's very occasional visits to the same facility at Hogwarts. The only sound here was the occasional grumble or put-upon sigh.

On the plus side, however, they were obviously disinterested in Harry and Ron. In fact they couldn't seem to get a response from a single one of them; try as they might, they might as well have been invisible.

“They need…dare I say it? S.P.E.W might actually have a purpose here.” Ron muttered.

“They need Dobby,” Harry whispered back.

“They'd KILL Dobby. His cheerfulness would offend them no end.”

It was at this juncture that Fawkes himself appeared in a mighty gold-feathered flash and deposited that paragon of laundry rooms everywhere: Draco Malfoy. Harry was almost certain he heard the magical bird laugh as he immediately took off again on some other, obviously more vital, mission.

“That's it, we're toast. What the bloody hell is he doing here?” Ron stormed.

“We weren't keeping up with his laundry needs, obviously,” said Harry tiredly.

“Pardon me, I'm having the most horrible nightmare. Would one of you pinch me? Because right now my eyes seem to be telling me I am in some strange laundry facility with Scarhead and the Weasel,” Draco informed the closest group of house elves.

“Draco Malfoy in Durmstrang. This should be interesting.” Ron observed.

“Durmstrang? What the…. ow! Get off me you pestilent little rodent.” Draco hissed.

“House elves don't do rhetorical questions, Malfoy. Or irony, or humor, at least this lot. You asked them to pinch you…” Harry told him.

“Where is that overgrown chicken of yours, Potter? I've seen enough, thanks.”

“Clearly he had something more important to do,” Harry told him. “You're stuck here with us. You have two fabulous choices. You can help us get out of here, or you can be your usual pain in the arse and we'll all get to stick around for Voldemort's housewarming tomorrow. The accommodations will suit you perfectly if all those school rumors about you and whips and chains were really true.”

Ron hadn't known Malfoy could get any paler.

“What exactly are you two doing here?”

“Looking for something,” Ron told him. “Now shut it and leave it shut. We need to think.”

Malfoy smirked. He no longer needed to provide the insults; Ron and Harry knew them by heart. `With what?' `Don't hurt yourselves trying,' That will be a first, won't it?'

Ron glowered.

Harry sighed. “We need to find a small, gold cup, about so big,” he said, stretching the fingers of his working hand to indicate the size. “It's got two handles. We need to find it right quick, too, because the Head thinks Ron's in a cell and I'm hanging off a wall in chains with my magic blocked. Once they figure out we're gone they'll start looking, and then my best advice is just…run.”

“You're setting me free?”

“There are anti-apparition wards round the school for miles. If you can get yourself out of here alive, then yeah. You're free to go,” Harry agreed.

Malfoy grinned, and then the grin faded. “So you've well and truly screwed up again, haven't you?”

“Like Ron said, Malfoy. Help out or sod off.”

Ice blue eyes narrowed. “Elf!” he called imperiously to a group of elves discontentedly pairing socks over a basket, “Bring me a glass of water.”

To Harry and Ron's utter surprise a grumbling elf broke off from the group and disappeared with a pop, reappearing several seconds later with a neatly laid tray and three glasses of water. A small table appeared with a click of the elf's fingers, and the tray was thumped down grudgingly upon it.

“Thank you,” Harry said cautiously.

The elf glared, and headed back to the sock-sorters.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Elf!”

The elf paused and turned about sourly.

“What's your name?”

“Ogby, Young Master.”

“Ogby, we've been sent ahead by the Dark Lord to prepare the ritual cup. Where is it?”

The elf's eyes glittered; Harry got the distinct sense that he knew they were lying through their teeth and frankly couldn't give a rat's tail who won out in the end, the Durmstrang students or the strangers before him. Apparently there was a limit to house elf loyalty. Wizards were wizards; they might serve here, but they clearly didn't like the current administration.

“Which one, Young Master?” he asked.

“The golden one with two handles, of course,” Malfoy bluffed on.

The elf shook his head. “No cup like that, Young Master. Not in ritual stores.”

“Er… it's been years since it was used, the special one.” Harry tried.

The elf looked quizzical.

“The one for little rituals. It's quite small, really,” suggested Ron.

The elf shook its head. Malfoy mouthed `Little rituals?' at Ron over its head, and rolled his eyes again.

“The Hogwarts cup,” Harry said suddenly.

“'In the trophy room, Young Master. Ogby knows it needs cleaning, Young Master. Don't blame Ogby. Ogby not allowed to touch the Hogwarts cup. No house elf allowed to touch.”

“Take us, Ogby,” Malfoy commanded.

“Never mind, Ogby, just tell us where to find it, please,” Harry asked, crossing his eyes at Malfoy and shaking his head. The house elf would take them by the most heavily traveled path; they needed to get there as quickly and quietly as possible.

“And we'll need some clean clothes,” Ron said suddenly. “These are…are unacceptable after traveling. Simple student uniforms will do.”

Harry grinned at him, a real one this time.

Harry and Ron gratefully drank their water and split Malfoy's between them when he declined it, then took it in turns finding Durmstrang uniforms that fit from the clean laundry. This last turned out to be something of a task in particular for Harry and Draco; clearly the Durmstrang regimen of workouts paid off, or they were just really big boys to begin with. Either way, Harry wasn't anxious to go one-on-one with any of them. He hid his injured arm beneath a Durmstrang cloak, and reckoned if nothing else if it ever came down to it Hogwarts students would have a small advantage in the comfort of their uniforms.

Clothed at last and armed with directions from Ogby, they set off for the Durmstrang trophy room.

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Hermione was terribly impressed with how fast the Order could move when it had to.

After giving Lupin the last address she had had for Viktor, it was a matter of no more than a quarter hour that Tonks had him in the office ready and eager to help.

“It is not right, what is done at Durmstrang now. It is not school any longer, is barracks for Ratsel's Army,” he told them. “If this means the school returns to what it was, I will help. And for Hermyonny, I will do what she wants. Harry Potter is good seeker also.”

“Ratsel?” Lupin asked. “I don't believe I've heard of him. I never knew who took over when Karkaroff….”

“Got what was comin' to him, the…” interjected Mad Eye Moody.

“Anton Ratsel?” Kingsley Shacklebolt deep voice asked quickly, cutting Moody off. At Viktor's nod he turned back to Lupin. “He's only recently come into his own, maybe the last two or three years. He's not a Death Eater, not yet, anyway, but he clearly supports the unlimited practice of the Dark Arts and has done the bidding of the Dark Lord before. Worrisome, really, because it's not often anyone has dealings with You Know Who that's not a Death Eater first.”

“He is…” Snape paused, considering. “A worthy adversary. He has the Dark Lord's respect, yet he was never really as cowed by him as the Death Eaters are. He plays his own cards close to his chest, but never hesitates to supply the cause with whatever is required. If he were to challenge the Dark Lord wisely he might garner a great deal of support. His beliefs are quite close to the Dark Lord's without the distracting… obsession, with Potter. If he caught Potter, he would turn him over to the Dark Lord for the glory it would bring him, but if anything were to go wrong at all, he would simply kill him without a second thought. I am quite sure he has no knowledge of the Horcruxes.”

“Perhaps you should ask Mr. Krum the meaning of Ratsel's name in one of Durmstrang's native tongues,” came a voice from the wall. Dumbledore's piercing painted blue eyes met their stares.

“Well, in German, Ratsel is what you say a riddle. A word puzzle.”

A collective hiss made its way round the room. Krum recoiled, taken aback.

“Voldemort's given name was Riddle,” Hermione told him, anguished now. “Tom Riddle. Oh, Harry.”

“Perhaps there was magic after all in Tom Riddle's Muggle family, but generations removed from the English Riddle who unknowingly enchanted Meriope Gaunt. I never thought to go so far to trace it. It could explain much about his power, or nothing at all. But it would be well to know what you may be walking in to at Durmstrang.” Dumbledore's portrait explained.

“Right,” said Lupin. “Well, it changes nothing in the sense that speed is still of the essence. So this is what we're going to do…”

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A/N: Hi ~ okay, not to be mean again, but so much is going on with this that I realized it could take ages to get out up to what I had hoped, so I'm just going to do it in 6 or 7k word chunks. It's so much fun to write, and there's such a lot of stuff going on at once that I don't want to rush it out and mess up. I honestly think the wait will be worth it. Thanks for your patience, and I'll try to get the pieces out more often. As always, your comments are read and taken to heart even if I don't have time to get back to everyone. I appreciate them! ~ Lynney

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22. Chapter 21

Official Fine Print: Nope. Not mine. The brainchildren of the mighty pen of JK Rowling. Just playing with them. Honest.

**corrected version, thanks to HERMIONE GRANGER and VICKLES**

Magic Never Dies

Chapter 21

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Ron thought Durmstrang students - at least the ones still left there, anyway - remarkably dense. Thick as bricks would hardly be exaggerating. Surely at Hogwarts they would have been called out by now, if nothing else for a pranking. And yet so far…nothing. It wasn't that he wanted to be caught - far from it. It just seemed wrong somehow that they had managed to get this far.

He glanced beside him at Harry, head purposefully ducked so that his fringe kept his scar well out of view. Neither of them looked all that much like your average Drumstrang student, if their attempt to find uniforms that fit was any indication, but Malfoy…

The joke was that Malfoy was the one who could well in theory have actually attended here; Ron reckoned it was a life-saving instinct on his mother's part that insisted on Hogwarts instead. Even in the militaristic Durmstrang uniform Malfoy could be nothing but… Malfoy.

The route Ogby had mapped out for them was simple enough, the problem was the nature of their destination. Much like Hogwarts, the Durmstrang trophy room was centrally located not far from the Dining Hall. Ogby had told them the cup was in the trophy room itself, not on the display shelves lining the hall, one small gift to be thankful for. The problem was getting there: while it was well past the dinner hour the hall was more than likely used for other purposes and busy even at odd hours.

They had encountered mostly younger students so far; none as young as Hogwarts first years, but certainly no more than thirteen or fourteen. They had an air of being kept round as errand-boys: the whole vibe of the place was wrong for a school. A barracks, more like. Obviously it was the older students who were more closely involved in readying the school for Voldemort's visit. It seemed an awful lot of fuss really…

Unless they were up to something they shouldn't be? Or else had something to hide.

“Have you noticed that no one has any books? No one at all?” he whispered to Harry. “You'd think at least some of them would be worried about exams and such.”

A group of three younger ones passed, each carrying an identical, weighty, highly polished wooden box by brass handles. Their eyes strayed toward Ron, Harry and Malfoy and widened.

“What are you looking at?” sneered Malfoy. “Eyes ahead and get to it; the Dark Lord didn't send us ahead for you to stare at.”

At least they squeaked like Hogwarts firsties, only slightly deeper. Three sets of eyes dropped to the floor as their owners scurried away.

The sound reminded Ron of something. “How do you reckon they manage without girls at all? Seems like it'd be marvelous to start with, but by sixth or seventh year it must get right boring.”

“Why do you think those three ran so fast?” Malfoy snickered.

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Lupin, Tonks, Mad Eye, Bill, Fred and George, Viktor Krum and Hermione all apparated to roughly the same spot on the bank of the stream where the thestral had deposited the two girls earlier that day. This time, however, they were prepared with brooms in hand. Viktor had offered to fly Hermione in, but she was determined to do it herself. So Harry'd better be alive when she got there, because he was going to owe her big for this.

“Right,” said Lupin. “Disillusionment charms on as soon as you kick off. Modified migration cluster formation, with Viktor flying point. As soon as we hit the roof, shrink and pocket your brooms. Mad Eye's going to stand guard up there and keep his eye roving for signs of Voldemort while Viktor leads the rest of us in. We'll head for the dungeons first unless we see signs of them elsewhere on the way. If you find them injured in any way, immobilize them, use a weightless charm and run. Our goal is to get them out and get them home. We'll deal with anything else once we're clear of here Speed and stealth are the key; the fewer encounters we have getting in and out the better off we are. Everyone with me?”

There were terse nods all round and they took to the air.

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They were so close. So very close. Just not close enough….

There was no give away sound, no dramatic shout of `There they are!' or `Stop them!'

The first spell brushed the side of Harry's neck with a small shock as it passed, and erupted a quaffle-sized crater in the wall in front of them. They spun around to find what appeared to be Ratzel with ten or so older students spread out in front of him.

“Run! In here!,” Harry called out, and took off around the nearest corner. They jerked open a set of doors before them and found themselves in a stairwell. “This one doesn't go downstairs,” Ron gasped out breathlessly.

“Up it is then,” Harry panted back. He spun around and cast a locking charm on the doors.

They tore up the first set of steps and turned the corner to the next flight just as Ratzel's army managed to burst through to the stairs. Ron shielded them this time and Harry stunned three of the first in swift succession then let off a quick series of Reductors on the steps. They pitted, crumbled and fell in with a crash.

Unfortunately, basic architectural principals meant there wasn't much left holding up the flight they were on any longer, either.

“Way to go, Potter,” sneered Draco.

“Shut it and move!” Harry snarled back as the three grabbed at anything they could reach and scrambled up the rapidly collapsing stairs. Ron ended up climbing hand over hand up the banister to reach safety. Once all three made the landing they turned around, briefly examining the gaping hole behind them.

“At least no one's gonna follow us,” Ron pointed out. “That's going to take one hell of a Reparo to put back together.”

“If we were stupid enough to waste our time trying,” a voice informed them from the other direction.

Ron noticed Harry didn't waste time turning around. His wand hand shot out and let fly without aiming, and the burly upper former who'd pushed open the stairwell door flew back, from the sound of it taking at least one of whoever was behind him with him. Ron cast a Colloportus on the door and it sealed with a squelch. “Where to?”

Malfoy eyed him incredulously. “Potter blew up the way down and you just sealed off the only door. Are you really that directionally challenged?” He started up the next flight of stairs. “There'd better be another staircase back down somewhere, moron,” he informed Harry.

“There's always the laundry chute,” Harry pointed out.

Draco snorted and continued upwards, wand at the ready. Ron started to follow him until he heard a hoarse “shite!” from Harry and felt the swift rush of a hurling spell past his ear. He looked up in the direction Harry was firing and saw two Durmstrangers hanging over the railings two levels above. One ducked in time, the other was hit off-center by Harry's spell and cart wheeled over into the empty space of the stairwell, still casting hexes as he fell.

Another difference between the Durmstrangs and your average Hogwarts student occurred to Ron just then. He himself would have been desperately trying an Arresto Momentum or Wingardium Leviosa-ing himself. At the very least he might have taken a shot at conjuring a featherbed at the bottom. These guys were clearly under instructions to go down taking the enemy with them - and they'd bought into it utterly. He threw himself at Malfoy, shoving him back against the outer wall. There was a stomach churning thump from the bottom of the stairwell but never a moment's hesitation in the hexes flying down from above.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?” Malfoy hissed. “Get off me.”

“Reflex action,” Ron snarled back. “I'll never admit I touched you if you'll just conveniently throw me off and die next time.”

“For godsake shut up and run, the both of you,” Harry told them. “I'll shield you to the next landing, Ron you cover me once you're there.”

Ron saw a hurled hex rebound off Harry's shield above them as they scurried up the steps. It hit the caster square in the chest as he leaned over the railing and his uniform erupted into flames. He disappeared from sight with a howl.

They really weren't pulling punches now. At least with him and Malfoy. He wondered how much they truly cared about delivering Harry alive to Voldemort.

They reached the next landing and he turned and shouted “Now, Harry!” casting a Protego across Harry's path as he scrambled after them.

The stairwell door behind them burst open when Harry was roughly half way up, and Ron realized with sickening certainty he should have sealed it before calling him on. There was nothing for it this time: he and Malfoy were at close range wand point.

He locked eyes with Harry and yelled “go back! Now, Harry. Go!”

He saw Harry's anguished indecision, the long moment when so much of their friendship was summed up in two simple words.

“Do it!” Ron yelled. A year ago Harry wouldn't have, couldn't have. Ron knew he would have given up, sure that his job was to save his friend. It had taken a lot to get here on both their parts.

“See you later,” Harry choked out, and threw himself over the railing. Ron exhaled gratefully.

“So noble. So stupid,” sneered Ratzel. Ron noticed Malfoy was already down, but seemed stunned rather than…

“Stupefy!”

For the first time the almost instant blackness of the spell hit Ron as something of a relief. He was pretty sure he didn't want to know what was going to happen next.

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Hermione hated brooms. Truly, truly disliked them. She knew Harry saw them as freedom and felt perfectly at home balanced on one even when buffeted by wind - or unscrupulous Slytherin seekers - but she just couldn't get past the vertigo induced by being so exposed on such a flimsy instrument. The warmth and solidity of Harry's thestral form had gone a long way to easing her fear of heights; the disillusioning charm now only exacerbated her certainty that the magic of broomstick travel and the scientific reality of gravity were at a tug of war she would surely lose.

They flew in silence in an inverted `V' shape with Viktor as the point, leading them on. The black night swallowed them utterly; there were no lights below in the forest that surrounded Durmstrang so the brightness of the school ahead beckoned like a lighthouse beacon, leading them on to the rocks instead of clear of them.

She prayed the dragons were sleeping. She prayed that Harry and Ron were okay. She wasn't exactly sure who she was praying to, but she felt certain that something, someone was listening and their identity mattered less than their sheer eternal presence.

Viktor led them in a strange, circuitous pattern as they neared the school and they flattened out to single file and followed precisely. It occurred to Hermione that far too many windows were alight for the hour, and something was obviously going on inside. Hopefully simple preparations for Voldemort, but she knew it was far more likely something to do with discovering Harry and Ron.

They landed as quietly as possible; in Hermione's case with an embarrassingly loud thwump. She felt like the victim of a jelly legs jinx as she staggered about, shrinking her broom. All that practice time for Quidditch at last made sense. She had a whole new respect for the fact that Ron could stop a speeding ball, or Harry catch a snitch while balanced on one of those.

Mad Eye silently took up his station, eye roving madly, while the rest followed Viktor to a trap door cleverly hidden in the shadow of one of the three enormous chimneys that crowned the roof. They dropped one by one through it and Hermione realized as she went, second to last with Fred holding the door for her, that it was a leap of complete faith. For all the lights on down below, whatever they were jumping in to was pitch black.

Thankfully the drop was short, perhaps five or six feet, and they were in some sort of attic crawl space with a dim glow of brightness at the far end.

“Wands at the ready,” Lupin whispered. They followed Viktor carefully across eight or nine meters of exposed beams like tightrope walkers, gathering again in a circle around the light leaking through the trap door in the ceiling of the floor below. Tonks gingerly pulled the door open and Viktor and Remus dropped swiftly through. Hermione saw several bright bursts of silent wand fire and then one of them must have given Tonks the high sign, because she nodded once and Bill and George dropped through ahead of her.

Hermione came through the ceiling into what could only be a boys dormitory room, although militaristically neat. She wondered vaguely if it were always so, or if was meant to impress Voldemort. Somehow Hermione found it hard to believe the Dark Lord cared at all about hospital corners on bunks. Two students were stretched out to one side on the floor, clearly stunned.

Viktor lead the way out of the room and into a hallway, pausing to listen. Hermione could hear faint shouting from somewhere, the words too indistinct to decipher. They traveled from door to door in silence, each waiting for a signal from the one ahead. Tonks was now behind Fred, with Viktor, Remus, Bill and George before her. Hermione knew she should feel secure surrounded by them but she was forced to acknowledge how much she had come to take for granted the feeling of having Harry around. Even though trouble had a tendency to seek Harry out she still felt safer somehow when he was there.

They reached an open hallway that seemed to run the length of the building with double doors on either end. The shouting was louder now, but whatever it was seemed to have drawn the attention of the students as well, for the corridor was empty.

“Now, we split up,” Lupin said. “Bill, you take Hermione and Fred and George and go that way. Work your way down to the main floor and check out Ratsel's office on the way with the extendable ears, then head to the central staircase Viktor showed us that leads down to the basement level. If there really are dungeons down there that's more than likely where they'll have Ron and Harry. Tonks and Viktor and I will go down the other way, and head straight for the dungeons. Have you all got your coins? Yes? Remember, hot means we've found them, meet on the roof; fluctuating means the situation is unstable and we should try and locate each other immediately, and cold indicates retreat. Wait for nothing, just get yourselves out. If you find Harry and he is attempting to secure a horcrux you are under orders to stun him if you have to and get him out. We can always surround and reenter the building later with reinforcements when and if the situation is secured. Understood?” His eyes rested on Hermione the longest; she met them unwaveringly and nodded. “Off you go then.”

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Harry landed on the body of the Durmstrang student who had fallen from the fourth floor. Whoever it was let out a loud “oof” and rolled over, pitching him against the wall. Harry knew he needed to move quickly; Ratzel had seen him fall and was surely sending someone to retrieve him even as he lurched to his feet. He used a blasting spell to blow the doors out into the hall, hoping to take anyone who might be coming in the other direction with them, and from the sound of things was successful on at least two counts.

He ran. He knew where he was going now, could visualize the door he was aiming for. He had to get there, had to know for sure if it was truly the Hufflepuff cup that he sought and if it were truly a Horcrux or not. He would have them all then… he desperately hoped Ratsel wouldn't recognize Slytherin's locket for what it really was if he searched Ron.

Once again he was almost to the door when a spell just missed him and he cursed, anger suddenly flooding him. He turned to take aim and found a boy of perhaps thirteen on his own behind him. The momentum of turning had cleared Harry's hair from over his scar and the boys eyes widened suddenly when he realized who it was he had found. Harry sighed and waited for the inevitable `You! It's your fault my Uncle/Cousin/Father/best friend is in Azkaban/on the Dark Lord's shit list/a useless squib.'

It didn't come. The boy stuttered out something that sounded like “Your harpoon has otters!” His wand shook so hard Harry reckoned he wasn't hitting anything anytime soon.

He hissed “Durmstrang is for wankers,” in parseltongue. A dark wet spot bloomed on the front of the boys' uniform trousers and he let out an abrupt squeal of terror, turning and fleeing like the hounds of hell were chasing him.

`How flattering,' Harry thought. Women cry when I kiss them, and children run in terror. And I'm not even trying, This whole evil overlord thing's not nearly as hard as Voldemort makes out.'

He pushed through the door of the trophy room at last. It wasn't so different from the Hogwarts one, a smallish room lined on three sides with glass enclosed cabinets housing shelf after shelf of inscribed objects of all shapes and sizes. He closed and sealed the door with a Colloportus, knowing that it was only a brief matter of time until Ratsel or one of his minions found him. He could at least slow down the inevitable.

Viktor Krums' name gleamed dimly back at him from a good number of trophies and he was glad in a way Ron wasn't there to see it. Funny, really, how he wasn't even seeing Hermione any more and yet the thought of Krum…

Saying, even thinking, Hermione's name opened the door to thoughts Harry couldn't presently bear. He'd done his best not to let his mind linger on her while he'd been chained to the wall in the dungeon. He couldn't cope with it all now; he was prepared to do whatever he had to do to destroy the last horcrux and if he thought of her, of being thrust unwillingly into his next great adventure without her, he'd go mad. But then, that was to the organized mind, one prepared to go, wasn't it? Harry felt Hermione might as well be his horcrux now; he'd willingly given her his soul in every way he knew how and he couldn't imagine being able to go on while leaving her behind..

He searched amongst the shelves, eyes roving from cup to cup until he remembered Ogby's words;

`Ogby knows it needs cleaning, Young Master. Don't blame Ogby. Ogby not allowed to touch the Hogwarts cup. No house elf allowed to touch.'

The cups he searched were all shining as brightly as the Hogwarts ones after a busy month of detentions. His eyes roved further afield. The last case on the left had faded purple velvet-covered risers in place of shelves, and the trophies and statuettes were crammed together more tightly. He moved closer, eyes picking through them methodically. A small golden cauldron, eternally burbling on its tiny fire, awarded for excellence in potions in 1917. Several prizes for Wizards Chess matches were shaped like oversized chess pieces; a white queen mounted on a small golden column eyed him evilly and a black knight on a rearing charger shook his lance at him. He could see the white queen's lips move but could not make out her words through the glass. A dueling trophy stood beside her; the two small silver wizards ceased their hostilities toward each other to turn on him as well. Time had turned them partisan… or they guarded something.

There, behind another taller cup for something that looked roughly like polo played on thestrals, sat a small, brownish, tarnished cup with delicate handles. The least noticeable and most humble of the lot, and yet the most valuable by far. Harry recognized it immediately from his pensieve travels with Dumbledore. Hepzibah Smith's cup, shown to Tom Riddle shortly before she was murdered.

Harry laid a hand on the glass and listened with all his might, stretching every sense toward the cup. He could almost feel a faint vibration, but not enough to be sure. He leaned his head forward and rested his forehead, his scar, against the glass. It throbbed helpfully, seeming to seek to pull him right through the glass molecule by molecule in its blind, anxious need to join its other, like a pair of magnets. The pain made his eyes water. He struggled, pushing with all his strength away from the glass. For a moment he thought he couldn't manage it and when he finally did he noticed a thin smear of blood where his scar had rested. For whatever reason, this was a strong one. He would have thought it would work the other way round, having more of the mass or essence of Voldemort now within him, he should by rights have pulled the cup to him, and yet…

Harry's stomach churned. He had so little time, he had to get on with it but he was frightened of this one for some reason, dreaded having to take it. He felt himself sweating. There was no obvious opening in the glass, no door that he could see. If breaking it was the only option he would, but he was afraid the of the noise and commotion glass that size shattering would cause. Maybe if he cut just a little hole…

He tried, hesitant at first with the claimed wand rather than his own. The third cutting charm he attempted worked; it was one he had learned to cut ice with in Flitwicks' class (`Never know when that might come in handy!' the diminutive wizard had informed them, teetering on his pile of texts. How right he'd been.)

The charm had to be swapped round a bit to keep the tip of the wand cool rather than hot, but soon a small, roughly circular hole, just large enough to extract the cup appeared. Harry tapped it in the center with the wand and it fell cleanly into the cabinet without a sound… but the air within the cabinet began escaping with a hiss. Shite. That couldn't be good. Effing Tom Riddle, of course he'd figure anyone coming in to steal his cup would seal the door to give themselves more time… Harry covered his mouth and nose with as much of the Durmstrang tunic as he could get over it and still breathe and reached through the hole, groping for the cup.

The white queen leapt nimbly down from her column and advanced, teeth bared in an evil grimace, while the two wizard duelists turned from each other on the top of their trophy and began firing small, stinging hexes from their tiny wands.

Bloody hell! Harry thrust himself harder at the glass, stretching his arm, reaching desperately for the cup as more awards for things he had never even heard of began to wake and realize their glass citadel had been breached. A hard brass bludger from a Quidditch trophy smashed into his knuckles. The black knight spurred his horse and it jumped down from its plinth and galloped straight for Harry's hand. The knight dropped his visor and raised his lance, stabbing at the vulnerable underside of Harry's wrist as the horse leapt over it.

Effing hurt for such a little bastard, and the cut it left was no laughing matter actually. Whatever was hissing out of the cabinet was making his head feel woozy, too. If he could only just get… his fingertips grazed the lip of the cup, knocking it over, further out of reach.

He slammed his forehead against the glass and tears of frustration and pain prickled at the back of Harry's eyes. He was such an idiot. Ron had been trying and trying to get him to remember.

“Accio cup,” he sighed.

The cup righted itself and flew to Harry's hand in the cabinet. He pulled his arm out slowly, tilting and rotating the cup free of the glass as the trophy ornaments revolted, stampeding after his retreat. Just as he extracted it, the door into the room behind him literally exploded. The inward rush of splintered wood met with the outward rush of the noxious smoky vapor from the cabinet, seeking to fill the now larger space. The magical vacuum created within the cabinet warped the glass slightly inward and was released in exploding shards. Harry clung to the cup with both hands now, feeling the magic swirling around him in the chaos of the cabinet's destruction. Glass stung his hands and a part of the flying door struck his injured arm, but it took Ratsel's own stunner to finally bring him down.

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The first thing Hermione noticed about Durmstrang's stairwells was that they were very unsafe. Hogwarts moving staircases might have a mysterious missing step or two, but this was ridiculous.

“Sort of screams `Harry Potter was here,' doesn't it Fred?” George said, viewing the damage.

“Too right, George. And wherever Harry is, I would have to wager our littlest brother won't be far behind. The question is how best to get there?”

Bill sighed. “Don't you two have some sticky shoe plaster for walking down walls or something? Isn't that why we put up with you, so you can use us to test out your products?”

“Keep your shirt on there, Bill. How about this.” Fred removed a small pouch from his pocket and tapped it with his wand. A tiny tendril of green plant snaked out of the pouch.

“Er…” started Bill dubiously.

“Hang on then,” protested George. “Give a bloke a chance.”

Fred looked about the landing and after kicking a bit of stair rail several times to reassure himself of its stability tapped the tip of the tiny plant to it. The tendril wrapped itself securely around the railing, growing at an amazing rate. Hermione, who had seen Devil's Snare once before at Hogwarts during her first year, recognized it immediately. Fred leaned out a bit over the edge to reconnoiter and the cast the spell once more, first tapping the plant and then pointing his wand to indicate a spot far below. A second tendril quickly grew out of the plant and made it's way down to the first floor, sending secondary tendrils off every so often to twine around and strengthen the main body. In no time at all there was a long rope-like strand.

“Instant Escape Plant, we call it. The Prankster's best friend. You first, George,” Fred said.

George wrapped his arms and legs around the plant and slid swiftly and safely down the empty cavern of the stairwell to the first floor. “Never fear,” he called up softly. “There's a nice passed-out Durmstranger down here to break your fall.”

“Hermione? Now that George has proved it safe I do believe it should be ladies first.”

Hermione looked down once and realized her mistake. She shut her eyes tightly, grabbed hold of the plant and slid, landing far quicker than she thought possible and thumping ungracefully onto her bum.

“Up you get, Hermione. All clear, Bill,” George called.

Bill slid down with a swashbuckling pirate's grace and ended up laughing. “Only you two.”

Fred followed, and patted the vine fondly as they prepared to move out. “Such a nasty name for such a useful plant, Devil's Snare. Should keep anyone from coming after us too quickly, too; we chose an especially loyal hybrid. Twine right around them, it will.”

The corridor beyond the doors stretched in two directions; at the far end of one a door stood blown in off its hinges and Hermione automatically turned that way. Bill laid a hand on her arm to stop her.

“More than likely Harry did go that way, Hermione, but he's not there now and Lupin told us to go check out Ratsel's office. That's our task and we've got to stick to it if we're going to get Harry and Ron out safely,” he whispered. She nodded once, showing her understanding, and they set off in the opposite direction. Viktor had drawn a sketch for them showing Ratsel's office paralleling another that opened into a further hallway; their hope was to locate the office behind Ratsel's and attempt to listen there.

“One, two, three, four. Fourth door on the left he said. This should be it.” Bill whispered. They flattened themselves to the hall wall on either side of the door in question, wands drawn. “Anyone in there?” Bill questioned Fred softly, and Hermione watched as he secured one flesh colored appendage to his ear and let the end roll toward the crack at the bottom of the door. A low groaning sound came from beyond the door, easily discernable to the naked ear. Fred pulled the extendable quickly out of his own.

“Don't need any help for that.”

Hermione saw the twins eyes meet and turn as one to Bill.

“What are we waiting for?” she whispered urgently. “That doesn't sound like Harry to me, but it might well be Ron.”

“I'm seriously hoping not, Hermione” Bill whispered back. “Last I knew, unless you broke him of it Ron still fancied girls and this is a decidedly all male school.”

Hermione froze for a moment then found her face scrunching up of its own accord. “Ewww?”

“You wait right here for a sec and we'll go in and, er… check it out.” George said softly.

Fred and George crouched down, Alohamora-ed the door knob and slunk in on their knees. The door shut quickly behind them. Hermione and Bill carefully avoided each other's eyes while a quickly muffled scream, a thump, and the sound of something heavy being dragged across the floor issued from within.

The door opened slightly and one of the twins poked their heads around it.

“All clear!” they whispered brightly.

The other was inside, quickly reducing a stack of what appeared to be magazines down to doll-house size and pocketing them. “They've got brilliant questionable reading materials here,” he said with a grin. “Confiscation for further examination seems called for. Professor Wank is having a little nap in the corner.”

Bill rolled his eyes. “For merlin's sake, can you two stay on target for five minutes? Roll out the ears already. We're here to find Harry and Ron.”

The twin - Hermione thought it was George - clicked his heels together and saluted. “Oh no, brother ours,” he said with a quick grin. “This is the time for our latest invention. Fred?”

“Well, really - how would we get extendible ears IN there, I ask you. No door! So we have instead… the magic mirror, travel version.” Fred produced a small round mirror from his pocket and enlarged it until it was roughly the size of his own head. Turning with an enormous grin, he removed the protesting portrait of some hideous ancient dark arts wizard with three teeth and greenish skin from the wall and hung the mirror on its hook instead. He tapped the face of the mirror with his wand and the incantation Perlustro!

The surface went iridescent, swirled round and became… transparent. Hermione flew across the room as Fred and George both leaned in towards the new one-way window to Ratsel's office.

Bill grabbed her before she could push one of the twins out of the way. “Well?” he whispered tersely.

Fred turned, his face suddenly serious. “They're there alright. Ron looks stunned and Draco Malfoy of all people is with him. Harry appears to be…er, answering some questions. Signal Lupin, Bill. Quick.”

Bill turned Hermione round so that her back was to the window and handed her his coin. “You do it.”

She took the coin but let it drop through her shaking fingers. Smiling apologetically, she bent down to retrieve it from the floor and dodged quickly between George's legs, straightening up in front of both twins and peering hungrily through the mirror-window.

Ron and Draco were laid out on the floor of the office with all the care of rolled up carpet, their limbs every which way or pinned underneath them. Wait a minute… Malfoy? What was he doing here? Ron's color was normal - well as normal as Ron's could be, he was a little disconcerting that way with the paleness and freckles. Still it was a good sign that he was breathing, if not consciously. There were no obvious injuries that she could see. Harry was sitting directly across from her; across his captor's desk. He was slumped in his chair, guarded by a uniformed student on either side. His eyes were downcast and she could see that he held one of his arms as if it was injured, but he seemed otherwise blessedly whole and alive. As she watched the man behind the desk with his back to her reached out and placed two objects on the desk in front of Harry. One she saw was the potion bottle that Snape had hid in the Hogwarts Room of Requirement, the one that had portkeyed them here in the first place. The other was…

“NO!” she cried, forgetting to whisper, forgetting everything else. The Hufflepuff cup. The last horcrux. It was there.

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“Of all the trophies you could steal, why this one?” Ratsel asked. “Who sent you for it? Was it Dumbledore, before he died?”

Harry was still reeling from whatever had been leaking out of the cabinet while he retrieved the cup, and he felt as if he was trapped under water. He could breathe only shallowly and Ratsel's voice came to him as if through a long tunnel. The cup, something about the cup…

“It belongs at Hogwarts,” he said stubbornly, trying not to slur. “Belonged to Huff…fle. Pufflehuff. See the little badg, badg, badger?”

“Then why has it been here all this time? Why did no one contact us? Ask for it back? No, I think we came by it fairly and it is you who are stealing.”

“Why do… do you even want it?” Harry managed. Ratsel's eyes flicked dangerously to the left, and the boy on Harry's right backhanded him with every impression of great enjoyment. His world exploded; he swore he could hear the blood sloshing in his own veins as he hit the back of the chair and slid down toward the floor. The two students grabbed his arms and hauled him back up. The pain from the dislocated one was like a splash of ice water. Harry shook his head, doglike, desperate to keep it clear.

“You will speak only when spoken to.” Ratsel informed him. “And what is this, then? This potion you carry with you?”

Harry eyed him, still swallowing the metallic taste of biting his tongue the last time. He had no intention of playing that game again. “Don't know.”

Ratsel shook the bottle, frowning. He opened the stopper and sniffed it cautiously, then set the open bottle down on the desk. “Tell me this, Potter. This much you must know. How did you escape the charm I left around your pathetic little neck?”

“Not nearly as pow…pow…werful as you'd think.” Harry bit out, leaving it up to Ratsel's imagination whether it was Harry or the charm that was less than expected.

Ratsel looked at him assessingly, then glanced over to where Ron and Malfoy lay. He lifted his wand and let fire a wordless spell that veered wide of the mark. Once, twice, three times he aimed without success, always just off his goal. Harry was sweating profusely by the time he stopped, breathing like a long distance runner.

“Oh, no,” Ratsel said. “I think my appraisal of your magical ability was quite on target, Potter.”

He caught the glance of a third student standing at attention beside the door and nodded to Ron and Malfoy. “Ennervate them.”

“Let them go,” Harry said.

Ratsel smiled. He reminded Harry of a combination of Malfoy's father and Bellatrix Lestrange. Part sycophant, part tyrant in waiting. Waiting to off the other tyrant, if only he could, but in the meantime he needed to please to stay his place. Ratsel's eyes flicked right and Harry lunged forward against the desk, ducking the blow from his left and grabbing for the cup. Ratsel snatched it up. “Or you'll what?” he said unpleasantly. “You have nothing I want, and I am not the least bit impressed. You have power, but you are too unstable and undisciplined to put it to any purpose.”

“You don't really want to serve Voldemort,” Harry rasped. “You're just sucking up to him until you can get your own act together. Fine. Use me. Go on, everyone else has, Dumbledore did. Just let them go, and you can suck out my magical bloody essence with a straw for all I care.”

“Perhaps I shall just keep your little friends and do that anyway. There's very little for you to say about it. Now tell me about the cup.”

“Harry…” came Ron's voice from behind him, awake now and low with warning. “Don't.”

Brilliant Ron!

Harry sighed and forced himself to look pained. Actually, that part wasn't really that hard. “It's…it's the last source of power I need to come to full strength and defeat Voldemort. You're right, Dumbledore did tell me before he died. Its power was a secret known only to Helga Hufflepuff. The knowledge was passed down to Dumbledore as Headmaster.”

Ratsel's shrewd black eyes glowed. “How do I know you are not lying to me?”

“Bring the cup toward me. You'll see.”

He laughed. “You take me for a fool, Potter.”

“Even if I ran with the cup, it wouldn't do me any good,” Harry said bitterly. “That's what the potion is for. I have to drink the potion from that cup. It won't work in any other. Now my bloody arm's dislocated and it's not like I could get anywhere trying to carry it and use a wand at the same time. Not that I've even got a wand, thank you very much. You're more of fool than I if you're worried about that.”

Ratsel's curiosity was piqued. “Conlacertus” he muttered, swishing and flicking his wand. The spell sliced through the sling Ron had fashioned for Harry and the fabric fell away. Harry hissed angrily and quickly moved the good arm to support the injured one. Ratsel picked up the cup and walked cautiously toward him. Halfway there he paused and frowned, clearly feeling the cup's attraction to Harry. He walked forward another step, extending the cup slowly, as if testing it. It seemed to quiver in his hand, its desire evident. The two students guarding him took a step back, eyes bulging fearfully. Ron groaned and Harry could have sworn he was only letting out what Harry was trying so desperately to keep in himself: the pain in his scar was throbbing unbearably the closer the cup came. Malfoy cursed under his breath.

`Fascinating. Could it possibly be?” Ratsel murmered. He spun around and poured the contents of the potion bottle into the cup.

Snape, you son of a bitch, you'd better not have lied… Harry thought, and allowed the horror of that idea to substitute for what he should have felt at seeing his magic enhancing potion about to be downed by another. A swift glance revealed Ron and Malfoy each looking suitably horrified as well, each for reasons quite their own.

Ratsel sniffed the potion once more and waved his wand over it.

`Dumbledore could only find that he had to drink it,' Harry thought. `If there'd been anything else to see he would have done.'

And grinning widely, his tormentor raised the cup to Harry in a mockery of a toast.

“To your health, Potter. May you last long enough for the Dark Lord to kill you in the morning.”

“No!” Harry heard himself cry as the cup touched Ratsel's lips, and a part of him actually meant it. It had been awful, what that potion had done to Dumbledore, and Harry hated being any part of doing that damage again. Dumbledore had had to drink cups and cups of the stuff, but Ratsel was no Dumbledore…

Ratsel downed it in one, licking his lips in triumph. `I can feel it working… I can…” His expression altered quickly to one of terror as his eyes took in something no one else could see.

“…get effing stuffed, I'm afraid,” Harry said regretfully, and grabbed the wand of the student guard beside him with his good arm as they stared in horror at their Headmaster. “Expelliarmus!”

He threw the wand in his hand to Ron and managed to catch the next two in the same hand, stepping on the third with his foot when it dropped. He tossed one to Malfoy, kept one and snapped the last in half beneath his boot. Its owner whimpered before Malfoy stunned him as Ron took care of the other two.

Ratsel was screaming now, babbling in his terror, eyes wide. “No! No! I'll never do it again, Never! Leave me my magic, I'll die without my magic, Leave me alone!”

Harry began to pry the cup from Ratsel's fright-strengthened hands and yelled to Ron, “Our wands - his desk. Look.”

Ron passed him and began slamming desk drawers as he looked. “Got them!”

“No! No! No!” Ratsel insisted and begged, clinging to the cup.

“Extractus.” Harry cast, but once he had the cup he hesitated. According to Snape the effect of the potion was inevitable; there would ultimately have been no saving Dumbledore and the Avada Kedavra was in fact a mercy. Harry didn't know if he bought that and he knew he would not use the killing curse even if he did. A stunning spell, however, might leave Ratzel unconscious of his fate; it felt like the merciful thing to do. “Stupefy.”

“What now, mate?” Ron asked.

“Make like Malfoy,” Harry told him, pointing to the already opened and empty door, “and run like blazing hell.”

“Got your back. You go,” Ron told him, and they headed out the door. They peeled off down the hall at top speed and rounded the corner to the still-standing main staircase… and Harry collided with something. Hard. Something coming fast and furious from the other direction. Someone. He saw Hermione's horrified expression as the force of their collision sent them both airborne and he dropped the cup with out a moment's hesitation to grab on to her and pull her to him to break her fall.

He landed heavily on his back with Hermione sprawled across him. The cup bounced and rolled toward the edge of the stairs. Harry stretched out his working arm over his head, fingers grasping once more - bloody desperate thing! He felt the handle, his fingers scrambled for purchase as his legs twined around Hermione. He had it!

Until Ron tripped over them as well.

The force of his impact against Hermione's back threw both Harry and Hermione halfway over the edge of the landing and onto the stairs. Once again Harry withdrew his hand from the cup, this time to grab at the railing in the hope of arresting their fall. Their combined weight and momentum drove all three in their heap backwards down the steps. They slid, thumping from step to step until Ron managed to wedge his feet against the next landing. The silence of stillness was bliss until Harry heard the metallic tink-ting-tink of the cup still falling. It stopped abruptly with a muted thwink.

Harry groaned and craned his neck but all he could see was Hermione's hair.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered brokenly. “I'm sorry, Harry, I'm so sorry.”

“Bloody hell,” said Ron.

Harry stroked back her hair and lifted his head over Ron's knee to find the cup had been stopped by… Voldemort's foot. And he had the least humorous laugh Harry'd ever heard.

Bloody hell indeed.

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A/N: I know, I know… the cliffies have to go, and wasn't there supposed to be more than five lines of vaguely romantic thought in this chapter????? All I can say is sorry. It's there, it's coming, but all this stuff seemed to want to happen first. For those of you that can't stand the pressure (and so no one thinks I forgot…. <Spoilers ahead>

Did Hermione really forget Lily's words?? Would she do that? Her chance is yet to come. Hey Voldemort just showed, and NO - THIS IS NOT THE END. Remus and Tonks have a large part to play helping the trio return to Hogwarts, because that's where the end HAS to be. Potions and portkeys and the Marauder's presence in the cave all are yet to come. As is the post Durmstrang battle shag, which is fully written and just WAITING desperately for its turn. And where did Malfoy go? He'll be back as well. Honest - I haven't forgotten any of you. So thanks for sticking with it and I'll get the next one out as soon as life allows - but I'm going to see GOF in IMAX on Friday and my brain will be on happy Harry overload. I personally can't WAIT to read all the fics inspired by this movie… but I PROMISE to finish this before starting anything else.

Enjoy the movie, and thanks so much to all of you who review - you really inspire me. ~ Lynney

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23. Chapter 22

Official Fine Print: Nope. Not mine. The brainchildren of the mighty pen of JK Rowling. Just playing with them. Honest.

Magic Never Dies

Chapter 22

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Sorry it's been so long! GOF x3 for me…(Thank you JazzyGeorgie, for the IMAX experience. WOW.) Love so much of it, but am I alone in thinking Mike Newell screwed David Yates in a big way with his take on Dumbledore??? That is so not going to work into OotP or especially HBP… Loved Snape's prolonged wand-skewering of Barty even after Dumbledore had left the room… Daniel says Alan Rickman KNOWS about his character's direction straight from JKR. Could that be a hint? Could I please be a fly on the wall of her writing room for 5 minutes???? Or a bubble in the prefect's bath tub? Preferably one of the ones that…but I digress!

Well then! Thanks SO much to all who read and reviewed. Here's a refresher on where we left off… (Thanks to Vickles for the last para correction here in 21, and JazzyG for the read through of 22.)

From Chapter 21:

He landed heavily on his back with Hermione sprawled across him. The cup bounced and rolled toward the edge of the stairs. Harry stretched out his working arm over his head, fingers grasping once more - bloody desperate thing! He felt the handle, his fingers scrambled for purchase as his legs twined around Hermione. He had it!

Until Ron tripped over them as well.

The force of his impact against Hermione's back threw both Harry and Hermione halfway over the edge of the landing and onto the stairs. Once again Harry withdrew his hand from the cup, this time to grab at the railing in the hope of arresting their fall. Their combined weight and momentum drove all three in their heap backwards down the steps. They slid, thumping from step to step until Ron managed to wedge his feet against the next landing. The silence of stillness was bliss until Harry heard the metallic tink-ting-tink of the cup still falling. It stopped abruptly with a muted thwink.

Harry groaned and craned his neck, but all he could see was Hermione's hair.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered brokenly. “I'm sorry, Harry, I'm so sorry.”

“Bloody hell,” said Ron.

Harry stroked back her hair and lifted his head over Ron's knee to find the cup had been stopped by… Voldemort's foot. And he had the least humorous laugh Harry'd ever heard.

Bloody hell indeed.

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Chapter 22

It wasn't the moment he had dreaded for so long. Nope. Harry couldn't even get that right.

He grabbed his scar and hung on for dear life. The pain seemed stronger than the last time he had physically been in Voldemort's presence and he struggled to control its invasive grasp on his ability to reason.

Here he was…. And there stood the… the thing that had killed his parents and so many others in its pathetic quest for immortality; whose shadow had dimmed the very few happy moments of Harry's life so far.

This was supposed to be his moment to finally wrest control of his destiny from the monster who had stolen it, to put all that he had learned and all that was in his heart to the test and see once and for all whether it was enough. He'd had it all in his hands, and he'd let it slip away.

Voldemort crouched down and his slimy fingers slithered around the cup. The final horcrux. Harry's last hope… He grinned in triumph.

And Harry realized all at once exactly what Dumbledore had been doing last year.

He'd stripped Voldemort of his greatest weapon. Harry wasn't facing a fathomless, paralyzing evil any longer. When he looked at the dark wizard he had not truly seen since the battle in the Department of Mysteries fifth year, he now saw only what had become of another boy no one had wanted, one who had discovered his own power long before Harry but frittered it away fighting his fear of the unknown that had claimed his mother so swiftly after his birth. So desperate not to die as well he'd made an abomination of himself to keep from facing it. He was human and flawed; only his shattered soul and his innate ability to use and channel magic without conscience made him different from any other man.

Well, Harry had magic on his side, too. And he was beginning to understand how to use it in ways Dumbledore had never exactly mentioned.

He stood up. Slowly and more than a little shakily, he gave Hermione's hand a final squeeze and stepped carefully over Ron, placing himself in front of both of his friends on the landing.

“Hullo, Tom,” he panted against the flaring of his scar. Bloody thing. How was he supposed to fight with an ice pick ripping through his skull?

Voldemort raised his pale, snake-like face from his treasure, scarlet eyes alight.

“Potter,” he hissed, his cold, high voice like a trickle of ice water against warm flesh. Harry couldn't hide his involuntary shudder. He felt Ron and Hermione gain their feet behind him and he saw Voldemort's eyes flicker over them and up to the top of the stairs to where Bill and the twins had gathered.

“Sssso,” Voldemort said, caressing the cup with possessive fingers. “You've failed again, boy.”

“I'm taking it… as a… setback, myself. Failure is so… final.” Harry ground out, moving determinedly forward and down the first step toward him. “And don't … call me… boy.”

`A year ago, every nerve in my body would have screamed RUN!' he marveled.

Voldemort's wand gave a butterfly flick and he whispered Crucio almost lovingly.

`And they would have been effing right.' Harry thought regretfully as he went down to his knees, fighting a different kind of scream, and a different kind of pain.

“You…really have to…get some… new material,” he gasped, dropping forward and revealing his own wand. “There's a whole….world… of curses out there.” He cast Sectumsempra silently, in honor of Snape. Who really ought to be here, the bastard.

A long slashing wound blossomed across Voldemort's upper chest. What passed for his mouth twisted into a rictus that could have been either a grimace or a grin. One long white finger traced the cut then made its way to his lips.

“Sssweet. Just like you, Potter. Oh yes… it IS you,” he leered. Bellatrix cackled beside him.

“Shut up, you… hag,” Hermione cried out, and let fire.

Bellatrix attempted a dodge and snickered, seemingly certain the spell had missed her when she sensed nothing amiss despite a mild disturbance of the air around her. “Amateur!”

Hermione smiled grimly as she shielded herself and Ron from return fire as they attempted to reach Harry.

The cluster of Death Eaters that had followed Voldemort into the entry hall began to range out hungrily around their Master, clearly believing the fight about to begin.

Harry struggled up from his knees, gaining another couple of steps in the awkward process. He knew he could not handle another Cruciatus without surrendering to it. He was tired; the last three days might as well have been three weeks, and highly unpleasant ones at that. He ached every where and the dislocated arm was maddening even when not strictly painful. All he wanted was to go home, curl up in a warm, soft bed with Hermione's arms securely around him and sleep for a hundred years.

“And still he comes,” sneered Voldemort. “I pity Dumbledore now. Imagine his despair, knowing fate had dealt him an idiot for a champion. No wonder he begged for death, the old fool.”

Harry proceeded down another step, his heart singing. If Voldemort so calmly stated it, it must be true, then. Why would Snape admit Dumbledore had implored Snape to kill him to Voldemort if he had been faithful and trying to impress his Lord? Even if Voldemort had dragged it from Snape's unwilling brain it was a blessing, a gift to know that Dumbledore had not been deceived. Snape hadn't lied. At least about that, anyway.

Bellatrix had begun twitching beside her master, her eyes growing larger by the moment. She scratched at her shoulder, swatted her knee, ran her fingers frantically through her hair. “Finite! Finite! Finite Incantatem!” she shrieked, apparently believing her whole body to be over run by something akin to invisible spiders.

It was Hermione's turn to laugh, then. Tonks amused snort abruptly joined in from the top of the stairs that led down to the dungeons. “Perfect choice, Hermione. She's always given me the creeps, it's about time someone turned the tables!”

Harry saw Tonks and Remus Lupin and Viktor Krum?

They out-numbered Voldemort and his supporters for once now, except for the students upstairs. They had a chance at least, and Harry knew he needed to make it count. He needed the cup, he needed the locket in Ron's pocket, and he needed to get them all the hell out safely.

And he needed his scar to stop trying to rip his effing forehead off so that he could actually think.

`Hermione,' he called silently, taking a further step forward. Bellatrix was twitching and scratching and babbling enough to annoy Voldemort now; he turned to silence her and Harry risked a quick look back toward Hermione. Her eyes were waiting and locked swiftly with his own. `I need you to transfigure something to look like the cup, I need a double, if you can. Stay back, stay out of it no matter what you see until you have something. Please?'

She nodded once, and her determined eyes began ranging the room with a new sense of purpose. She stepped subtly half behind Ron, who was already starting down the steps again after Harry.

Harry shifted his eyes to Remus, who nodded toward the door. Harry caught his meaning - taking this outside made sense and could only increase their odds of escape. But how to get out there?

Voldemort himself had not been able to end Hermione's hex on Bellatrix and in his raw frustration Crucioed her instead. Her shrieks changed in tenor but not volume and he kicked her away, disgusted. The masked and hooded Death Eaters with him did the same, surging over her like a savage black sea. Much as Harry despised Bellatrix it was truly frightening to see how heartlessly easily Voldemort abandoned one who had tried so hard to be close to him. Dumbledore had been correct in his assessment of his enemy; it was not just that Voldemort was ruthless or relentless in his pursuit; he truly knew no attachment of any kind to those who sought to serve him. They had held off so far, but Harry was sure that at the slightest signal from Voldemort the confrontation would quickly turn into a lethal brawl. Who would he lose this time? He thought of Sirius and his heart ached.

He only recognized the penetration of his thoughts moments later and shook his head like a mad dog, glaring at his nemesis. “Get out.”

“You would seem to be more me than you, Potter. Perhaps it is I that should tell you to get out,” Voldemort hissed, caressing the cup again with those relentless, deadly fingers. “How many have you found, you foolish boy? You must have at least two now, by the look of you. You can not hope to handle any more. I have done you a great favor reclaiming the cup. Or perhaps I shall give it back? I could use a young, strong body for myself. Even your pathetic excuse would do. Imagine how easy it would be to conquer the wizards of this world dressed in your skin.”

“Alright,” Harry said, not daring to hope that it could really be so easy. “Hand it over then. I'll take my chances.”

Voldemort hissed a spell Harry didn't quite catch, but its purpose became abundantly clear when his good arm was suddenly bound securely to his leg by slithering magical ropes. His wand remained trapped in his hand; Voldemort either knew or sensed he could work without it now, or he felt Harry too feeble to bother with disarming him.

“Come, Potter,” he offered, red eyes gleaming, and extended the cup before his injured arm mockingly. “Take it, boy.”

“Don't call me boy,” Harry spat. He blinked, envisioning McGonagall's face as he transfigured the ropes binding his hand to snakes and achieved his own release with a gentle hiss. His hand shot out and almost claimed the cup. Voldemort fell back, clutching it to his chest. Harry lunged after him.

Hell broke loose at Durmstrang.

Harry wondered if all battles ultimately devolved into a series of personal skirmishes, or just the ones he caused. He was reminded again of the Department of Mysteries, distracted and drowning in the flood of sensory images of his friends fighting around him even as he tried to fight himself. Ron, Lupin, Bill, Tonks, Fred, George, even Krum…

Voldemort might reek of dark magical power, but hand to hand Harry found he lived in the body Pettigrew had helped him recreate like a stranger. He resided in the brain of it, but he seemed to have to will the limbs to move. `It's like he's using Imperio on an Inferi,' Harry thought. `only he's inside.' As repulsive as it was to touch him, he was no real match physically even for an injured Harry, his strength relied on magic and the spells began almost immediately as they grappled for the cup.

A jolt of magical current, not unlike electricity, ripped through him, burning wherever it ran out of conductor. His hands, his feet, Merlin, his ears, his…Ow! He pulled away, shoving his own wand into his pants and punching out blind as a drunk with his good arm, trying to ignore the other. His fist connected solidly with what once had been Voldemort's nose. He was thrown almost instantly across the room for his reward, landing hard at Ron's feet. He staggered over Harry, never dropping his eyes as his friend crawled between his legs and out of the range of fire of the Death Eater he was exchanging hexes with. Avery. Ron was dueling Avery. And holding his own, from the look of it. Go Ron.

Hermione was still behind Ron in the relative security of the base of the stairs. Harry face planted gracefully at her feet, gasping. She knelt down and rolled him over, stared deeply into his eyes and flattened him to the ground with a kiss?. He felt her knees straddle him, her hands framing his face. Her lips covered his. He knew with piercing understanding then that he would truly give up anything to be with her every waking moment for the rest of his life and it would still never be enough. He reached for her and she bit down less than gently on his lower lip. He yelped, his mouth opening instantly against hers in involuntary reaction.

The reward for his obedience was equally swift. Her warm tongue thrust something small and cold and hard into his mouth, and comprehension dawned like a reviving shock. The transfigured cup. She'd slipped it to him exactly the way he'd first done to her weeks ago now with the … That was it! She'd worn the necklace ever since her birthday, he'd seen her worry at it, played with it often enough himself just to feel her soft shudder as his fingers brushed the sensitive skin along her neck. She'd transfigured the Black family cup for him. She caressed his face gently once more, pulling back, all of her heart in her eyes as she swiftly helped him to his feet.

He could not fail her, he could not live without her and he was bloody damned if he was going to die now. He felt… invincible.

He felt like an imbecile.

He saw Voldemort fling the Crucio at Hermione, his eyes alight with malice. It was Harry's worst nightmare come to life; Voldemort had watched her kiss him, knew that she was the one he'd been with that first time. He had spotted Harry's weakness and struck. Hermione had already turned from Harry to help Ron force Avery back to where Bill was poised, waiting to stun him; she had no chance at all.

He should have thrown up a shield. He knew that the Cruciatus curse was a weapon of choice for the Dark Lord for the very fact that once connected it was difficult if not impossible to break the current of hatred flowing from caster to victim without the influence of a third party. Simply put most battle spells like reductor were initiated through the wand as a single incidence of magical energy, while Cruciatus could be held, dragged out. Hence the Longbottoms.

Harry should have put up a shield, but he didn't. He dove into the spell instead, reacting with the true brainless stupidity of love.

His first thought as the pain wracked through him was not to swallow the cup. He flailed, trying desperately to force his hand somewhere close to his mouth without success. He focused then on forcing the cup under his tongue, into his cheek, anywhere it couldn't go down his throat as he convulsed.

“Would you like to see your girlfriend beg, Potter? I can make her. Come, precious…” Voldmort hissed. “Give us a kiss, and I'll let him live.”

Harry could feel time slow against the grinding agony that threaded through him. He saw Hermione move as if transfixed toward Voldemort; saw Ron grab her and haul her back.

Saw her raise her wand against Ron and jolt herself free of him, sweeping threateningly at all who would stop her. Lupin, Tonks and Bill were the only ones close enough and all three seemed frozen in various states of indecision. They would have to stun her to stop her now, and she was closer to Voldemort than any of them. Stunned, she would be helpless.

“Don't do it Hermione, he's a liar, you know he is,” Ron begged, “He'll kill you both, don't do this to me.”

“Come,” Voldemort enticed, “see how he needs you.”

The curse seemed to amplify; Harry felt as if his very bones were about to give way under the relentless coiling of it through his nerves. He found he could shake his head from side to side; his body seemed to approve of the concept of “no” when it came to this. His eyes implored her.

Still Hermione moved toward Voldemort.

How could he ever have worried that he'd swallow the cup? His stomach was heaving at the thought of Voldemort so much as closing the distance between them.

She was close enough to touch now; Harry saw Voldemort's tongue slither as he hissed what he would do to her in parselmouth for Harry's benefit. He gagged, and something within him snapped. He wrestled himself upright through the waves of pain, his brain screaming her name. Hermione!

She flashed him a look that plainly said, `for Merlin's sake, Harry, how dumb do you think I am?' at approximately the same time she kneed Voldemort where his balls ought to be and grabbed the cup from his clutching hands. “That would be for every time anyone has ever called me mudblood, you evil abomination,” she said calmly, backing away quickly as the Dark Lord folded in on himself, like any other man.

“The cup!” Voldemort howled, clutching blindly at thin air; Harry noted his shrill voice was even higher than usual as the Crucio abruptly ended. “I must have that cup! Lucius!”

Lucius? Malfoy? Bloody effing hell. What was Azkaban these days? A bleeding hotel you could check out of whenever the mood suited you?

One glance had clearly told Hermione he was in no condition to catch the cup; she turned and lobbed it at Ron. His expression on reflexively catching it was so close to the child left with the ball in a game of Hot Potato that Harry almost laughed.

Did wizards even play Hot Potato? he wondered dazedly, climbing to his feet. Probably. Or Pass the Exploding Pumpkin or some equally violent equivalent. It was a miracle any of them lasted long enough to make it to Hogwarts, really.

Ron juggled the cup nervously, well aware what it truly was. The masked Death Eater dueling Krum managed at last to Stupefy him and wheeled across the room toward Ron, blasting Reductors left and right as he went. Order members broke off their dueling and dove for cover; Ron's eyes grew wide and he turned and hurled the cup up the stairs to Fred. George abruptly began turning the hall at the top of the stairs into a swamp not unlike the one they'd used at Hogwarts during Umbridge's brief reign of terror, only seemingly smellier, consigning the Durmstrang students to the side stairwells if they were to attempt to join in. First Fred then George slid three quarters of the way down the stairs along the banister; leaping off and sprinting for the door.

A tripping hex brought Fred down and the cup was tossed to Bill, who caught it on the fly and continued on toward the door while George helped his twin to his feet.

He heard Hermione shout, “Ron!” as she grabbed Harry's good arm and made for the door as well. Harry scrambled along, suddenly realizing he had two working arms again. The writhing around during the Cruciatus had evidently forced it back into joint. He lifted up his free hand and spit; a perfect tiny replica of the Hufflepuff cup dropped into his palm.

They were just behind Bill and almost to the door when it banged open and Draco Malfoy suddenly appeared with Alistair Moody, wand drawn and magical eye rolling like a banked billiard ball, hot on his trail.

Draco was midway through a wide-eyed diatribe on raving lunatics when he ran in to Bill with enough force to dislodge the cup yet again. It fell to the ground and rolled, spinning along the rim. Lucius flicked his wand and the door slammed in Moody's face, the lock sliding home with a solid `thunk.'

Harry dove for the cup, knocking Bill over in the process as a further diversion. He let Bill pull him back to his feet, both their backs to Malfoy Senior and Voldemort behind them, desperately enlarging and shrinking the cups as he did. He couldn't bear the pain of the true cup back in his mouth; his scar felt like it was trying to rip free of his head as it was. He shoved it in his pocket and hoped for the best.

And saw Draco's eyes following the movement of his hand as he pulled it back free. For the first time in Harry's life he found himself wishing the rumors of Malfoy's fabled bisexuality were true. Suddenly he'd so infinitely rather believe Draco was checking out his crotch than about to reveal to his father that what he sought was right there. The urge to drop his hands protectively was almost overwhelming.

“Draco!” Lucius cried in delight. “The cup! Get the cup!”

Draco's wand zeroed in on Harry. “Step away,” he warned Bill.

“Not bloody likely you little sh…” Bill began, but was stunned from behind by Malfoy Senior, who turned his wand next upon Hermione, leaving Harry to his son. She met Harry's eyes steadily, as though nothing were even slightly out of the ordinary.

He turned and spotted Malfoy's target at once. He also saw Voldemort's wand on Tonks and Lupin's trained unwaveringly on the Dark Lord. Fred and George and Ron had Rookwood, Mulciber, and two Harry now recognized as the brother and sister Draco had let into Hogwarts in their sights. All were at a standoff. As soon as one fired, all would fire in reaction, and how many might be killed?

He held out the cup toward Draco; heard the gasps and cries of `No, Harry!' and `Don't do it!' that followed.

“Let them go and you'll have your cup!” Harry called out to Voldemort. He saw Voldemort's calculating glare and quick nod to Lucius. Harry knew he was planning to kill them all as soon as Draco had the cup, knew it as well as he knew his own name,

“Take it, and you're back in clover,” He hissed softly to Draco. “His right hand man again. Until the wind changes, of course.”

“Until they find the real thing is in your pocket, Potter,” his old nemesis replied just as softly. “Obliviate me, or he'll know for sure. And next time be prepared. No mercy.”

Harry was stunned. Was Malfoy really letting him…?

The grey eyes across from him slid threatening down toward the real cup and Harry quickly cast the obliviating charm. He could see Draco's eyes lose focus for a moment and then stare in wonder at the cup Harry placed in his hands. He raised it up so that his father could see, and Harry sought Voldemort's reaction in the mirror just in time to see the flash of green break free of his wand and wing toward Hermione.

Fawkes! Harry called silently. I need you!

And because he respected the magical bird, welcomed his friendship and never claimed to own or control him, the Phoenix appeared out of nowhere in a blinding, fiery flash, diving for the Avada as Harry flattened Hermione to the ground. He swallowed it, just as he had done for Dumbledore in the Department of Mysteries, and burst into flames. Startled by the sudden appearance of the magical bird and unnerved by the nearness of the spell that incinerated it Draco scrambled over their sprawled forms. Ron raced forward and tackled him; unaware the cup he carried was a fake.

“Ron, no!” Hermione cried, grabbing his arm and attempting to haul him off Malfoy.

The Death Eaters surged forward around their leader, sensing the Order's imminent retreat and regrouping. Voldemort cast again; again the green light came at them. This time the intended victim was Ron, who was so caught up in his own long-awaited chance to stop Draco that he never heard or saw a thing. This time round there was no Fawkes left to call on and Harry once more threw himself at his friend. He thought he'd done it; Ron at least was safe. The spell caught Harry's hip as he fell over Ron and he felt a brief flash of magic surge like a tidal wave through his veins, crest and rush slamming back toward his heart.

Please, God, Aslan, Yahweh, whom ever, what ever you are, I have never known your name, but I have known you. Please not. Not now. Not like this…

The wave reached his center and brightness overtook him. He heard a whistle like wind in a storm, a crash like thunder, voices arguing. His heart tightened, ached, struggled… and freed itself. A surge of relief washed through him and he gasped gratefully, sucking oxygen into starved lungs. It was a gift of life, but echoed through the suddenly silent hall like a death rattle.

He knew then what he had to do.

He took on his thestral form, struggling to his hooves on the slippery stone floor and leaving his transfigured wand as a body behind. Only Ron and Hermione had actually seen him as a thestral before and neither was completely certain that the emergence of it from his seemingly dead body was any different than the phoenix that took flight from Dumbledore's.

He let out a piercing, challenging thestrals' call and arched his wings menacingly, hearing faint answers from the woods beyond the courtyard.

Harry saw raw terror battle with triumph in the Dark Lord's eyes.

That's right, you hideous thing. Wonder what you have done now. Look death in the eyes for once and know its name, because it's coming for you, not me.

Climb on! He thought to Hermione, and felt her heart leap across the distance between them. Make Ron, too. And bring me with you. I'm my wand.

Oh yeah. That made sense.

But hope trumped disbelief soundly, and Hermione managed to thrust both Ron on his back and his own seemingly dead body across his withers before climbing on herself, shielding them as she went.

Triumph conquered fear, for the moment at least, as well. Voldemort pointed his wand skyward and hissed “Mors Mordre!”

Harry galloped through the door, not looking back toward the sickening result of the spell meant to signal his death. He took to the air, mighty wings thrusting them aloft. He was so tired, so very tired, he hoped it was not far to somewhere they could apparate from, and that someone would side-along him home to Hogwarts so he didn't splinch himself.

Now that would be ironic.

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Hermione guided him to the banks of the stream from which they had safely apparated twice before. He was too exhausted to talk and fly, but her head felt like it would explode with questions. She could see the Order on their brooms flying in close formation around them; Lupin's eyes were glued to the lifeless form Ron held steady against Harry's neck, his face ravaged. Even the twins were sobered and silent.

They landed at last, Harry's thestral legs slowly slumping as soon as Ron and Hermione were safely off his back. The Order came to earth around them in silence, grief writ large across each face.

“It's not what you think!” Hermione hastened to call out. “Finite Incantatum.”

Harry's lifeless body shuddered back into his wand, and Harry himself, with one final surge, shuddered and became… a really tired thestral.

Shite!

He tried again, and again, exhausting himself. He was trapped.

“What have you done?” raged Lupin, his eyes on the wand. Tonks sidled closer to him.

“I…I think he's too tired to change back,” Hermione said hollowly.

“He's DEAD, Hermione! You saw him die. He's not going to change back. I don't know where the thestral came from, but we all saw Harry take his last breath in that room. Voldemort sure as hell did. You saw the mark as well as I!”

She turned to Ron for support. “Tell him. You've seen him do it before, it's him, look!” She dropped to her knees and took Harry's aching head into her hands, gently pushing back the long black forelock to reveal the white lightening bolt that ran between his eyes. “Look!”

Tonks came forward first, then Bill.

“It's the same marking he had before,” Ron admitted. “But we did see him… I know he survived it once, Hermione, and it wasn't a clean hit, but… I don't know what to think.”

“We need to get out of here. Now. They'll be on to us; we've no time to wait.” Lupin said wearily.

“But how can… he's too tired to fly any longer. Can we apparate something that big, all of us? Or a portkey! Can we make a portkey?” Hermione asked hopefully.

“Hermione, we can't. It's not Harry. It's…”

“It's writing something in the dirt, Remus. Or trying to. Look!” Tonks told him excitedly.

Harry had found a pointed stone beneath him; he'd moved off it in discomfort and meant to shove it away with his nose until it came to him what he might do with it. The question was; what to say? He was fading fast, so tired. Please? Harry? Hogwarts? Lupin's sadness and the hurt in the voices arguing around him seemed more important somehow.

He grasped the stone between his thestrals' teeth and spelled out “Sorry.”

“Dear Merlin's Ghost,” Lupin said softly, laying his shaking hand upon the bony black neck. “It is Harry.”

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24. Chapter 23

Official Fine Print: Nope. Not mine. The brainchildren of the mighty pen of JK Rowling. Just playing with them. Honest.

A/N: Hi! Serious R rated fluff alert ahead. The last couple of chapters have been intense and this one is meant to be the light one, a place to catch their breath on the way to the end. Because hey, even if they didn't need it, I did. Thanks for reading along.

Magic Never Dies

Chapter 23

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In the end, they all joined forces to apparate the exhausted thestral and a semi-conscious Viktor Krum to the gates of Hogwarts. Lupin sent his patronus off in search of McGonagall to let them in, while Tonks sent hers after Hagrid.

“Well, he's a thestral at the moment, isn't he, and Hagrid's more likely to know what to do with him than Madam Pomfrey,” she reasoned.

“Good point, love,” Lupin admitted. “Those that can stand, stand guard. We're not safe until we're in the gates, and he knows where we're headed. Just because he thinks Harry's dead doesn't necessarily mean he won't come after the rest of us. Best to be safe.”

“Constant Vigiliance!” Moody agreed, and gimped to position in the back of the group. They closed into a weary circle, waiting mostly in silence. The new moon hovered over Hogwarts in a sky pricked bright with stars… but far beyond their horizon to the west each was keenly aware a far more sinister light illuminated the waning night. Hermione knelt beside Harry and stroked his neck. Ron shifted from foot to foot beside her.

The look in Minerva McGonagall's eyes when she peered through the gate said volumes.

“Oh my…oh… Ron! Oh!” The gates flew open and she stepped back, ushering them inside. Madam Pomfrey was with her, her eyes roving and assessing each of them as they straggled past. She made a beeline for Viktor, propped up between the twins.

They limped and gimped and dragged themselves towards sanctuary, Lupin and Tonks aiding Bill. (`Whatever they're stunning with,' he had managed through numbed and clumsy lips, `it's not your average stunner.') Harry struggled up to regain his … hoofs, and plodded on. He felt the remnants of Dumbledore's magic still protecting him as he came slowly closer, welcoming and probing curiously. He knew that the wards had all been recast when the Headmaster died and a great deal of the magic around Hogwarts exuded from the castle itself, but still he sensed Dumbledore's essence stubbornly woven throughout, forever a force to be reckoned with.

`Not yet,' he told it. `Not this time. But I'm still trying.'

“And Harry?” Professor McGonagall asked Lupin significantly, as they reached the massive doors to the castle.. “Remus, where is Harry?”

“It was a disaster. Riddle showed up shortly after we did with his usual gang of thugs behind him. Harry was hit; indirectly, mind you, and late in the game, but hit. It was another Avada, cast by Voldemort himself, and…” He gestured to the thestral.

“Oh, for goodness sake, Lupin, I've seen the thestrals for years now. You don't mean… he's not…you didn't just… leave him?”

“No, Minerva, it would seem that thestral is Harry. He appeared to change over almost the very moment after he'd been hit and had the presence of mind to transfigure his own wand into a lifeless image of his body. Voldemort believes him dead; he cast the Dark Mark over Durmstrang. The thing of it is, he doesn't seem to be able to change back.”

Hagrid appeared before them just in time for this revelation, Fang slobbering at his side. He stuck his finger in his ear and waggled it vigorously, his eyebrows beetling. “Yer didn't just say…”

Lupin sighed. “Yes, Hagrid, I'm afraid I did. Tonks realized you might be… more familiar with him, in this state than the rest of us. It's been a good while since my Care of Magical Creatures O.W.L. and these days I'd be more suited to stalk him than heal him, anyway.”

Hagrid moved between Hermione and Ron, who were now standing on either side of the drooping beast and propping him up between them.

“Well, then, er, `arry. Let's `ave a look, eh?” he said. Hermione noticed how he approached talking quietly and off to one side where Harry's wide set eyes could clearly see him. He stroked the black neck once, reassuringly, then pushed back the eyelid of one white eye. `What could there possibly be to see other than more white?' she thought distractedly. He moved on next to the nose and mouth, feeling for the regularity of breath and checking the rather outsized tongue and sharp, predatory teeth. She shuddered. He slid his hand up beneath the forelock and saw the jagged white lightening-shaped mark. “Well, tha surely looks familiar. Never seen anything like tha on any o' the others.”

Madam Pomfrey came and swept her wand along Harry's still-heaving flanks.

“He's a bit dried out, like,” Hagrid volunteered. “Needs a good drink up. Heart's beatin' thready as well, but likely that's just not bein' accustomed to the flyin'.”

“We apparated him here. All of us together,” Ron told him. “Him and those ruddy enormous wings. But he flew me and Hermione clear of the Durmstrang grounds so we could apparate. It was me he was protecting, Hagrid.” he admitted, swallowing hard, and Hermione realized for the first time how deeply it was all beginning to settle on Ron as well. She watched as Harry's dragonish head turned and nudged him gently as if to say, `forget it, mate,' almost knocking him over in the process.

“Hagrid is correct, as far as I can tell,” Madam Pomfrey reported. “It…er, he, appears dehydrated, and his heart rate would be elevated for most species. He would seem to have a bit of a fever as well, although I've no idea anymore what the baseline temperature of a thestral is. All the other signs are there, though. In his current condition, Hagrid, I really do believe you'd be far more helpful to him than I.”

“Well, bad as that sounds, it's good that you both agree that the crea…, Harry, shows signs of dehydration and exhaustion,” Professor McGonagall told them, reaching a rather tentative hand to stroke the thestrals' nose as well. “Both could play a major impact on the ability of an inexperienced animagus to transform. Perhaps the best course of action is to ask Hagrid to take him down and make him as comfortable as possible in Witherwing's shelter with a drink and a… er, meal, before we go any further.”

“Ugh,” said Ron aloud, the thought of what Harry would be eating suddenly occurring to him. “ Hagrid, you're not really going to feed him…”

“'e's not going to want treacle tart, Ron, tha's for certain. I've got a lovely bit of venison he can `ave, all cut up like, no hoofs or ears or ennythin'.”

Harry wondered if thestrals could throw up. He knew, vaguely, that regular horses couldn't or something, but he wasn't getting within ten feet of anything on offer at Hagrid's anyway. Really, treacle tart sounded marvelous….though what he wanted more than anything was a nap. A month-long one.

“That's it then, Hagrid. You take Harry with you, and let's get the rest of you up to the Hospital Wing and taken care of.”

“Before we do anything, there's one thing of vital importance we all need to agree on,” Lupin said, and the group fell silent. “As far as we can tell, Voldemort seemed to believe Harry was killed at Durmstrang. It appeared as if he thought the thestral was a creature Harry called on before dying, the way he did Fawkes.” A soft chirrup from the pocket of Bill's robes was followed by a pair of bright eyes as an infant Phoenix poked out its ashy head. Lupin smiled fondly at him, but his face quickly grew serious again as he continued. “He saw Harry's `body' and saw the thestral carry it off. As long as Voldemort believes Harry to be dead, there is a great chance he will come forward far more openly, feeling himself invincible. Attacks by his supporters may escalate at first, but we will have the element of surprise to strike back with when we have Harry back.” His eyes searched the group, one by one. “For the time being at least, I think it's vital that no one outside this immediate company reveals to anyone else at Hogwarts, or anywhere else for that matter, that Harry is in fact alive.”

There was a brief silence as the meaning of his words sunk in. It clearly made sense to most, but; “We've got to tell Mum the truth,” one of the twins said.

“She'd go mental else,” the other agreed. “And Dad as well.”

“And Luna!” Ron said, though the tips of his ears went bright red when the twins wolf whistled. “She went through everything else with us, the snow and the dragons and the cave and….”

“Arthur and Molly and Miss Lovegood, then. No one else.” Lupin agreed.

“What about Gin?” Bill asked.

Lupin sighed. “And Ginny.”

“Filch?” Fred suggested.

“Peeves?” George offered.

“It's not funny, boys!” Lupin reproved them, though without much heat. “You were there; you know what a close thing it was.”

“And Snape?” Hermione asked quietly. “What about Snape? Will we trust him?”

Harry's thestral head shook violently. It was his life, his secret. He believed now that Snape had killed Dumbledore on his own orders; he even had a growing suspicion exactly why, although the plan had quite probably failed. All that aside, there was still something not… right about Severus Snape.

“There's your answer,” Lupin said. “Although we may have to revisit the question later, for now no one mentions a thing to Profes… er, Snape.”

“What will you tell them all, then?” Tonks asked Professor McGonagall, not envying her a bit.

“We must all agree on a story, and stick with it.” Lupin reaffirmed.

“Let's get everyone taken care of first and let Hagrid get Harry comfortable. Then perhaps we could discuss…” Professor McGonagall started.

“No!” Mad Eye cut in emphatically. “Do it now. One inconsistency and the seeds of doubt are sown. Potter's best asset right now is time undiscovered to rest up and plan a counter to whatever Riddle's got up his sleeve next. Lupin said it. Surprise is no small weapon against scum like the Dark Lord and his kind.”

`It'll certainly surprise him if I'm a bloody thestral,' Harry thought despairingly, trying once more to change himself back. Nothing yet. Not even a flicker.

“We should all swear, and now, on the same story,” Moody continued in his low growl. “Potter died at Durmstrang by the Dark Lord's hand, fighting the good fight. The Avada like as hit him in the back while he was wrestling young Weasley here out of the line of fire anyway; might as well make Riddle out as the back-spelling rat he is. Weasley and Granger escaped with his body on a thestral. End of story, goodbye.”

“There'll still be questions. They'll expect a funeral and we haven't got a body,” McGonagall rejoined, sobering at the thought. “Thank goodness!”

“He'll move quickly now he thinks Harry dead,“ Lupin reminded her. “There may not even be time to worry about the niceties. This changes everything; the balance of power he sought to overturn by forcing Malfoy to kill Dumbledore has finally gone his way, at least in his eyes. We must make him think it true until Harry is recovered and able to finish him off. There will likely be such widespread panic once he gets his word out, no one may even think to ask about a funeral or memorial.”

“You're joking.” Hermione said suddenly. “Just because every witch and wizard in the wizarding world will finally have to have a share in the fear and frustration Harry's had to himself for the last six years they won't even stop to give him a funeral?” She knew it was true; knew that if Harry had truly died the fickle sway of the wizard press and wizards in general might well have left him unnoticed and un-mourned despite all they had put him through in the name of protecting them. Rationally she understood that it was a moot point, that he was here, alive, beside her, but it enflamed her nonetheless. “That's barbaric, and utterly beneath us. How can we call ourselves civilized when…”

She realized they were all looking at her as if she'd finally gone truly mad. Harry's head rubbed gently against her shoulder as if to say “never mind,” but she DID mind. Terribly. Because it still, any day, could be true instead of just hypothetical and she'd be damned if the wizarding world didn't give the Boy-Who-Lived his due. Or a bloody good send off, anyway.

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Harry found himself led down the steep hill to Hagrid's hut between Hagrid and Hermione a short while later. It was a slow trip and he stumbled more than once, scraping his bony knees on the rocky path. The wings that were so much an extension of his body when he flew were far more awkward to manage on the ground, something like an extra pair of too long arms to keep out of the way. When at last they reached the paddock outside Hagrid's he flopped down, convinced he could go no further.

Hermione's small noises of distress when he'd stumbled had been balm to his soul; he was miserable that she was worried but heartened that she was worried still for him. Her firm insistence that he rouse himself and finish the additional distance to the small shed Hagrid used for sheltering sick or wounded animals proved likewise compelling in an entirely different way. The stamp of her foot on the rocky ground and her frustrated growl of “Harry Potter, if you die on me it had better be in that shed or I swear I'll kill you myself!” revealed just how close to the limits of her patience and endurance she was as well.

He struggled up again and staggered on to the shed, flopping into the fresh straw Hagrid kept spread there for emergencies and closing his weary eyes. He heard the two move about him for some time as if in a dream; bits of conversation filtering through his consciousness as Hermione told Hagrid about what had befallen them after touching Snape's bottle in the Room of Requirement. The stinging sensation of someone cleaning the scrapes on his knees woke him enough to hear Hagrid's rumble of a voice asking eager questions about the Durmstrang dragons, and Harry realized Hermione was sitting in the straw beside him, gently stroking his neck again and combing her fingers through the rats' nest of his hair, erm…mane, as they talked. Everything about her touch instilled a persistent feeling of comfort and security and content within him, even in his present form. He knew thestrals were far and away from the most cuddly of beasts and the sight of them gave most wizards at least a momentary shudder; he'd long thought of himself as a human variant of one - a constant visual reminder for some of death even in the midst of life. Yet she still stayed by him, cared for him. How could he ever have understood until this moment that she was truly not to be put off, if not by this most off-putting of forms?

She loved him.

She loved him and she was safe and Ron was safe up in the castle having an extra ear removed and reassuring Molly and Arthur all was fine. He was lucky, really; he had no business dwelling on the thestral-like qualities of his life. He was alive, and he had the cup and the locket to destroy, and then once they figured out how to sever the final horcrux from his scar he was free to kill Voldemort and live a normal life, just like anyone else.

Harry knew he'd crested one mountain only to find a taller one looming on the horizon, but there was still a chance there, and where there was a chance, no matter how slim, there was always room for hope to be found. Somewhere.

He closed his eyes and surrendered at last to sleep.

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Three days followed in such quick succession Harry wasn't truly aware of the passing of time. All he knew for sure was that he was still a thestral, and a miserable, sickly one at that.

Madam Pomfreys' predicted fever had been spot on; the primary reason time had passed so unremarked. He'd shivered and sweated it out in the shed, slung with a collection of Hagrid's holey quilts. He'd eaten nothing the first two days, the prospect of each new bloody offering Hagrid tried to tempt him with more revolting that the last. It was just this evening when Ron came down for a visit Harry first felt the stirrings of a rectifiable hunger.

`Ron smells really good tonight,' he'd thought dreamily to Hermione.

Her look of alarm was almost enough to make him laugh, though thestrals didn't appear to come equipped for humor of any kind.

`Ask him what he had for dinner.'

“Shepard's pie,” Ron had admitted in some confusion when she asked him. “Are you hungry? Dobby said he'd brought you and Hagrid something earlier.”

“I'm fine,” she told him. “It's Harry. He's put off by what Hagrid insists he ought to want to eat, and he thinks you, erm, smell good.”

Ron swallowed nervously and shifted a bit further across the straw of the stall.

“I don't know why I didn't think of it before, it's the blood that attracts them, but nutritionally there shouldn't be any reason they can't digest cooked food, it's just a preference, really,” Hermione thought aloud.

`As long as it's not Hagrid doing the cooking,' Harry thought. `I'm sure I could still break even one of these teeth on his stuff.'

“Stay with him a minute, Ron, I'm going to go have a talk with Dobby.” Hermione instructed, rising from beside him and brushing straw dust from her jeans.

Harry thought Ron looked a bit panicked about being left alone with him, but bravely said nothing. That, or fear had paralyzed his vocal chords.

In the awkward, silent minutes that followed, Harry realized how accustomed he'd become to the comforting sound of Hermione's voice over the last few days. Of course he could talk to her as well, after a fashion, so it was different for Ron.

He leveled one white eye at Ron and stared for a few moments until he thought it impossible not to realize he was attempting to communicate, then cocked his head and waggled his ears in what was surely an interpretable interspecies variant for `what's up with the girl, then?'

Ron's eyes narrowed meditatively then he grinned. “You're trying to ask me about Luna, aren't you?”

And I'm not going to bloody nod and scrape my hoof like some circus pony, so get on with it already.

“She wants to come down and see you. McGonagall said maybe tomorrow, if you haven't changed back yet. The whole DA was up to speed and ready to help out when we got back to the castle, in case the Death Eaters followed. They're all pretty broken up about you, mate, honestly. There've been a couple of kids withdrawn from the school already and the Daily Prophet did call you `The- Boy-Who-Died-On-Us' this morning, but everyone else is really down. It'd be a right bloody boost to the ego if you could only enjoy it.”

Harry thestral-snorted.

“Luna said she knew you were alive anyway, when I told her. And you know what? I believe her. She may come across like she's had one too many Snorckack kicks to the head, but she's really quite smart.”

`No kidding, Ron. There's a reason she's in Ravenclaw, you great prat,' he thought, but fondly. Ron sort of glowed when he talked about her. Harry'd always liked Luna anyway; there was something so essentially transparent and honest in the midst of all the strangeness. He admired the way she coped with her life without compromising herself or feeling the need to compensate for everyone else.

“Not to mention the best snog ever.”

Aha… and coming from Won Won the plunger boy that was no small compliment!

“It was a right relief when the twins finally left yesterday, I'll tell you,” he continued. “They're bloody merciless when it comes to that kind of thing. Bill's still here, though, and he's quite alright about…stuff. Married man and all that, you know. Full of good advice, he is. I've missed having you to talk with right at the moment, mate, seeing as you, well… Things seemed to work out well enough for you and Hermione, I mean. You didn't seem to put her off or anything. Quite the opposite, actually, considering that night in the cave. I thought she was going to pounce you right over the fire for a bit there.”

So had Harry; and it was quite the pleasant memory. That, and all that had followed it. Something stirred within him, and he tried desperately not to think of the whole physiology of it.

Good lord, what if I can't ever change back? Can that even happen? Professor McGonagall certainly hasn't seemed panicked yet or anything, but what does that mean? I've never exactly gone by the book in anything. Bloody effing hell.

Hermione fortunately reappeared at that moment with a large basket and an even larger grin curling the very corners of her lips and lighting up her eyes. Walking up the hill and back had brought a flush of pink to her cheeks and she smelled of fresh air and heather and wood smoke to Harry's sharpened senses.

“Look what Dobby's made you, Harry,” she told him, and set the basket down before him in the straw.

He nuzzled the lid off the basket to discover a still-warm, outsized Shepard's pie. The smell set off a rumble in his stomach and encouraged him enough to forget the awkwardness of diving right in.

There was simply no delicate way to do it, and after the first couple of tentative nibbles he stopped trying. He told himself Ron and Hermione's gales of laughter watching him trying to lick mashed potato off his muzzle were affectionate in nature, and revenge would surely present itself at some future point. He ended up cleaning the dish, and hauled himself to his feet to have a drink from the bucket of water Hagrid had hung near the door after, stretching his wings as much as he could in the confines of the stall.

“That seems to have done it,” Ron commented. “If he keeps on like that, he'll be enormous by the time he changes back, though. Might actually fit Dudders old clothes for a change.”

Thestral noses sprayed water really well. Ron blinked, dripping.

“Oh you really are dead now, mate. Just you wait.”

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Harry woke to the breaking dawn next morning cold and more than a little stiff. He rolled over beneath the old quilt Hagrid had thrown over him, instinctively seeking warmth and moving eagerly against it when he found it. Long hair brushed his cheek and he felt himself smile, recognizing the familiar scent as Hermione. Merlin, he must smell revolting; sweaty thestral could only be described as wet dog to the twentieth power.

Apparently heedless of that fact Hermione likewise snuggled closer, equally unconsciously glad of any assistance in the warmth department. Her hands burrowed against his chest and began a slow descent along his ribs as they relaxed while she fell more deeply asleep again. He shifted, eyes still closed, his movement helping her warming fingers along their reflexive journey. He could feel himself let slip a small hum of anticipation, inching forward again, arching his hips slightly to help her fingertips slide to his stomach and encourage their downward momentum…

Holy crap! What the hell was he doing? He was different species, for godsake, he couldn't…

He froze and opened a single eye, angling his head down. Pale skin with slender extensions met his roving gaze, and the other eye flew open. A hand. Thestrals didn't have hands. He had a hand! And an arm! And a hell of a good morning present for Hermione if the tightness of the torn and dirtied Durmstrang trousers he still wore was any indication.

The grin of delight was so wide it actually hurt.

He made a beeline for the lips that had tormented him for days, so desirable and yet so beyond his reach as a thestral. He nudged her with his chilly, delightfully normal-sized human nose and kissed her over and over everywhere he could reach, eyelids, nose, cheeks, forehead, chin, again and again. If he had died, there could be no heaven without this. Clearly fate had other plans for him.

“Hermione?” he whispered. “Hermione, wake up. Please wake up.”

“Hmm?” she murmured. “Harry, it's early. Go back to… Harry?”

Her eyes opened wide and just as abruptly filled with tears of pure, unadulterated relief. His grin dimmed slightly, but only just.

“Don't cry, don't. Don't lets waste it. I can't remember the last time it felt so damn good just to wake up. Be happy, Hermione, please?” he whispered, trying to wipe them from her cheeks.

“I am.” she whispered back. “Idiot. I'm just …It's just hitting me all at once. You're alive, and you're you, and I've been so worried for such a long time...”

She didn't stop crying, but she did start kissing him back in much the same way he had woken her; as if she didn't know where to start first and didn't want to stop anytime soon. He closed his eyes and relaxed into her hands, leaning into the warmth like a cat in a sunbeam.

“I've missed you. I know I've been right here with you all this time, but I've missed you so much.” Harry admitted. He lowered his nose into the crook of her neck and inhaled; pressed his lips to the tender skin just below her ear and felt her slight shiver in response. He had arms. Arms were a wonderful thing. Hands were even better. Fingers could undo buttons. At least, they used to be able to… He frowned in concentration and Hermione would have given anything to have been able to shown Lily that expression, a combination of frustration and wonder and anticipation that he probably hadn't worn since he first learned to walk.

Green eyes swept up to meet hers and took in her amusement. “You could help, you know,”

“It's too much fun to watch. Three days as a thestral and you'd never know you were raised with opposable thumbs,” she teased. And found herself silenced in the best of all possible ways. She had been unchanged all this time and still the wonderful warmth he radiated against her and the feel of his muscles at play beneath the skin of his shoulders was almost unbelievably good; she could only imagine the intensity of rediscovering his senses. His fingers abandoned the buttons of her shirt and were moving relentlessly south.

It was becoming clearer and clearer to her why the Scots had developed the kilt.

They began fumbling with each others buttons and zippers until Harry let loose a low growl of frustration and she felt the shimmer of magic like gooseflesh across her entirely unclothed skin.

“No fair,” she reproved him, drawing him closer over her nonetheless.

“You try, then,” he encouraged her, dropping his head and ghosting his cheek along the soft swell of her. “It's all intent; you've only got to want it.”

She closed her eyes and visualized what she wanted, thinking the charm, until he distracted her with a soft, wet kiss somewhere she just couldn't ignore.

“Harry, I'm trying to concentrate here…”

“Maybe you should try actually looking at what you want,” he suggested.

She opened her eyes to pools of intent green, hovering above her. His still-clothed hips moved against hers as he bent to kiss her and suddenly it was just too much.

“Take it off,” she growled in her turn. “Or at least hand me my wand.”

He pushed himself upright and hauled his shirt over his head, completely oblivious in his usual Harry way of how utterly lovely he was to her while doing it. He flung it in the corner and reached for her wand, handing it to her with an anticipatory smile. “You can solve two problems with one wand, then,” he explained, settling back down to her.

Something pricked at the corner of her memory, just out of reach; but whatever it was disappeared like mist with the brush of his lips against her own. She banished the Durmstrang trousers, permanently, thank you, and cast the anti-conception charm, setting her wand back down in the straw and rejoicing in the whisper of skin on skin as they rejoined each other.

Harry felt fiercely aware of finally, truly belonging somewhere; the lovely anchoring sense of being hers was almost as good as knowing she wanted to be his as well. She was warm and welcoming and happy he was alive. She had loved him, reassured him, slept beside him even when he was a creature most wizards considered eerie, and ugly to boot. He felt a longing course through him then for something more then sex, something he'd never reckoned to be part of his life, a luxury he'd never counted on. Was it wrong to want something so badly? Irresponsible, selfish, cruel even?

“Hermione, would you ever…, would you actually, if I…” Her eyes opened, he felt her lashes brush his cheek as he pulled back to gauge her expression. “Um, would you? Consider maybe marrying me? Getting married, I mean. Us. Er… together.”

Her eyes went wide, shocked.

“I know it's not really fair to ask you that,” he muttered and ducked his head, but persisted, driven on by some unnamable compulsion. “I just wanted you to…to know that I, that that's what I wanted for you. That I wish that it was all different and I wasn't…”

“Oh, Harry,” she said slowly, and anything else he'd thought of saying died on his lips along with his hope.

“Of course I would,” she continued. “I don't need to consider it. It's what I've been telling you, trying to, since my birthday. Once I let myself see it was you I loved, there wasn't a way to turn back. It's not that it doesn't matter what happens, it matters hugely. It's just I know now that I'd rather live a single day more with you if that's all we have than fifty years with anyone else.”

They stared at each other a moment, eye to eye, processing.

“That was a yes, wasn't it?” he asked tentatively, hopeful once again.

She sighed. “Yes, Harry. It was a yes. Yes, I would, in fact, marry you if we ever got the time or the chance. Of course I would.”

“Will. You will. No squirming out of it with a would, or anything.”

“'Will' means you have to promise to be around so I can,” she pointed out.

“Okay. Deal. I get to kiss you now, don't I?” he asked happily. It was one of the few times she'd seen him so successfully shake off the clinging gloom of his fate since third year. She wasn't any more certain that he believed he might live, but she also couldn't believe he would ask her if he didn't at least think it possible.

“Not that you weren't before or anything, but yes, you do. And I get to kiss you back.”

“Hmmm. Do I get to say where?”

“Let me guess…” Hermione said softly, secretly delighted with his delight. She could barely remember the last time she'd seen him smile like that, and he'd certainly been too young then to be anticipating what he was now.

“Three guesses.”

“Okay. Is it… here?” She kissed his nose, nipping, laughing inside as she saw his eyes cross trying to watch her.

“Nope. Not close. Cold on the old locator. Not really a nose guy.”

“Is it…. here?” She worked her way down, skipping his lips and traveling from his chin on down his neck and through the hollow between the gates of his collar bones. She made a quick, inspired decision to go left before she latched on target. She noticed he let her go a good minute or more before interrupting her this time. His chest rose and fell like the swell of waves on an ocean, taking her with him.

“Nooo. Nope. Definitely unh….warmer though. One more guess.”

Hermione decided it was time to get it wrong for once. If there was truly a time for everything, she sensed now was one of those times when being right didn't necessarily make you smart.

“Must be…” she whispered, dragging her lips softly down the center of his torso, “right…here.” She let her tongue swirl around his navel.

“So hot…” he managed, “and yet so wrong.”

She rested her chin where her lips had been and gazed contritely up at him, forcing him to curl his shoulders up to see her. The subtle ridge of muscle directly in front of her contracted and reformed in the process, leading her to swallow. It was that or drool, and swallowing was so much… neater.

“Do I get to go for extra credit?” she asked innocently.

“Oh yeah. Absolutely. Go on, try again,” he told her, eyes darkening. He remained propped on his elbows.

“Hmmmm,” she pondered, knowing the hum was passing right through her chest and directly to the goal, currently straining against her breastbone. “I'd better take my time, if I've only got one more chance.”

“Holy hell, Hermione. It's standing up and waving at you,” he groaned good naturedly.

“Well, hello there. So it is. I win!”

She grinned.

He grinned back, just a touch more feral than hers. “Yeah. But it's my turn next. And you know how much help I need answering questions under pressure.”

“And you don't want to make me laugh for the next few minutes now, do you?”

“No ma'am,” he admitted, his eyes rolling back in his head as she began. “I don't.”

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

Harry required some recovery time before even thinking about his three guesses. Hermione moved up beside him where he lay, resting her hand on his still-heaving ribs.

“Bet you'll never get it,” she teased gently.

“Bet I will,” he countered, opening his eyes slowly. The green really did seem darker somehow; but warmer as well. Perhaps it was lacking the lens of his glasses in the way that changed them.

“Not without your glasses,” she laughed.

He threaded the fingers of one hand through hers and waved them. “Trusty seeing eye digits at the ready.”

“Definitely no fair.”

“Are you discriminating against the near sighted? Hermione Jane Granger, champion of the house elf and abuser of the myopic?”

“Fine. Fine. You can use your fingers. No tickling. You still won't guess though.”

His breathing had evened and he was showing renewed interest in his task.

“Alright, then. First guess. I think it's got to be…. here.” He kissed her forehead.

She shook her head, watching as he feigned disappointment.

“Hermione Granger, smartest witch of her age, doesn't want her brains noticed first?”

Another head shake. He might be focusing on her brains, but his other hand was wandering, stroking her back and arms in a slow, mesmerizing rhythm. So that's his game….

“Okay. Got it now. Shook me the first time, but now I'm on to you.”

He was on her, too. How'd that happen?

“Here,” he proclaimed, and gently, quite chastely, kissed her left breast above her heart.

“Erm, no. `Fraid not.”

“Really? Really? That trustworthy, kind, faithful heart, and that's not it? Hmmmm.”

Okay. He could play the hum game too. Really well. And his… friend was back and ready to play again.

“Last guess, Potter,” she warned.

“Pressure's on now, I reckon,” he said, making sure that it was, and in all the right places, too.

Dear Lord, if he didn't make his move in the next thirty seconds she was going to have to grab him and show him where it went. “Quit stalling,” she yawned, using up the very last shred of her self control to achieve the effect.

“'m not stalling. I'm thinking. You've got me completely confused. Brains, heart… you know you're lovely, beautiful, it can't be eyes then, or lips or anything you can see just looking at you… wait. I've got it.” he told her.

“Yes?” she said breathlessly. He was so damn close down there.

“Here,” he said softly, and drew their still clasped hands up, his lips closing on the ring finger of her left hand. “Where I promise that one day, very soon, there'll be a ring that says you're mine. Forever. Because he's gone.”

He was so damn sweet. So good. On so many different levels, in so many different ways. Who ever could have dreamed that only three days after Voldemort swooped triumphantly back into full power proclaiming the Boy-Who-Lived dead Hermione Granger would have the best one of her life so far?

“You win,” she said.

-->

25. Chapter 24

Official Fine Print: Nope. Not mine. The brainchildren of the mighty pen of JK Rowling. Just playing with them. Wheeeee!

Magic Never Dies

Chapter 24

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Harry set the cup and the locket down on the kitchen table at Grimmauld Place.

“It's time,” he said resolutely. “They've got to go.”

They'd stayed at Hogwarts for two full days after Harry had managed to return to his own form. Madam Pomfrey had smuggled him up to a well guarded Hospital Wing and poked and prodded every inch of him, pronouncing him both healing and oddly… changed.

“I've known him since he was eleven, seen more of him than I ought to, and I tell you there is something different now. His magic appears altered.”

“We can't keep him from leaving simply because something is different,” Professor McGonagall had said anxiously. “Surely, Poppy, there must be…” her voice had trailed off and her eyes shifted to the portrait of Dumbledore.

“It is Voldemort's soul within him. He has at least another piece now, and two more to cope with. Remember how he changed his third year after the incident in the chamber. He was darker, moody, quick to anger…”

“He was thirteen,” Madam Pomfrey had snorted. “They were all like that.”

The corners of Professor McGonagall's lips had curled then.

“If you let him go,” Dumbledore warned them, “being Harry, he will immediately attempt to eliminate the two remaining horcruxes. There are only two options open to him. Release them and allow them to join the portions of the soul already within him that are called by the horcrux in his scar, or destroy them. Harry has not had nearly enough time or training to manage the last without catastrophic results. He will attempt the first, to his great peril and quite possibly ours, Minerva. I myself would have done almost anything to restrain him.”

`Fat lot of good that advice had ever done,' thought Hermione, who had been there for the former conversation. Dumbledore had pegged Harry exactly. On the other hand, however, it was certainly easy enough to see Harry's point as well, and McGonagall, not being Dumbledore, was ultimately swayed and allowed them to leave.

No one at Hogwarts other than Professor McGonagall, Madam Pomfrey, Luna Lovegood or Hagrid had the slightest clue Harry lived on. The mood of the students varied widely; the Gryffindors were for the most part deeply shocked and reinvigorated in their opposition to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, the Ravenclaws worried about the future and how to weigh the odds ahead of them, the Hufflepuffs were simply terrified that now all might be lost. The Slytherins still left at the school tended to be either moderates or spies; none showed any visible grief - or surprise - at Harry's demise.

Ron had spent an inordinate amount of time taking his leave of Luna, extracting a promise that she would come and visit them at Grimmauld Place during her Christmas holidays. Harry found himself wondering if there would even be Christmas holidays this year, or if he would be alive to see them. Hagrid and Hermione had been scrupulously careful to make sure he hadn't had so much as a glimpse of the Daily Prophet; he was sure Voldemort was reveling in his new Harry-free playground and he could not help but brood. It ate at him, constantly.

They had returned to Grimmauld place only hours before: Hermione realized Dumbledore had not been far off in his assessment of the situation. Harry had taken time for only one thing; he'd disappeared to Sirius's old room for something while Hermione and Ron made a makeshift meal. She found herself now doubly curious what that had been.

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Hermione brought out the book that she had found in the Room of Requirement and set it on the table. “It's not exactly an answer to our problem,” she told them, “but I did find something interesting about Horcruxes in here.”

Harry's eyes narrowed and he rubbed his hip meditatively. “You had that it the cave,” he said. “That's the book that I kept….””

“Yes! Well, yes it is, as a matter of fact,” Hermione admitted hastily.

Ron had seemed to sense something was up with the two of them after Harry had managed to transform back from his thestral form and hadn't missed a chance to tease or comment ever since. Harry seemed ready to share the news of their more committed state with their other best friend but Hermione, for reasons she could not entirely name or defend, felt that the time wasn't right yet. She knew Harry was right when he pointed out it would end the teasing, but still something held her back. Her game plan was simply to avoid subjects rife with opportunity until she figured out why.

“If you look here, under “Dissolution or Disarming of Objects infused with the Soul or Essence of Dark Witches or Wizards unknown,” you'll see we've still got something of a problem…”

“Yeah. The problem is even the chapter headings make my brain stutter. What sort of book is that anyway? And if they're Horcruxes, why don't they just say so and get on with it?” Ron moaned.

“It's an old teaching text. That's why the stack all looked the same. They were probably abandoned when a newer text was chosen, a carefully Ministry-sanitized one, I'm sure. It predates even Tom Riddle by more than fifty years. And they don't just get on with it for the same reason most wizards call Voldemort `You-Know-Who,' Ron. Fear of invoking evil by invoking its name,” Hermione reminded him.

“Does it make any difference if the Dark Witches or Wizards are known? Shouldn't it be easier to get rid of if you know whose soul it is?” Harry asked, dropping into the chair beside her.

“Definitely,” Hermione agreed. “But not necessarily why you'd think. Apparently there are lots of ways to infuse inanimate objects with someone's essential essence. Portraits are just one example. In fact this book's got just what we need to get rid of her if Mrs. Black ever gets her spellotape off. That seems to be the primary reason the subject's brought up at all, getting rid of spiritual essences that have been infused with the intent to annoy the living. A horcrux is a whole other story.”

What good's it to us, then?” Ron groused. “Nice as it would be to get rid of Sirius' mother once and for all, Harry can't enjoy the quiet if he's dead. Oh never mind, maybe he can…”

“Enough dead jokes already, Ron. Getting less funny by the minute as I sit staring at these,” Harry warned him, poking the locket dispiritedly with the tip of his wand. The cup was well away on the center of the table; it still seemed to want to attach itself magnet-like to his forehead if it got close enough. The locket, strangely, was much milder in its attraction. Yet another dilemma; what exactly did that mean? For all they contained portions of the same tainted soul, the two certainly didn't act alike.

“I said the primary reason, Ron. The answer's in the footnotes.” Hermione said triumphantly, knowing full well neither of them had ever bothered reading a footnote in their lives. `If it so bloody important, they ought to put it right smack in the middle of the page, not bury it down in tiny print on the bottom!' had been Ron's howl after discovering the answer to one of Snape's exam questions had been contained therein.

She read aloud, “The rare object that appears an exception to the dissolution spell may in fact prove to be a far more worrisome state of affairs. If repeated applications of the spell under closely controlled circumstances fails, it is quite possible the caster is instead facing a horcrux; a vouchsafing created by deliberately shattering an intact human soul through the premeditated murder of another. Under such circumstances the caster is advised to consider the value and use of the horcruxed object most carefully, as destruction for purposes other than the reclamation of the soul fragment by its owner almost always results in the catastrophic emission of darkest magic. For advice on the possible repercussions, page 314. For those determined to proceed; page 672.”

“What does it say on page 314?” Ron asked.

“Forget 314. The real question is what does it say on 673?” Harry countered.

“672,” Hermione corrected automatically, flipping through the pages, although she already knew the information by heart.

“No, 673. I want to know if they think you'll live long enough to turn the page.” Harry said gloomily.

Hermione determinedly ignored him. “Page 672 is… complicated. Apparently the creation of the horcrux is integral to its destruction, but the book pussyfoots so around the creation process because it's such a dark, despicable use of magic that it's almost impossible to get at the actual destruction theory. What good does it do not to talk plainly about it if someone's already done it?”

“Hermione,” Ron said sharply. “Just give us the gist. What does it actually say of any use?”

“Well… here's the thing of it. There's destroying the object, and destroying the horcrux. Destroying the object doesn't necessarily destroy the horcrux it contains no matter how completely it's done. The freed soul will simply seek to join what it was severed from. The horcruxed soul itself has to be destroyed to keep it from rejoining. That's what negates the argument that he wouldn't keep trying to kill you if he knew or guessed you were a horcrux yourself, Harry. Killing you wouldn't hurt the horcrux in the scar immediately, and he could quite probably release it and reclaim it. He'd lose its protection as a horcrux, but regain the portion of his soul. Knowing Voldemort he'd quite possibly search for a way to try again. He doesn't seem to know or care how much it twists him.”

“Are you kidding?” Harry said softly. “He knows. He gets off on it, I'm sure he does. The less visibly human he is, the less he believes he can die. But die he will, and soon.”

His voice sent a shiver along her spine.

“That's also why you've ultimately been able to fight the influence of the horcruxes though, Harry. The first one is on you, but it's not part of you; it's contained in your scar. The others shouldn't be able to have actually joined it because it's still sealed by the magic that instilled it. The rest, the wand one, for example, is only held in you by its attraction to the intact scar.

The only reason they didn't transfer to Voldemort at Durmstrang is that you have three parts altogether in you now and he has only one remaining. You have your scar, the wand and the diary, and you were holding the cup. The horcruxed parts are driven to become whole again, so they want to be where the greatest concentration of the soul is.”

“I still don't understand about the diary, Hermione, I destroyed it. I put a basilisk fang clear through it and Tom Riddle had holes in him when he disappeared.”

“You destroyed the physical object, the diary, releasing the horcux. The image of Tom Riddle the horcrux was projecting was destroyed along with the diary. It needed Ginny's vitality to project that form and communicate with you. But you never knew it was a bit of Voldemort's actual soul, and what this book tells us is that if you don't do the specific magic required to finish off the soul, it will always survive. It wasn't strong enough to reach Voldemort without Ginny's body, so it clung to the bit of him in you, instead.

Your soul and Voldemort's are like oil and water Harry, they don't want to mix, in part because Lily managed to love you enough in those twenty months to infuse you with it. Voldemort was never loved, his mother died within hours of giving birth to him and was so full of her own despair that she couldn't or wouldn't even use her own magic to save herself for him.”

“We've said all this, one way or another,” Harry told her, the frustration evident in his eyes. “How does it help us destroy them?”

“It tells us for sure that it has to be a two step process, to begin with. Force the horcrux from the object in which it's embedded, then destroy the horcrux. Melting down the locket wouldn't do it, for example; the horcrux would just seek to rejoin the soul, which means either you or Voldemort since you both have part of it. The pain you feel in your scar whenever Voldemort is around isn't necessarily under his control either, Harry. At first it was the horcruxed soul bit in you trying to escape and reunite with what's left in him. Now you're actually more powerful. Your scar is drawing the bit of soul left in him toward you, and you feel the pull. The drive for the soul to remain whole is one of the most powerful and integral parts of our humanity; that's why he's become such a…. a thing, by doing what he's done. It's also why you don't have to die to defeat him. According to this it's definitely possible to force the soul from the host object; but in your case we just have to find a way to do that without hurting you. ”

“Just,” said Harry, reaching up reflexively to touch his scar and wincing.

“We need Dumbledore, then. He managed to destroy the one in the ring, didn't he?” Ron asked. “Where's that Chocolate Frog card, Harry?”

Harry rose and disappeared in the direction of the front room, returning moments later with the envelope protecting the card. He removed it and propped it against the sugar bowl on the table where Hermione and Ron could see it as well.

“Professor?” he called softly to the empty frame. It was several minutes before Dumbledore appeared, straightening his hat. His eyes were twinkling madly, but he seemed a tad cross.

“Sorry to disturb you, Professor…” Harry started.

“Not at all,” Dumbledore informed him with a wry smile. “I just had to admit to Minerva and and the other portraits that I had lost the pool, first.”

“What pool?” Harry asked suspiciously. “Please tell me you haven't actually bet on me battling Voldemort or anything.”

“No, no, no. Of course not, Harry. Just on whether you'd ask for help or go crashing off headlong if you managed to locate the all horcruxes.”

Harry's face transformed into a slow, deeply amused grin. “Don't know me quite as well as you thought you did, Professor?”

“You have grown, Harry. A year ago I would have been right. It's a bet I am not entirely unhappy to lose, I assure you. Of course the old truism that you can't take it with you makes paying it off so much less painful somehow.”

Hermione saw Harry's eyes flicker and reached under the table for his hand. He grasped back, fingers twining tightly.

“You know what we want to ask you, then, Professor?” she asked.

“I would rather imagine you want to know how to destroy the remaining horcruxes without turning your wand arms into wizened, blackened stumps.” Dumbledore guessed. “I have an answer for you, but I fear you are not going to like it.”

“Shoot away,” Harry told him. “I haven't really liked anything else you've told me for the last seven years, why should this be any different?”

“Harry,” Dumbledore started, and Hermione thought she saw genuine fondness and concern in the great wizard's painted features. “I know you don't want to hear this, but it is time to ask Professor Snape for his assistance.”

Hermione expected a resounding “no way,” or a scoffing “you must be joking.” She was unprepared for Harry's inclined head and slow exhalation of acceptance. Fear prickled along her spine once more; for Harry to agree to ask Snape for anything meant he must truly feel as if the end was near and there was very little hope of surviving else.

“Why the bloody hell would he want to do that?” Ron cut in belligerently. “I thought the point here was to find a way to get rid of them and have Harry survive strong enough to take on you-know… Voldemort. Snape's still got a lot to answer for before any of us should trust him in the same building. He's the one that sent us on that wild portkey chase to begin with. He doesn't even know Harry's alive.”

“We ought to because he knows about them,” Harry said resignedly. “Not just about their existence. He knows, or suspects, how they were made; more than anyone else who would actually consider talking to us, anyway. I don't think you can just shred your soul repeatedly without some help. If Voldemort actually managed to go further than anyone before him, the way he bragged that night at the graveyard, Snape probably helped, whether he knew exactly what it was for at the time or not. He already told us what he got up to with Regulus when Voldemort tasked him with making the potion that protected the locket. There was probably some lovely potion that made it easier to recover from tearing your soul to bits as well. Something that might have affected them. He was playing both sides even then.”

Ron made a faintly strangled sound of fury.

“And of course because he's a bloody-minded git,” Harry continued, rubbing at the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. “I can't die a completely miserable second death without him pitching in.”

“That's the point, isn't it?” Ron insisted. “He'll have to know you found them all, he'll figure it out and run back to his master faster than you can say still a Death Eater, stupid.”

“So?” Harry asked. “What will it matter by then? If he helps us destroy them first he can tell Voldemort the color of my boxers for all I care. It'll all be over then, him or me time, and you can bet Snape will just be standing back with that inscrutable look on his face waiting to see who wins so he can claim to have always been on their side all along.”

“But,” Ron spluttered, still incensed. “Harry, it's just wrong. You've always known he was against you…”

“Ron, we don't have time anymore. We don't have the luxury of hating him because he's a two faced jerk. People are dying just because I didn't. We need to end this soon. If that means asking Snape for help, then… so be it. I'm sorry,” Harry told him.

Hermione could hear the sorrow in his voice; he wasn't saying it lightly. Anxiety began to prickle around the edges of her nerves. `It's happening,' she thought sadly.

“I'll ask Professor McGonagall to send him to Grimmauld Place then, shall I? Do you want her to inform him about your…continued existence, or would you wish to do that yourself?” Dumbledore asked gravely.

“Oh, I think you know the answer to that one without even asking if there's anything I really want to tell you, Sir,” Harry told him with a feeble grin. “It's one of the few pleasures I may have left, seeing his face when he finds out I'm not dead after all. Yet, anyway.”

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It was early the following morning when the wards on Grimmauld Place alerted them to a potential intrusion. The resultant pulse of magic nearly thrust all three from their chairs. Ron swore at the sight of pumpkin juice pooling amidst his scrambled egg.

“What the bloody hell was that?” he asked, whipping his wand from his sleeve.

“Oops,” said Harry, righting himself with a grin. “That was likely Severus Snape getting bounced back to Hogsmeade. I think I er,,,, forgot, to add him back on to the wards.”

“Duck fast then, if you still don't want him to see you,” Hermione told him calmly, resigned to the re-emergence of the cold war. “He'll be heading into the Hogs Head to…”

The fire burst to life. “I see that you feel you need to honor Mr. Potter's memory by maintaining his former level of idiocy,” Snape howled through the flames. “Do you have any idea how unpleasant, not to mention potentially dangerous, it is to be bounced back to an unsecured location? If you wish my aid with whatever lame-brained scheme you are hatching now that the Boy Who Lived is but a regrettable footnote in Hogwarts, A History you'd best fix his last, petty little stab at humor at once.”

“It's fixed,” Hermione said coldly with a flick of her wand. She made sure her eyes relayed in no uncertain terms that the thing she'd really like to fix was Snape, and in the veterinary sense of the word.

She found her gaze equally certainly returned, and shuddered despite herself.

He appeared with a short, sharp crack that she knew was for show; Severus Snape could quite easily apparate without a sound.

“Lupin said that you wanted to proceed with destroying the horcrux Potter left behind here,” he said, stepping out of his turn. “You are aware, of course, that…”

“Boo,” said Harry when Snape's eyes finally reached him, lounging deliberately casually in his chair at the table and swinging the locket gently from one finger. Hermione noticed he had removed the cup from view. “I decided the afterlife was overrated and I've come back to remind you for all eternity of my unending regret over never getting to take my potions NEWT.”

Snape's face, already pale, seemed to lose another shade or two. “Potter?”

“I know how deeply moved you must be to see me again, Professor, but you're not looking so good.” Harry noted.

“If looks could kill you'd have been dead six years ago. He's just catching up,” Ron said with a grin.

Harry pushed out the chair in front of Snape with his foot, and Snape sunk into it, still staring. The mind behind those obsidian eyes was obviously working furiously; Harry found himself oddly pleased to be the catalyst for such a major recalculation, but wished he knew what the results were coming up. .

“He cast the Dark Mark…” Snape sputtered.

“He was wrong,” Harry stated unequivocally. “I want to finish this. I…”

God, this was hard. Harry felt himself eleven again, wondering with such naïve innocence why his potions professor hated the very sight of him. He'd thought learning the reasons why had been amongst the hardest lessons he'd ever have to endure, but he was wrong. The words he spoke now were far more bitter in his mouth.

“I need your…help, Professor.”

He'd thought Ron's head would explode, but he merely shifted his chair closer to Harry's and glared at their former Professor. Hermione's hand slipped into Harry's lap, seeking his. They might not like what he was doing, but each was telling him in their own way that they were behind him.

`I am not scared,' He told himself. `Look at all I've been through to get this far. Dumbledore trusted him, trusts him still…'

`Dumbledore's a portrait!' his self raged back. `He can't change his mind, can't tell us anything new, he's dead!'

`He's told us he asked Snape to do it. I believe him. This is old stuff. I need to finish this, and I need him to do it.'

`Hermione might find the answer if you give her time…'

`Of course she would. But who am I to ask for that time? How many more people have to die while I do? Now that he thinks I'm dead it's all changing.'

`Dumbledore might have asked him to end it, but where did he find hate enough for that Avada to work? If it was really you he was thinking of can you ever really trust him, no matter what side he says he's on?'

`It could have been self loathing, couldn't it? Knowing what was in that potion that Dumbledore drank, knowing that he himself was the master of Dumbledore's death? What did he say that first day of classes? That he could teach us to brew fame and even stopper death…'

Brew fame and stopper death…

There was more than one way to read that, now.

Harry's mind was reeling, so he did what he had always done when bombarded with information he did not entirely understand.

He leapt, blindly and instinctually, into the void.

`So I can't trust him.' His Slytherin side accepted. `Trust isn't everything. I've got Hermione and Ron for that. I need what he knows.'

Snape face fell into its customary leer. “Help you? And why, pray tell, should I do that? Stupid, headstrong boy, getting yourself kil… almost killed. How do you propose to carry on, even if I do?”

“He thinks Harry's dead. He's not exactly on his guard right now.” Ron said triumphantly.

“It will not take him long to realize such a feeble deceit.”

“That's why I'm asking. I don't have time to work it all out myself. I need what you know. And I'm willing to… I'm asking. If you really believe he's gone too far, if you ever honored your word to Dumbledore…”

“Enough!” Snape cut in furiously. “Stop babbling about that which you know nothing. I told you weeks ago that if you were to carry this to completion you would need my help. You could have avoided this entire travesty of…”

“Yeah, I could see how cut up you were,” Harry snarled. “My dying was hardly a blow. It just changed the odds on sides.”

“Whether or not I would have danced on your grave had they bothered to give you one is irrelevant to what we can do now. Do you think you can manage to summon what little of Lily's intellect survived the invasion your father's sperm, or will you rely on James' method of using your prick for brains?”

Hermione felt Harry quiver beneath her hand. His voice, when he found it, was low and strained but he managed, “If you can help us diffuse your Dark Lord's sick little soul receptacles, I think I can manage it. Yeah.”

“Then let us begin at once,” Snape said. “While he at least is still under the happy illusion you are no more.”

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Hermione hated to admit to admiring Severus Snape, but despite the undoubted evil of the medium in which he worked, he was…good. He examined the locket using a series of escalating revealing spells, absently explaining what he was doing as he went along.

“The object appears to have been subjected to several crude attempts to open it…”

She remembered the morning before the start of fifth year, cleaning for Mrs. Weasley and finding the locket in the glass cabinet; the innocence of thinking it at worst might contain a picture of a really ugly wizard or a gruesome lock of hair.

“…none of which came close to releasing the horcrux. There is very little in the way of tell-tale traces of dark magic. The power of the object itself, Slytherin's essence, one imagines, obscures it almost completely….”

His wand wove delicate patterns over the surface; every so often the locket would -for barely a heartbeat - glow, or tremble, or jump of its own accord.

Snape removed the chain. “This could be nothing, or it could become a serious weapon during the destruction. Both Slytherin and the Dark Lord were and are snake lovers. Anything sinuous is immediately suspicious.”

A fair point that; she could see Harry nodding despite himself. Even Ron was watching now, rapt.

He placed the locket gently on the table and eyed the room thoughtfully.

“Mr. Potter. What have you learned about the making of a horcrux?”

“I…I saw him do it. When we were in each other's minds, after Godric's Hollow. He showed me. He was proud of it. It was when he made the c… er, made one of them. I couldn't hear the spell or anything, but it looked just like Dumbledore putting a thought into his pensieve, except he pulled it from his mouth instead. This silvery, snake-ish thing came out of his mouth and he was already starting to look destroyed, skull-like. It was the dark mark come to life. He moved the thing on his wand to the… object, and there was a bright flash of green. It was sucked into it, right into the thing itself.”

Snape's eyes narrowed at Harry's admission.

“He showed you this… willingly?”

“Well, not at first. But we were both, we were um, taunting each other and…”

The narrowed eyes widened and rolled. “And taunting the most powerful dark wizard ever, the one who destroyed your parents and repeatedly attempted to thwart a prophecy by killing you for the last six years seemed like a good idea because…?”

“Because there was nothing else I could do. But I got there, in the memory, because I think I was getting to him, or uncomfortably close. And then he was proud of it, he said `I have gone further than any Wizard before or to come because I do not let foolish Muggle sentiments like love and pity weaken me. That is why I will live forever and history will never miss you.' “

“Charming,” Snape drawled, “and quite probably true. Not, however, a sufficient answer to the question…although the bit about love and pity might come in useful later. No, Potter, I meant the process involved. You must have realized, of course, that the steps may be drawn out. For example, you did not see him in fact kill anyone before you in the memory; the murder required to tear the fabric of the soul would have happened earlier. The period of time the witch or wizard intent on making a horcrux can survive with the fractured soul within them varies greatly. Generally it is from seconds, to minutes at most.”

Harry looked as skeptical as Hermione felt. “He hardly seemed in a hurry… ”

“That is because he was not. In my youthful ebullience and ignorance, I created for him an elixir that would lengthen the period significantly, allow one to live with a severed soul within almost indefinitely as long as one kept taking it. It seemed an odd, hypothetical challenge when he broached it, and I leapt to the task with the usual, pathetic need to prove oneself that so distinguishes the young. I had no real idea what he would do with such a thing, but that didn't stop me. Why think of consequences when you already know you can succeed?”

Hermione's amazement and distaste must both have shown on her face, for she saw Snape sneer as his eyes met hers.

“Yes, you, Miss Granger, would have asked. You have been for Potter and Weasley what Lily Evans once was for me: a voice of conscience. Just because a thing is possible, is it really necessary? Useful? Good? But I had long lost all but the shadow of that voice by then, and though the Dark Lord must have been well on his way to his self-determined seventh it is I that helped the weakened husk of what was left of his soul divide itself still further. I that provided the time to regain his strength before the horcrux itself need be made, ensuring the immortality of a mad man. It was, in great part, my… doing, if he succeeded.“

Snape's eyes burned black; it was impossible to tell if regret or pride was truly the fuel.

“Do you remember, by any wild chance, Mr. Potter, the first question I ever asked of you at Hogwarts?” he asked.

Of bloody course he did. “What would you get if you added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood? Sir.” Harry added automatically, hating himself.

Snape looked impressed, despite himself. “All three questions were likely enough to have an effect on your continued survival; the bezoar and the wolfsbane included, but it was the first you needed most to remember…just in case I did not myself survive until your sixth year, and by some wild chance you did.

In the end it was as well you found my Advanced Potion-Making text, Potter. Though you did not realize it because Slughorn was teaching the rest of the class the standard recipe, the subtle differences to the one you learned from my notes, the crushing of the sopophorous beans with the flat of the silver knife for example, was the one you needed.”

“What does the Draught of Living Death have to do with anything?” Ron asked doubtfully.

“Be still my heart! Even a Weasley has learned something in my class! Perhaps it was not the colossal waste of time I thought… no, no, it still was. But I digress. The Draught of Living Death, the variation that Mr. Potter learned, at least, is also one of the keys to the safe destruction of a horcrux. A certain wormwood, A. dracunculus, is best for the infusion, although the whole family is remarkable for the extreme bitterness of all parts of the plant: 'as bitter as Wormwood' is a very ancient proverb. Asphodel flowers were traditionally planted near tombs and regarded to be the form of food preferred by the dead. The name itself is derived from the Greek word for Sceptre. Bitter food for the wandering immortal soul, indeed.

Use the correct Draught of Living Death when you sever the magic that binds the horcruxed soul to its home, Mr. Weasley, and it will be rendered powerless to seek its whole.”

“How exactly do we get a horcrux to drink the Draught of Living Death?” Ron countered.

“Ask it politely,” Harry told him with a grin. “Why hullo, tattered shred of Dark Lord's soul, wouldn't you like a nice cold Draught of Living Death?”

Snape appeared unamused. “You immerse the object in a cauldron of the stuff prior to doing the releasing spell, you foolish boy.”

“That would simply, as you said, render it powerless. How do we destroy it for good?” Hermione asked.

“The spell is a matter of choice once the power of the escaping soul is under control. Avada Kedavra would be the most efficacious, but for our pure, unsullied Mr. Potter I would recommend Inanis Corpus Anima Concedere. More complicated to spit out, but more precisely that which you wish to achieve; the death of a soulless soul. Plus, the swish and flick to that one are purely for show. A good solid focus is all you should need; even he should be able to manage that.”

“If it's so simple, how did Professor Dumbledore's hand get so… damaged?” Harry questioned suspiciously.

Snape sighed and Hermione thought for a moment he looked regretful, even wistful. “Albus Dumbledore at full force was an astonishingly powerful wizard. He had his own way of manipulating magic, ways a saner man might never have stumbled upon or tried. He was indeed growing old these last few years; Voldemort's return to power was a blow he took quite personally. When he tracked down the ring he sought to destroy it without involving my aid. The spell embedded in the ring required the retriever of the soul to first put it on a finger, under the theory that most would not damage themselves to be rid of it.. A lesser wizard would have left nothing but a clump of ash and an unbroken horcrux. Albus felt losing his wand hand to the dark a small price to pay for you, Potter. It was a near thing to hold it to that.”

Hermione saw Harry swallow once and look away.

“We need a cauldron, then, and ingredients, I suppose,” she found herself saying. “I think we have everything we need. Give me twenty minutes and we can be started. I assume we immerse the horcruxes before performing the spell, so we'll actually need two cauldrons to do it correctly.”

“Quite so, Miss Granger. But tell me, what of the released soul fragments floating around in your…paramour over there? Now that he is alive yet again, he still holds opportunities for the Dark Lords' continued immortality. Are you suggesting we immerse him in a Draught of Living Death as well?”

“Oh no, Professor Snape,” Hermione said sweetly. “I have entirely different plans in mind for Harry.”

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A/N: Thanks so much for all the reviews! This is my new years present to you. That, and I truly think I can get the next one out within the week.

Sorry about the density of the horcrux theory in this one…but as Harry himself said, they've got to go before he can go after Voldemort.

Sorry it took so long, too, but I'm a Mom and it's been Christmas. Kids come first. I put lots of thought into this chapter and into the approaching final battle. Don't like how long it takes me to post? I have three words of advice for you.

Write it yourself !

Ha! Thought it was going to be “Go pound sand” didn't you?? Writing this stuff takes time, and I can tell which of you write by the empathy of your reviews.

Best wishes for 2006 to you all and Cheers! ~ Lindsay

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26. Chapter 25

Official Fine Print: Nope. Not mine. The brainchildren of the mighty pen of JK Rowling. Just playing with them. Wheeeee! Such fun.

Magic Never Dies

Chapter 25

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Hermione was as good as her word and within twenty minutes they had the required cauldrons and ingredients; the few they were missing were procured quickly and discreetly by Ron from the twins' shop. He refrained from mentioning they were going to be used by Snape, not wanting to risk any `accidental' contamination incidents. Normally he'd have been quick to jump on the prank wagon when it came to their former potions professor, but the thought of an exploding horcrux in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place - let alone what Hermione would do to him when she found out - made it just not worth it this time round.

Harry prowled the perimeter of the kitchen like a caged lion, pacing. Snape had forbidden his help in the preparation of the potion altogether and even the normally hyper-proficient Hermione was intimidated by his hawkish gaze now that she bore the full brunt of it, for he was minutely particular about the slight variations from the standard brewing of the potion.

“Excuse me for asking, Professor, but you've never actually used this variant on a horcrux before, have you?” she queried at last, her frustration strident even to her own ears.

“As they are not exactly an everyday occurrence and extremely difficult - not to say technically illegal - to come by, the answer to your question must be, as you already well know, no.” Snape snapped.

“Then why, exactly, are you so confident it will work? Where did you come by the method? I've looked and looked for anything documented successfully and never seen anything along these lines.”

“That would be why I am a Potions Master and you a student lacking even a N.E.W.T. qualification,” Snape sneered. “My experience allows me to project and theorize with accuracy. I have successfully used this method on cursed objects of infused consciousness and it has also been effective with particularly recalcitrant boggarts and poltergeists that refuse to budge as well.”

“If Hermione doesn't have a potions N.E.W.T., it's my fault, not hers,” Harry snarled back, “And if your previous experience dancing his attendance hasn't already clued you in, I've been attacked by both and there's a pretty big difference between Voldemort and Peeves.”

Snape made a long suffering sigh and silencio-ed Harry. Harry's eyes narrowed slightly and Snape's hair turned a bright Tonks-ish pink. The effect was so ghastly, and so truly, deeply funny, that Hermione was forced to turn away, shoulders shaking with laughter. Ever on the look out for emotional weakness to plunder in those around him Snape misconstrued her quivering for tears and began in on the uselessness of women who refused to rein in their hormones to further their study of magic.

Hermione had tears dripping from her eyes by the time she lifted them to Harry; she expected his silent fury to be pierced by a satisfied grin but found him gazing at her strangely intensely instead.

Oh, and women were the irrational ones.

Ron popped back in with the missing ingredients, took one look at Snape and dissolved into surprised laughter. Several seconds later he was a very surprised toad.

“Do you have any idea the…” Snape started, spinning around again towards Harry, but the action was enough for even his heavy hair to swing into his face and alert him to the source of Ron's amusement. He rolled his eyes and muttered a finite incantatum.

Nothing happened.

He sighed and pointed his wand upward.

Still pink.

Harry splayed his fingers silently at Ron, and he left off being a toad, stretching to his full height as he transformed. “Thanks. Yuck. I hate getting toaded.”

Snape pointed his wand again and actually muttered the words. And then some other words. He ran through the usual cycle of spell-ending possibilities, even trying some Hermione had only read before in books.

He turned his wand on Harry furiously. “Fix it.”

Harry shook his head, throwing off Snape's silencio with a shudder. “Make me,” he said clearly.

The curse flowed off Snape's tongue and through his wand with practiced ease; Hermione had time only to draw breath but not exhale her warning.

She didn't see him raise a shield and the curse was not repelled. Hermione watched in silent amazement as it was… absorbed. Harry's eyes didn't even flicker.

Snape's did.

“How long,” he asked, “have you been able to do that.”

“Probably always,” Harry told him quietly. “But as usual, no one ever bothered to try to teach me.”

“It is not a… usual magical skill,” Snape. “It is one the Dark Lord has mastered but even Dumbledore found… difficult, and mostly avoided. All witches and wizards manipulate naturally occurring magic to their will. We are simply good conductors of the flow, and able to varying degrees to affect it. When you begin to absorb magical energy you have embarked upon a different path. It seldom ends well. The human body was not meant for such things. You must learn to balance and discharge what you have taken on, or it will overcome you. It is not simply dark magic that distorts the soul; it's just that most who can do that - what you did - embrace the dark arts.”

“Well, I don't,” Harry said flatly. “And I won't. I'm done wondering why Dumbledore didn't teach me stuff like that, when he was the one who told me that I gained powers from him through the scar in the first place after I started spouting parseltongue. But you… you embrace all that stuff. You kept telling me I was nothing compared to him, but all you did is tell me. For all you're supposed to be a teacher there's been eff-all teaching going on. Those Occlumency lessons? Those would have fallen a lot closer under the category of mind rape. So excuse me if I get a little pissed off at your teaching style. Stop picking on Hermione and either help us or get out of the way.”

“I am finding your choice of retribution… distracting,” Snape countered. “Fix it, or carry on on your own.”

Harry blinked, and Snape's hair was black again, although Hermione could have sworn it was significantly cleaner.

“How long does that stuff have to brew?” Ron asked, “It's almost time for lunch.”

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The locket horcrux was the first to go, and all went pretty much according to plan. After immersing it in the cauldron for a good ten minutes without visible effect Harry fished it gingerly out with a ladle and lay it in a heavy cast iron pot Hermione had found for the purpose. It looked no different and Harry would still not have been entirely unsurprised to find that the whole plan had been an elaborate plot on Snape's part to blow his bits to Greenland, but nothing ventured, nothing gained.

He went with the comfort of his familiar wand in hand. “Inanis Corpus Anima Concedere.”

The locket jumped several inches in the pot, quivered and subsided anticlimactically.

Ron locked eyes with Harry, and Harry looked on to Hermione.

No cursing shred of soul, no explosion of dark energy, no younger Tom Riddle eager to taunt his future nemesis. Nothing.

The horcrux destroyed, a simple Alohamora opened the locket. A small trickle of fluid dripped out of the empty cavity.

Snape's attitude of `I told you so' to Hermione was plain.

“I'll get the cup,” Ron offered.

There was nothing to indicate that the cup would respond any differently, except of course, it's obviously stronger attraction to Harry's forehead. In retrospect Hermione was later to wonder that if only they had done them in the reverse order, things might have gone differently. Who knew that the power of each segment might grow as the soul contracted and other parts were permanently destroyed? Or that there could be such a difference in the ferocity of the captured soul?

“I should have,” she thought.

The cup fought the entire process like a cat fighting a bath. It seemed to know from the moment Ron picked it up that it was threatened.

“Ow!” Ron yelped, dropping it and startling them from their examination of the ruined locket. “It…erm, it, burnt me. Bloody thing. Look!”

He held out his reddened fingers as proof. Hermione picked up a pair of tongs and spelled them impervious, then reached for the cup.

It rolled away.

She reached again.

It rolled the other way.

She glanced up at Harry and Snape.

“That's not good,” Harry reckoned.

“Most unusual,” Snape murmured.

“What, compared to our vast experience with the other one?” Hermione asked.

They managed to corner it and Hermione got the tongs on it. Using both hands to steady her grip, she raised the cup with the tongs and swung toward the awaiting cauldron… and kept swinging, despite her desperate efforts to drop it in, right on past it. The cup suddenly grew heavy, many times its possible weight even if filled with solid lead, and slipped from her grip. Its forward momentum took it between Snape and Harry, landing with a crash on the kitchen table and, with an abrupt, splintering sound and the sharp smell of singed wood, right through it.

“What the…” Ron managed, dropping to his knees on the far side of the table.

“Keep your eyes on it!” Snape ordered. “Don't let it out of your sight.”

Harry crouched down on the opposite side across from Ron, peering through the chair legs. “Merlin,” he said. “I'd swear the thing just growled at me.”

“Nope,” Ron said. “That was me. It likes you. Look, it's coming your way.”

Hermione watched as the little rolling gold cup indeed changed directions. Its movements were severely hampered by its handles; its uneven progress (roll, hitch, balance, thump, roll, hitch, balance, thump,) made it appear almost to have an ungainly limp.

Snape cut abruptly in front of Harry. “Oh no, you don't,” he muttered.

The cup flipped, with a hollow, tinny noise that almost sounded like a squeal, and reversed its awkward progress back toward Ron.

Hermione quickly tossed him the tongs; he caught them and lunged under the table. There was a scrambling sound and the reverberating whump of Ron's head clearly connecting with the underside. He reappeared; slightly dazed but in solid possession.

“Bloody little thing isn't it, you'd think….”

Whatever you'd think was lost as the cup suddenly filled itself with a crimson liquid that looked suspiciously like blood and disgorged its contents in Ron's face, effectively blinding him. He cursed explosively and flung the cup away, clawing his eyes.

“Stings!” he howled, and Harry and Hermione both bolted toward him. Harry frantically grabbed a dishtowel and Hermione a cloth napkin; between them they lowered Ron into a chair and began wiping the liquid away.

Snape had barely spared a glance for Ron; he was firing curses at the little golden cup ranging from finite incantatum to petrificus totalus and stupify without the slightest effect. Backed into a corner again, the cup had filled and disgorged itself once more; this time a clear liquid that burnt acid-like holes in Snape's black robes.

Harry muttered a cleaning charm on both their cloths and conjured a bowl of clear water. Poor Ron's eyes were red and irritated, streaming.

“`You simply immerse the object in a cauldron of the stuff prior to doing the releasing spell, you foolish boy.' ” Hermione parodied as they worked. “Oh yeah, that works. `My experience allows me to project and theorize with accuracy. I have successfully used this method on cursed objects of infused consciousness…' It appears you neglected to inform the horcrux how well versed you were, Professor.”

Black eyes glared at her even as their owner dodged another round of liquid. This time the holes in his robes were left faintly smoking.

“Potter,” Snape hissed. “Come here.”

Harry handed his towel to Ron and cautiously made his way around the table. The cup began to vibrate as he approached, emitting a soft, high whine.

“Pick it up.”

“Don't do it, Harry!” Ron roared.

“Harry…” Hermione started warningly.

Snape turned to them both. “He carried it before without incident. It is not the behavior of the horcrux inside, but a spell to keep any except one who bears a portion of the severed soul within from performing magic upon it. It wasn't activated until we intended to do just that. No one but Potter or the Dark Lord himself can effect a change in it now.”

Harry bent slowly over and approached the cup as one would a wild and threatened animal. It lay, inanimate, before him. His fingers slowly grasped the handle and lifted.

The cup seemed to come willingly into his hand, then quickly accelerate. It appeared for all the world as if he simply picked up the golden object and smacked himself in the forehead with it, hard enough to land him flat on his back, out cold. Ron and Hermione watched as his hand fell limply away to the floor and the cup remained quite firmly attached to his scar.

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“If we don't get this effing thing off my effing head within the next effing half hour,” Harry groaned, “I'm drowning myself in the cauldron. I've had it. Basilisks and swords at least have some dignity. This is… beyond unbearable. If Voldemort walked in the door right now I'd kill him with my bare hands.”

“The idea has merit,” Snape said. “The first part, anyway.”

Harry glared at him balefully from beneath the cup. He now sported a black eye on that side and was the proud owner of a truly exquisitely splitting headache. Hermione's idea that the pain in his scar had become as much the horcrux within trying to get out as Voldemort trying to get in was clearly brilliant; the cup was every bit as annoying as its creator had ever been. All it lacked was a conscious voice to taunt him, and he was grimly sure if he didn't get rid of it soon it would develop one.

“You've got four bits of You-Know-Who's soul there, Harry. Surely you can think of some really nasty way to get it off. Ask yourself what he'd do.”

“Ron!” Hermione chastised. “Just to refresh you, we'd like Harry not to get in touch with his dark side right about now.”

“Well, if Snape's actually right - for a change, mind you,” Ron said with relish, “and this really was You-Know-Who's plan to keep the horcrux safe there must be some way around it. Harry said even Dumbledore had to think like V…V…Voldemort to get into the cave to find the locket.”

“He has a point,” Harry admitted, shutting his eyes and resting his head back on the floor.

Hermione closed her eyes as well and really pictured Voldemort. She had never actually seen him prior to his appearance at Durmstrang; before that she'd only had Harry's descriptions for her mental image. The reality had shown her how much Harry had spared them; if ever there was a picture of evil, Hermione thought, Voldemort's likeness would be the one to appear in the dictionary under E. Or M, for malevolent. That distorted, skull-like visage, those crimson, hate filled eyes… What sort of a spell would that shriveled, twisted soul answer to? What might override it?

Hermione thought of Harry absorbing Snape's curse earlier, and what Snape had said.

She opened her eyes and pointed her wand straight between Harry's, glad that his were closed.

“Reducto!” she cast quickly before she could second guess herself, with as much force and precision as she could muster.

The spell dislodged the cup; as it should have. It did not render Harry a lump of mangled bones; as everything they had ever been taught at Hogwarts indicated that it would. He slid further across the floor from the force of it, but absorbed the bulk of the magical energy released with a quick gasp of sucked-in breath and a shudder.

A simple case of floor burn had to be worth it to get a horcrux off your head.

Ron and Snape were still gazing at her open mouthed as she made a rapid grasp for the stunned cup in the spelled tongs and deposited it in the cauldron. Harry was fingering his bruised eye and attempting to sit up at the same time.

“Love you, too,” he said shakily.

Her heart was thumping madly now that the deed was done. She'd been so sure it would work, and it had.

But what if it hadn't?

She sat down suddenly and hard, glad there was a chair behind her, her brain abruptly swimming with the possible consequences of her action.

It had been such a Harry thing to do. Hardly Hermione at all.

“What the hell, Hermione, you could have …” Ron started, but Harry glared at him and whatever she could have done died on his lips.

She could have killed him.

“How very Slytherin, Miss Granger,” Snape allowed, peering into the cauldron. “And what's more, it seems to have worked.”

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They let the cup soak in its bath of living death for a good while, spelling clean the kitchen and making a simple meal in an almost wordless haze, taking turns staring at the motionless horcrux.

After they had eaten Harry nodded to Hermione. “It only says I'm supposed to face Voldemort himself,” he told her. “It doesn't say a word about the horcruxes. You earned this one. You do it.”

Hermione felt all of her fear and anger and resentment for all that had befallen Harry flood to the forefront of her mind. She thought of all that was keeping them both now from the life they might otherwise have led, of the loss of the six people whose lives had been forfeit for Voldemort's sick attempt at immortality and the innumerable others whose lives were destroyed along the way. The images seemed to shimmer softly and flow like heavy silver through her veins, down her arm and into her wand.

“Inanis Corpus Anima Concedere,” she said softly, but clearly.

The cup twitched and seemed to glow, brightly at first and then fainter and fainter until the gold turned a tarnished, poisoned black. A bubble was released; although where exactly it came from she could not say. It rose to the surface of the cauldron through the potion and burst on the surface of the liquid, releasing a disproportionate scream of fear and rage and resignation that its final moment had come, and was gone.

“Well done, Miss Granger,” Snape intoned into the silence that followed.

“You did it, Hermione,” Ron informed her, more than just a trace of respect lowering his voice.

Harry simply held open his arms to her without a word, and she found that most gratifying of all.

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They retired early that evening, the need to seek the oblivion of sleep and recover from the events of the day apparently house-wide.

Hermione had gone up first to have a bath and wash her hair when the fire whiskey came out; she had no desire to see how creative Ron's insults toward Snape could get with liquid assistance. She heard someone take their turn after her while she found and donned clean pajamas. She found the book she had begun the night before and held it open on the bed with her knee while beginning the not insubstantial job of combing through her wet hair.

The realization that she had become lost within its pages came to her as she finished the chapter, along with the sudden knowledge that the fingers patiently working the comb through her hair were no longer her own, and the weight upon the bed behind her was in fact Harry. She had not been truly conscious of his arrival or surrendering the comb to him; it occurred to her then that she had expected him, though he still had a room of his own.

When she crooked her neck to have a look at him he was as lost in thought as she had surely been, his eyes far away, fingers moving carefully but automatically.

She was reminded for no real reason that she could imagine of Bill and Fleur's wedding, moving through the happy crowd of well-wishers to offer him a sickle for his thoughts. He'd appeared so pensive and alone even surrounded by the wedding party. She'd thought she was with Ron then. Her mind reeled at the very idea of not knowing, of never knowing Harry as she knew him now.

“Two down,” he said, focusing more closely on working out a snarl as if he had suddenly become aware of her watching him. “Three to go. Do you really have a plan, or were you just putting off Snape?”

It seemed it was time for The Talk.

She waited until the comb ran smoothly through the last strands and then took it from him, setting it on the night table.

“My turn to look after you for a bit,” she told him, and pressed him down gently to the bed with a brief kiss. She removed his glasses and set them on the table beside the comb. “Hands up then.”

He grinned, a shadow of his old one, but lovely none the less. “Don't shoot,” he said. “You can have it all.”

“That's right,” she affirmed, and grinned in return as she pulled his tee shirt over his head. “Roll over.”

When he was sprawled face down she carefully straddled his lower back and began to work over his knotted shoulder muscles with the pads of her fingers. He was so tight it felt like massaging velvet covered wood; she wondered sometimes how he moved at all.

“Must be really unappealing, this plan of yours,” he mumbled from the pillow.

“Just be quiet for a bit, you,” she told him. “It will seem much more appealing when you haven't got a broomstick for a spine.”

One green eye rolled back to meet hers and the very corner of his mouth curled. “It'll swap for broomstick somewhere else if you keep on like that,” he warned.

“I think I can handle that.” She allowed her fingers to work their way up his neck to the very base of his skull, probing gently as they flexed.

He made a soft humming sound of content and went silent.

“I did have a plan, actually. I'd been meaning to talk to you about it to see what you thought but things kept popping up. You know, unplanned portkeys, visiting with Voldemort, not speaking thestral. One thing after another.”

“Hunh,” Harry said. His eye had drifted shut and Hermione could feel him softening like candlewax beneath her.

“The thing of it is,” she continued. “Snape's right.”

“Hnuh uh,” Harry mumbled negatively.

“Yes, he is. He has years of experience to put into play against an unknown factor, and he can make a projection based on that experience. All I have is school book learning, and you've managed to prove to me pretty completely that books don't have all the answers. Particularly when it comes to you.”

“Hmmm,” was the best he could manage in the face of that.

“I'm having a parseltongue problem,” she said regretfully.

Harry hissed something Hermione was fairly sure a lady snake would have found really enticing, just by the sound of it.

“Harry, if the horcrux was still intact, you shouldn't actually be able to do that.”

The green eye reopened abruptly, and blinked. “Bloody effing hell.” He rolled to his side beneath her fingers.

“If there was no merging between your soul and his, where exactly did the parseltongue come from? Why did the sorting hat want to put you in to Slytherin? And if the scar isn't a horcrux itself but rather just the mark of one, why haven't the other two soul fragments reunited with the one you already had? If they have, and you have three-sevenths of Voldemort's soul in you, why isn't it having more effect on you?”

“The Imperius thing,” he explained in relief after a bit of panicked mind scrabble. “Remember I told you how I realized that little voice I hear reminding me I don't have to do stuff under imperius is my Mum's? If Snape told her what Voldemort wanted to do the way he said he did, and it was already in her mind to protect me from him, maybe that's just what she did. Maybe that's why it can't force me to do anything. Maybe it isn't part of me; it's just floating around inside me with nowhere else to go.”

“Then why didn't it flee to him first year? It needs to reunite with the largest or most powerful concentration of itself the way a magnet needs to point north. It's an irresistible primal force of our creation. It must be anchored in you somehow. And if it is, that affects the way it has to come out.”

First year, Voldemort had been barely alive, his soul shredded and without a body to call home, and still Harry's scar had ached in his presence. It occurred to them both then what Harry's effect on Voldemort must have been as well.

“Think about it,” she wondered aloud. “He must have been utterly and unconquerably repulsed by you not to simply abandon Quirrell and take over you instead.”

“He didn't know then for sure what he'd done to me that night,” Harry said, “but thanks for that.”

“Repulsive in the best possible way,” she told him, stroking his shoulder absently. “It shouldn't have mattered if he actually realized you had part of his soul or not, he should have felt compulsed, not having a body of his own. No, he must have sensed or known somehow that if he came to you that it was he that would be subsumed, that you could have resisted him even then.”

“Because of the prophecy? Because he believed it?” Harry stared at her. “Do you mean that if he had tried me then I might have just been able to absorb him some how and none of this, Cedric, Sirius, Dumbledore, none of it might have happened?”

“No,” she said vehemently, snapping back from the depth of her thoughts at his tone. “And don't even start down that path. You were eleven years old, Harry, you'd only just found out about magic at all. And remember, he couldn't even touch you then because your mother's protection was still so strong, that has to have been at least part of what put him off trying.” She was thinking aloud again, voicing her musings as they came to her and trying to marshal them into some semblance of order.

“He thought it was her blood, old blood magic, and that's why he stole your blood fourth year… but by then you had naturally grown, your mother's protection was already being taken over by your own magic. Your own ability to love others despite the darkness had started kicking in. That was the year you noticed Cho…”

“That wasn't love,” Harry objected. “I loved you, and Ron and Sirius and Lupin and the Weasleys. That was… a mistake.”

“That was still you having all the right thoughts, though. Looking past yourself in a way Tom Riddle probably never even tried. He never noticed another human being, be it witch, wizard or muggle except for what he could do to them or get them to do for him. His soul was corrupted before he even… oh!”

“Please,” Harry begged, looking pained. “Please don't make that sound when you're thinking about him. That's exactly what you do when you… when you're about to… and, well, I'll never enjoy it the same way again if I think…”

“That's it!” Hermione cut him off, her eyes aglow with that special look she got when something she'd read somewhere suddenly became useful. “I've been looking for an opposite to murder, something as strongly good as the murders he used to sever his soul were evil. But you're good already, you're already his opposite. We need to work backwards and restore your soul to its own pure form. That's old magic as well, predating wizard manipulation of magical force. What we need is a purification!”

“A what?” Harry asked suspiciously.

“A purification ritual. They were used by ancient magical cultures to cleanse the soul before life-changing events, including before important battles. By the very nature of it, if we cleanse your soul, we'll drive out only his. Then we can destroy it, whether it's three separate segments or one. If it works, we could destroy the last horcruxes without injuring you at all!”

“I have to admit I sort of like the sound of that,” Harry said with a slow smile. “What do I have to do?”

“Well, traditional methods would have a couple of different stages, with a ceremony for each. Usually you'd start by sweating out the impurities from your body and then we'd beat them out of you with birch rods or switches. Birch is a very purifying wood….”

“Erm…” said Harry.

Hermione laughed. She felt light hearted, even slightly light headed somehow. Why had she never thought of it before? She'd been so focused on reversing the horcrux process she'd thought herself into a corner. If this worked…

He'd still have to kill Voldemort.

But if that worked…

She knew without looking that his protest was a joking one. He trusted her; he always had, but it was heartfelt and unthinking now and she'd felt the weight of it as the horcruxes were found and they'd drawn ever closer to the moment when she'd have to keep her promise and find a way to keep him from sacrificing himself. She'd asked him to put aside his fatalism and fight as if he stood a chance of living and he had.

This had to work.

She looked at him then and saw only dear, familiar Harry with his wayward hair and tentative smile and those old, old eyes. How could anything evil manage to survive in there? He was still naïve somehow, still hopeful and faintly bumbling despite the enormous power that ranged within him, the enormous expectations laid upon him. He hadn't hardened, still wanted nothing more than to come through this whole thing alive and be done with it. He had no more illusions of regaining anything lost.

No wonder the magic found him when he needed it most; he was still unlikely to find it. But who else would be brave enough - or blindly trusting enough - to walk his path?

Hermione felt a swift surge of heat flush through her, an odd combination of desires riding its wave. She wanted to both to protect him somehow and to ravage every part of him, marking him forever as her own, come what may. More than anything else she desperately wanted and needed for him to want her that same way. She leaned forward and kissed him, closing her eyes as she did and letting the same reckless tide that drove her to point her wand between his eyes earlier that day wash over her now.

`Don't think. Just feel,' ran through her mind, although whether she thought it herself or he did, she couldn't say. She had never felt like this before, as if every touch they shared literally made her hunger for another, for more, for it to be harder, deeper, warmer, wetter, wherever they joined. Intellect fell to want and want to need until she truly felt as if the only thing left in her brain was the recognition of sensation. His name was constantly on her lips but she wasn't altogether sure she could have remembered her own if he hadn't been keening it back to her.

They made use of every inch of each other; as soon as she felt as if that burning need might finally be slaked he moved and set it off again. She found herself guiding his hands and hips and lips in ways she never could have imagined, asking for things she'd never known she'd wanted before and he denied her nothing. He was dripping sweat, muscles tensed and rock hard again, driving with every ounce of energy he had to please her. Meeting the intensity of the green eyes above her she knew with absolute certainty that for that single moment she was the center of his universe and there was no loss, no pain, or fear or regret. She could give him nothing more than that moment, that perfect, arching, reaching moment when everything was about to happen but was still a breath, a heartbeat away.

She cried out when he did, in loss and completion both. She had nothing left to give, nothing more that was not already his. She could only hope that Dumbledore somehow was right and the power Harry knew was love.

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“There's an ancient Welsh holiday called Mwfydnfud.” Hermione told Harry and Ron over toast at breakfast the next morning. She had a copy of `The Magical Year: Rituals for every Season and Reason' propped open on the sugar bowl in front of her.

“God bless you,” Harry said, and yawned. “Someone really needs sell the Welsh some vowels.”

Ron snorted.

“It just so happens to stand, in English, for `Mess With Forces You Do Not Fully Understand Day'. I thought it would be the perfect day for your purification, Harry,” she announced with a grin.

“That's called baring your arse to the gods,” he retorted. “Forget it. Let's pick a nice, meaning-free day like, oh, tomorrow, and get it over with instead.”

Ron glanced from one to the other. “Why are you trying to purify Harry?”

“She's going to steam me to get Voldemort all hot and bothered and then beat him out of me with a birch stick,” Harry informed him, lifting the book and spooning sugar into his coffee. “The birch is a symbol of purity, you know.”

Ron snorted again. “I told you, I don't want to hear about what you two get up to in the privacy of your bedrooms,” he said. “Although I warn you, Fred and George could have a field day with that.”

“Mention it and die,” Hermione reproved. “We may be joking around, Ron, but I'm dead serious about the idea of it. I need your help as well. What are you doing tomorrow?”

“Picking up Luna from the Express. She's coming straight here for Christmas because her Dad's covering that squib ma… he's out of town and staying with her Aunt.”

Harry's eyes narrowed. “Accio Quibbler.”

There was a thumping sound at the door to the front room, like a bird beating its wings against a closed window.

Ron pointed his wand at the door. “Incendio Quibbler.” A popping noise came from behind the door and wisps of smoke leaked through the edges of the doorframe. “Look, mate, you're dead. There's not a thing you can do about any of it. If this purification thing means you're a step closer to putting You-Know..V…Voldemort out of it for good, then I'm there. Save me a birch rod and let's do it.”

Harry turned imploring eyes back to Hermione. “You're not really going to let him have a go, are you?”

She sighed. “No one is going to be beating you with anything, Harry. We can use birch bark instead. Relax. Let me do a little more research on one aspect and I'll show you exactly what our options are, okay?”

Snape appeared in the doorway, furious and holding the smoldering remains of the Quibbler.

“This never happens with the Daily Prophet,” he snarled.

“That rag's too wet to burn,” Ron informed him. “And I greatly doubt you're mentioned in it today, either. On the plus side, the Cannons won last night, 210 to 90.”

“And still the sun shines, and the earth turns,” Snape muttered wonderingly, and went off in search of a clean mug for his tea.

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Hermione put a great deal of thought and preparation into the purification attempt. She researched the whole topic thoroughly and chose several basic ritualistic practices closest in purpose to what they wished to achieve with Harry. Luna proved, in the end, to be a fount of useful if esoteric information as well.

It was Snape who convinced her that it should be done at Hogwarts, but to be fair Hermione readily agreed. She met with Professor McGonagall in order to secure her permission to use a room in the castle and with Madam Pomfrey to make her promise to remain reachable by floo, just in case.

She prepared herbs and oils and special candles, secured magical chalks for markings, learned spells to simulate the sweat lodge effect and chants and focusing charms to help Harry isolate Voldemort's presence within him. She spent hours warding every crack and corner of the old classroom on the third floor Professor McGonagall allotted them. She even convinced Harry to let her invite Remus and Tonks to help out should anything go wrong.

So she was more annoyed than anything else at first when her meticulous plans were disturbed.

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They were in Professor McGonagall's office, Lupin and Tonks having just arrived through the floo, when they heard it.

It started with a dull rumbling, like thunder, followed by a distant boom.

“Oh shit,” said Harry Potter, recognizing the sound of fate laughing at him yet again the moment he heard it.

The last thought he'd ever wanted to have facing Voldemort for the last time was “I'm not ready.”

It was inescapable under the circumstances, however, so he did what he'd always done best before.

Swallowed down the terror and ran with it.

They were all looking at him with varying degrees of concern, although Hermione was too preoccupied to believe it could really be Voldemort and Ron was no stranger to the lure of denial. Snape holding his left arm and cursing was never a great sign, but hey, there were always extenuating circumstances if you tried to find them hard enough. Lupin eyeing him quite that assessingly, however, boded absolutely nothing good.

“Harrrrrrrrrry Potterrrrrrrrrr!”

The unmistakable sibilant voice of Voldemort himself, hopefully enhanced by a sonorous spell (Harry really didn't want to know how he was hearing it from the very bowels of Hogwarts else) echoed through the room.

Lupin jumped into action without hesitation. “He's hardly come through the front door from the sound of it, and it looks as if he wants us to come to him rather than coming directly for you, Harry. We need to keep from being trapped. Tonks, you're to keep a way clear to the front door at all times. Take Hermione with you.”

“I'm sorry, Professor Lupin,” Hermione said. “I don't mean to second guess you or Tonks, but I'm not leaving Harry and Ron. Not now.”

Remus shook his head, “Hermione, I…”

“I'm not. It's not a question. We're not children, and if it means leaving the Order for insubordination, I'll do it.”

Harry was about to add his voice to hers when Tonks beat him to it.

“She's right, Remus. You know she is. Take her, Luna can help me.”

Lupin inclined his head and turned to Dumbledore's portrait. “Albus, if you could martial the braver portraits to report back his location and how many he has with him, that would be an enormous help. Professor McGonagall, I know you will wish to remain here and alert the rest of the Order and the Ministry. Ron, Harry, Hermione, with me. Severus, I believe we'll allow you to lead.”

“If you are insinuating I somehow informed the Dark Lord Potter would be at Hogwarts you are much mistaken.” Snape growled, his hackles clearly raised.

“Well, it's not your name he's hissing through the halls, is it? And given the fact the Harry hasn't been a student here since Albus died and Voldemort thought him dead as well, someone must have gotten awfully good at Divination all of a sudden.” Lupin snarled back.

“That rules out Trelawney, then,” Ron said with a nervous laugh, but Harry felt a vague stab of wonder. He hadn't seen Professor Trelawney since her aborted attempt at hiding her empty sherry bottles in the Room of Requirement the night Dumbledore died, and the combination of her drinking and her hurt fury at being usurped by Firenze might easily have been enough to send her the wrong way. Fraud though she was as a teacher Harry knew she was capable of real prophecy every now and again; she'd certainly managed to screw up his life with one before.

Not that it really mattered who'd done it now; he was here. The chances of throwing Voldemort off once more to buy the time to rid himself of the scar horcrux were slim; Harry knew he'd pushed his luck about as far as it was likely to go.

He supposed he'd made a good run at it.

He found Hermione in his arms, kissing him as if her life depended on it and without the slightest trace of embarrassment or awareness of anyone in the room. “Be careful, be careful, be careful,” was all she could say in between kisses, and he could find no answer to that but “I will,” mumbled regretfully in response to each one. There was so much more he wanted to say.

They were not the only ones in the Castle; most had thankfully left already for the approaching holidays but they came across a spooked Neville Longbottom and Hannah Abbot with a small herd of lower years at the bottom of the first flight of stairs, heading blindly for the supposed safety of the Headmistresses' office.

Hannah was sent to take the young ones along to help Professor McGonagall and Neville quickly drafted to come with the rest of them. Harry remembered his steadfastness in the Department of Mysteries and was glad.

“I never really thought you were dead, Harry,” he whispered as they made their way on. “You're going to beat him, I just know you are.”

Harry wanted to say something appreciative or comforting, but found his mouth was dry, his brain blank. He nodded instead.

They added Flitwick to their numbers as they passed the Charms corridor, and Hagrid shortly after, called by Tonks' patronus as she and Luna guarded the way to the front door. He was swinging his pink umbrella determinedly and clapped Harry reassuringly enough on the shoulder to send him halfway down the next flight of stairs.

All was suspiciously quiet from below. The portraits began to weigh in as they got closer to the dungeons.

“It's him! It's him!” they whispered. “And his Death Eaters and worse! Inferi, Ogres, Trolls! In Hogwarts! He's come! He's opening the chamber! The Chamber of Secrets!”

Harry's stomach cramped painfully. He didn't want to be trapped there, under ground in that slimy cavern surrounded by Salazar's legacy. It was the very last place he wanted to die.

Remus pulled up then.

“There's no point in going down there. Not like this. If he's going to the Chamber he's digging in - or looking for something. Either way, the smartest thing to do is wait for reinforcements and hold the doors. Thank goodness there are so few students left. Anyone still down in the dungeons is more than likely Slytherin. I doubt they'll mind the company.”

A nice respite, Harry reckoned, but alas not to be. The corridor ahead grew suddenly dimmer and cool; the despair so thick you could cut it with a knife. Dementors. And before them, a Death Eater too well known to Harry to bother with a mask.

Lucius Malfoy made his way toward them accompanied by his very own band of a dozen masked followers. Harry wondered absently if Draco was one of them.

“The most terrible enemy, Harry, is the one who has nothing left to fear. The Malfoys can not fail again, father or son. Be on your guard.” Lupin said softly, his wand drawn and pointed.

“Snape,” Lucius greeted him smoothly, his eyes moving on hungrily to Harry. “The Dark Lord is most pleased with your assistance, but sent me along to be sure all was well. He became… concerned, when you did not heed his call.”

“Cut the crap, Lucius,” Snape said, surprisingly plainly and with more than a tinge of what Harry was quite sure was actual fear in his voice.

That couldn't be good.

Malfoy cocked one perfect dark eyebrow in mock surprise. “Severus. How… uncivil. Having second thoughts?”

“My thoughts, regardless of their numerical standing, are no concern of yours. The brat is here, your Lord is there and the rest of us are wand fodder between. I fight for no side but my own, now. And for now, this is where I stay. What do you want?”

Lucius laughed, and the herd of Dementors following him stirred restlessly behind the line of dark wizards. “The boy of course.” His wand hand rose abruptly, pointed not at Harry, but Ron.

Several things happened quite suddenly for Harry with the movement of that wand.

Time slowed around him, but still he felt he could slip through it like a hot knife through butter. His consciousness seemed to swell and spill around him like water. He could feel the castle walls like his own skin; hear the murmuring of voices throughout, from the squeals of house elves in the kitchens to the breathing of mice in the eaves and the stirring of spiders in the corners. He was one with the magic of the castle itself and he could feel Voldemort hiding in its depths like a cancer, pulsing.

He felt himself empowered but still feared he was doomed. It was a wretched combination. Even the castle was reaching out to him, but he'd failed to destroy the final horcruxes, he'd failed them all.

He threw up a shield in front of Ron and cast a reducto that sent the line behind Malfoy ducking for cover. The Dementors surged over them and the battle began in earnest.

At first it wasn't any worse than the Department of Mysteries had been. Patronuses charged and wheeled. Curses flew and hexes struck. Some were easily reversed, some simply had to be borne, the victims limping or hopping or careening wildly in their midst. The two sides were fairly matched but Lupin was able to lead them through the first line and into the wider hall beyond where they fanned out into niches and doorways and behind suits of armor, anything that could help block the Death Eater's fire. Harry tried desperately to adjust to his altered sense of perception as he fought.

There was another wave behind the first and Malfoy managed to send them on, dodging curses as he went. There were inferi mixed in to this lot and trolls larger and marginally less stupid than the one Quirrell had set on Hermione first year. Somewhere down below a werewolf howled and Harry saw Lupin's eyes take on a manic gleam.

The battle widened and the destruction began to deepen. The suits of armor came to their aid, clashing and clanging with swords drawn. Even the ghosts took sides; the Bloody Baron could be seen amongst the ranks of the Death Eaters while Nearly Headless Nick and the Gray Lady and even Peeves flew over the Hogwarts contingent, deflecting hexes and generally adding to the chaos of battle.

Finally Harry heard voices and shouted orders from above as well; Order members and Aurors were arriving in the front hall.

Why would Voldemort trap himself in the Chamber and allow reinforcements to arrive?

Harry kept tightly to Hermione and Ron, battling himself as hard as the enemy. Every instinct in him wanted nothing more than to simply protect his friends and survive, but he knew with dread certainty that the fight could not be won that way. He needed to stop it all, and there was only one thing he could try that might do that.

He needed to go on, to get to Voldemort.

He'd wanted to do it differently for Hermione, and quite honestly for himself. He'd wanted to live. But people were falling wounded now, dying, because he'd failed to manage it properly and it was time to do whatever was left to him to do.

Hermione was exchanging hexes with a masked Death Eater, half hidden behind a statue. Harry flung himself into the niche behind her. Ron crouched in a doorway directly across from them; Harry'd watched him covering her.

“Hermione, I've got to go on now. He's down in the Chamber, I can feel it, and I need to get to him there. It's the only way to stop this before everyone dies.”

“Then let's go,” she said simply, “because you aren't going anywhere without me and Ron.”

They tried to push forward through the line ahead and found themselves pushed back equally powerfully by the physical brawn of the creatures and the dark magic of the Death Eaters. They'd been knocked down, hexed and coated with the stone dust of thousands of spells careening off the Castle walls. Harry felt as if his whole body was one enormous bruise. Ron's fiery hair was gray, and it occurred to Harry that this was what he might one day look like if he lived to grow old.

“We're not getting anywhere,” Ron snarled in frustration. Harry was ready to agree with him when Hermione grabbed both their arms and dragged them into an unused classroom, shutting and sealing the door behind them with a colloportus.

“The window,” she gasped. “We can't get to the stairs to go down, we'll have to go out and then come in again as far down as we can.”

They flew to the window and Ron blasted the glass out. Hermione managed to conjure a heavy rope from the impossibly dusty and faded velvet curtains and secure it to the center window frame. Harry nodded.

“Go on - both of you. I'll cover you and come behind.”

The sounds outside the door were growing louder; they'd obviously realized the object of the battle had disappeared inside.

Ron went first, repelling down the wall and kicking in the window two floors below, as far as the rope would reach. Hermione shivered. It was freezing, and she hated heights.

“I'm so sorry,” Harry told her sadly. “I wish that we were escaping. It would be so easy to just climb out, find brooms and fly somewhere far away…”

“No it wouldn't,” she said, shaking her head determinedly. “You'd never really be happy, and it would never be over. I wish we were too, but I know that I love you because we aren't, if that makes any sense at all.”

Harry kissed her then the way she'd had the sense to kiss him before it all began; blindly, desperately and to the exclusion of everything else, if only for a moment. His over-acute hearing, the odd sense of being with the castle that he'd felt since the beginning of the battle extended to her as well; he could hear the beating of her heart speed up as his lips covered hers. He drew her tightly against him, trying to recapture for one last time the sensation of joining with her. The pulse and flow of their hearts seemed alter their beat until they were one as well.

One and a bit. One and an odd, small thump. One and a dear God what have I done.

Harry felt as if his own had stopped, but still he heard it. Thump… bittybump. Hermione, and… another. Not his. Another.

The door smashed in, and an enormous troll followed after. Fortunately he forgot to duck the door frame and knocked himself flat, something of an impediment to the Death Eaters behind.

Hermione's arms locked around Harry's chest as he propelled them both through the window and down the rope at breakneck speed. Ron was waiting impatiently below, pulling them both inside. They crunched across the kicked in glass and raced across the room, slitting open the door to peer in relief to empty hallway beyond.

The trio set off once more at a run for that only too familiar sink in Moaning Myrtles' bathroom.

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27. Chapter 26

Official Fine Print: Nope. Not mine. The brainchildren of the mighty pen of JK Rowling. Just playing with them. Still poor.

All thanks for this chapter goes to JazzyGeorgie, who listened to me agonize my way through it and only blocked me from IM once by accident. Draco lives on because of her patience with me, so if you are a Draco fan you have her to thank, and if not.... well, it's all her fault.

Magic Never Dies

Chapter 26

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Someone had beaten them to it, and it wasn't Voldemort.

However he had gotten down into the Chamber it wasn't the way Harry had managed it last time; the sink in Myrtle's bathroom was still firmly in place.

Malfoy, however, was waiting. Draco Malfoy, the other boy Myrtle had befriended in a toilet. Harry had a brief, uncomfortable flashback to another bathroom; Malfoy's face streaked with tears and contorting as he attempted to Crucio Harry, the crimson blossoming of blood when Harry had countered with the Prince's Sectumsempra on Draco, desperate and unaware of the havoc it would wreak.

But he'd do it again in a heartbeat now if Malfoy didn't move, and he could see that Draco knew it too.

“I knew it was too good to be true,” Myrtle lamented, swooping from above Malfoy's white-blond head toward Harry. “They said you were dead, but I knew.”

“Well, look who it is,” Ron sneered. “Voldemort's naughty lap dog.”

“Don't, Ron,” Harry heard Hermione say softly, and he knew that she could see the shadows in Malfoy's eyes too.

“Excuse us,” Harry said, indicating the sink.

Draco's wand arm quivered and Ron let fly with a stupefy; the Slytherin dodged it and hexed back. Ron shielded himself and Hermione and the hex rebounded on Harry who shuddered once like a wet cat and resumed his progress toward the sink unharmed.

Draco paled significantly but his silvery eyes gleamed. “We need to talk,” he said, and cast a muffliato toward Ron and Hermione. His time on the run with Snape had clearly produced more than just potions, then.

Harry waved his wand vaguely and undid it. “Anything you have to say to me, you say to them as well. They're my friends.”

Malfoy gave a Snape-worthy sneer. “That's always been half your problem, Potter. No taste in companions.”

“Perhaps you could cut the obligatory Slytherin shite and get on with it, `cause I've got things to do,” Harry reminded him. “Are you trying to stop me from getting into the Chamber or not?”

“He's got my mother down there,” Malfoy said quietly, “and he's going to kill her if either my father or I don't bring you to him alive and alone.”

“Don't listen to this rubbish, Harry. Even if a word of it were true, his mother made her bed a long time ago,” Ron warned him.

“If you think I'm actually going to surrender myself to you or something you're out of your mind, Malfoy. Look at it this way. I'm so bloody tired of all this that I'm going down there anyway. Only I'm going on my own terms, and Ron and Hermione are coming with me. If he kills me, your side wins. If I kill him, your Mum lives. She'll probably end up in Azkaban with you and your Dad, but you'll still be one big happy family together. So why don't you just get out of my way, okay?”

Draco stepped aside.

Harry looked at him suspiciously. “Come on, Malfoy, I don't have time for this. What are you really up to?”

The very first magical boy he ever met all those years ago, in Madam Malkins in Diagon Alley before ever even coming to Hogwarts, gazed at him steadily. “It's been a long time coming, Potter, but if you're still noble enough and stupid enough to feel that you have to go down there on your own who am I to get in your way?” Draco said. “I envy you that… not what's going to happen to you, but actually wanting to… face it. Finish it. Good luck, Po… Harry. Whichever way it goes, I don't imagine I'll see you again.”

Harry remembered again the boy who'd faced Dumbledore. Just because Albus had been well intentioned didn't mean he wouldn't have been terrifying to cross; he'd been the most powerful wizard in the world after all, the only one Voldemort himself feared, and Draco had gotten Death Eaters into Hogwarts past his wards, gotten himself far enough to stand up to him. It hadn't worked, but it took its own kind of guts, he supposed.

“I'd like to say `you too, Mal…Draco,' but I can't. I can't help hoping that no matter what happens to me you and your family never know a moment's peace if you go on helping him with this madness,” Harry said regretfully. “And if you go down there and fight for him I'll kill you first.”

“I know,” Draco told him, taking another step back. “He's going to kill my Mother, Potter. My family has supported him longer than I've been alive…. But there's no one he won't kill, and I don't care what my father's doing anymore, I `m done. I only want my mother safe.”

“Harry, bloody hell, you're not going to…” Ron implored him.

“I can't stop you from following us,” Harry told Malfoy. “I'm going down there for one reason only, to kill him. Anything else is up to you. Turn on me or get in my way and you're dead too.”

Malfoy inclined his head once, biting his lip. Harry turned to the sink and the tap with its etched image of a snake. He remembered having to try and imagine it alive the first time to manage the parseltongue; it was effortless now. He wasn't entirely sure whether that was good, or bad.

A low hiss issued from his lips, and the magical sink ground open to reveal its wretched entrance.

Once more into the abyss.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Voldemort's inhuman army had clearly been dispatched upstairs for maximum effect and because they were nothing to him anyway; Harry was quite sure the fastidious Riddle despised them all. If you had problems coping with mudbloods, how much could you really enjoy the company of a troll, or an inferius or hag? All they found down below were Death Eaters, many with what Harry took for an imperiused gleam in their empty eyes. The Dark Lord was taking no chances with fading wills today.

There were too many Death Eaters ranging the pipes to have any real hope of sneaking up on him. Hermione thought that maybe they could simply collapse the whole chamber to trap him, but Harry wasn't sure they could pull it off from where they hid and it became a moot point as the battle wore on and they were slowly forced further and further in themselves. Malfoy had followed them down the tunnel and through the half-collapsed entrance but he'd disappeared shortly after, blending into the general chaos. Harry reckoned he was off looking for Narcissa. His father was thankfully nowhere to be seen, presumably absorbed up above, but like a bad penny Snape had turned up behind them as well. His bottomless eyes had met Harry's once with a flash of something he still could not read, but his face had fallen into its habitual sneer. He was fighting amongst the Death Eaters now, albeit with little visible enthusiasm; a solitary black crow amongst the flock of masked white. Harry hexed him with the most annoying thing he could think of at the moment. A thousand spiders hatching in his trousers ought to do the trick.

They fought valiantly, and Harry was both fiercely proud and touched at the bravery of his friends. They never lost their heads and they worked both together and with him, covering each other and even combining spells to greater effect than they ever managed before. They thought their way through it, not wasting energy on unproductive or simply reactive hexes and they held on longer than they had any right to expect. The battle clearly raged on above and in the end they were still alone when they were driven into the main Chamber and turned to find Voldemort and his inner circle waiting behind them, wands pointed.

“Expelliarmus!”

The Chamber appeared unchanged since last he was there, the towering stone pillars with their entwined serpents, the reflecting puddles and dank and greenish gloom that made them almost seem to move. He'd forgotten that Ron had never seen the big central room with its enormous likeness of Salazar and the putrid stain where the sightless basilisk had fallen near the pool. The skull lay there still, grinning in welcome.

He heard Hermione's low moan as she realized what it was she was seeing, more focused on the remains of the basilisk for a moment than the others that awaited them.

“Oh, Harry…” she whispered, and he squeezed her fingers grasped now within his own.

The chosen of the Death Eaters surrounded them, circling and feinting hungrily. Harry recognized Belatrix's mad cackle immediately.

“Call off your dogs,” he said evenly. “We're not here to play games.”

Hisses of derision met his words.

Voldemort broke through their ranks, grinning with the cold ferocity of the truly insane when gifted with their most obsessive desire. “Potter!”

It was almost loving, the way he said. Harry reckoned that never having loved anything, Voldemort's feelings for him were quite probably some of the most intense he'd ever had. It was a repulsive, full-body-shudder type of thought.

Harry had always imagined that when he finally faced the man who'd killed his parents and robbed him of any hope of a normal life that he would feel an empowering wave of hate, a driving need for justice, a surge of righteous anger. He'd been counting on it, really. It was hard to find that the truth of the situation was a combination of bitter exhaustion and gut-wrenching fear now for that extra little thump in Hermione. He would do anything for that thump now, anything to keep the wretched cycle of his own life from repeating, or worse. He needed to get Hermione out, free, away somehow, no matter what the cost.

“Riddle,” he acknowledged.

The Death Eaters collectively sucked in enough air to cause a small, chill breeze at that.

The scarlet eyes flared and lips stretched from smile to snarl. “You mistake me, whelp. You will speak when you are bidden and with respect or I will let Macnair rip the tongue from your very mouth. He so… hungers for it.”

There was a breathless, eager laugh from the ranks of the still masked Death Eaters around him. A burst of sparking red erupted from Voldemort's wand and Harry and Hermione moved together to deflect it with a protego. The Death Eater it rebounded on gagged and seemed to choke on his own tongue, staggering. The others skirted away from him as if whatever it was were catching, unwilling to counter Voldemort's curse before him. The masked figure fell to its knees, scrabbling desperately at its mouth; the cloth slipping to reveal the elder Nott.

Voldemort loosed a faint snarl as he flicked his wand, countering the spell.

Harry swallowed reflexively but did not allow his voice to falter. “The last time we were here, you told me that the longer I talked, the longer I'd stay alive. I don't think there's really all that much left to say; is there?”

“There is nothing you can say,” the Dark Lord allowed, flicking his wand again and surrounding the three of them in a circle of flames.

Harry felt the stones of the floor grow uncomfortably warm more through his connection to the place than his own skin. He doused them with a wave of his hand, wiping any traces from the stone with the return motion.

“.And you have nothing I want to hear,” he said. “We're at an impasse. The castle doesn't care for that, by the way.”

Ron shifted from foot to foot, rolling an eye at Harry, clearly caught between panic and defiance. Hermione subtly shook her head at him.

Voldemort flicked his wand again and magic stirred the air. This time Harry cut it off before it could even take the form of whatever spell he'd cast.

“This is our fight, yours and mine,” he said softly, the one tack he knew he had to try. “The prophecy names only us. Send them all away, let it be the way it was foretold.”

He heard a sound from Hermione, so soft and choked he could not say for sure what it meant.

Voldemort's bitter mirth was considerably louder. “I will not be dictated too by her.”

It took a moment for Harry to realize it was not Hermione he meant. His eyes followed the crimson gaze through the gloom of the Chamber and saw that there at the base of Salazar's enormous likeness sat Professor Trelawney, still swaddled in her shawls and beads, her lost eyes enormous behind their glasses. She was muttering to herself, rocking back and forth like a frightened child. Narcissa Malfoy was beside her, though if looks alone could manage it she'd have been considerably further. Trelawney appeared unbound, Narcissa's hands and feet gleamed faintly with the magic that secured them.

Harry's heart dropped; the Divination teacher was a piece he'd missed. He'd taken her far too lightly; he'd mocked her in his own way and failed to protect her when he'd known, seen, the madness approaching. Dumbledore had always been careful to keep her within the castle walls, even challenging Umbridge at a most vulnerable time to do it.

“You'll be happy to know, though, that she always told me I was going to die,” Harry admitted ruefully.

Voldemort choked out a bark of laughter again. “As did her predecessor, I. So I killed her and made a horcrux of her death to ensure it would never come true. Prophecy is but a suggestion to those with the will to control their own destiny, Potter.”

Dear Merlin but he was a damaged piece of work.

“Your horcruxes are gone. What use is absolute power when it's cost you your entire soul to pay for it? Maybe it wasn't really a suggestion after all.” Harry said tiredly. “Even if you kill me, Ron or Hermione or even Trelawney over there can kill you in turn and you'll have nothing to face that next great adventure with but that last tiny shred.”

“There is no next great adventure,” Voldemort snorted. “You listened to the old fool, did you? There is nothing beyond the veil but unknowing loss. And my horcruxes are not all gone. I still have you, Potter. You think you are somehow fit to face me when you are nothing but a pale, frightened shadow of me. It is through my great gift you speak parseltongue, through me that you were strong enough for a corporeal patronus….”

“Because of you, you mean.” Harry cut him off. “If it weren't for you I'd never have needed to. I am no shadow of you at all, pale or otherwise. And you are wrong about the veil.”

“Shall we see?”

He turned his wand on Narcissa. “Avada Kedavra!”

Harry wasn't expecting it; it was Cedric all over again. Who could anticipate the twisted moves that mind would make? He tried desperately to deflect it, but his own spell was too far behind and Narcissa was bound and unarmed. There was time for no more than brief widening of her eyes as the green flare struck her between them. She slumped sideways against Professor Trelawney.

Who'd clearly never seen it coming, either, from her horrified reaction.

“Tell me Draco, do you think you shall speak to her again?” Voldemort hissed toward the black mouths of the tunnels running off of the Chamber. Clearly he'd known the younger Malfoy was somewhere about, awaiting his chance. “Is she picking flowers under the blue skies of heaven? Rejoined with her loved ones? She loved no one but herself, not you, not your father. Heaven would be such a lonely place, if only it were real.”

Harry's eyes ranged the openings to each tunnel, searching for the pale gleam that might mark Draco's presence. A son from any of Hogwarts' other Houses might have rushed to her or turned on Voldemort; a Slytherin predictably would have remained hidden or run for his own life.

Perhaps Draco wasn't such a Slytherin, after all.

Pale as death and shaking, Malfoy appeared from the left most tunnel, his wand extended. “You said… He's here. Potter is here, just like you wanted. She was faithful to you her whole life, you demented fuck! Nothing is good enough for you, is it? Nothing will ever be enough. Avada Kedav….”

But for a syllable and a little more speed, he might have pulled it off; there was certainly none of the hesitation he'd had before Dumbledore.

Voldemort's wand flick deflected Draco's curse easily, but they were all startled when the stone serpent it struck exploded into shards. No little fury in that one, then. Harry focused hard on his former enemy even as Voldemort's wand swished again. His wordless, wandless stupefy should have reached him before Voldemort's next Avada, Draco dropped like a stone though the green flare passed close enough to seem to hit him as he fell. Maybe it did. Harry had done all he could and he felt Voldemort's attention turn once more back his way.

Scarlet eyes narrowed and both hands and wand worked in concert, unleashing a dark sucking absence in the crackle of magic between the two of them. It hurt without even touching him, a tearing pain just by its very existence, insinuating itself where the magic ought to be. He thought his head was going to explode; for some reason the pressure in his ears was unbearable. He'd had no idea Voldemort could do this.

He could tell Hermione had felt something but was more concerned by his response. Ron appeared startled but unaffected, his eyes still searching for an opening to effect their escape. This spell was tailor made for him alone; Voldemort had clearly done his homework and once again Harry had come up short. He could practically feel Snape's sneer.

Harry could feel nothing but the need to escape the yawning blackness of the absence of magic around him; he felt like a fish desperately gasping air but unable to extract what it needed. He'd taught himself to reach outside himself for magic and now he could not close that door.

He let himself go liquid and flow through the emptiness, surging like a swimmer kicking for the surface of the water. And found himself across the Chamber near Narcissa's body and Trelawney's sobbing form, looking back at the circle of Death Eaters around his friends.

You couldn't apparate at Hogwarts, but that hadn't been even remotely like apparition. He didn't know what the hell it had been, but it had removed him from the proximity of the spell. He could breathe again and he was grateful. His ears still hurt fiercely, though, and sound seemed to be coming to him from the bottom of a well.

Spooked Death Eaters desperately scanned the Chamber for him, but Voldemort's scarlet eyes found him unerringly and gleamed. A bright bubble like the one that had surrounded them when their wands locked in the graveyard swelled now from Voldemort's alone and closed around the group across from him; blocking his way back to Hermione and Ron.

Panic leapt in his throat then. He threw every spell, every hex and curse he knew at it while he was mocked from within. When his magic failed him he threw himself at it again and again, repelled each time. He could see them clearly, see their lips move… see their eyes.

Voldemort's first act was to crucio Ron, although he never bothered to look at him even to aim the spell. It was all about watching Harry, about feeding on Harry's despair like a Dementor's last meal. Harry felt as if his worst nightmares were coming to life; Ron cursing and screaming almost soundlessly for Harry to just kill him! to the taunts and jeers of the Voldemort's watching minions.

He could not physically pass the barrier, but Harry realized with sudden relief that his mind could still touch Ron's. He reached out and tried to shelter his friend; absorbing the evil pulse of the crucio spell before it infiltrated Ron's nervous system and buying him time to recover as best he could from the sheer assault of it. Ron's relief and gratitude rushed back to him along with the spell, a fair trade in Harry's eyes.

It did not take long however for Voldemort to recognize what was happening; with the creep of a single finger Hermione was dragged struggling closer while Harry watched helplessly, torn between the two of them. The falter in his shield was enough; Ron lurched to his feet again with empty eyes and turned on Harry where he was pressed against the invisible barrier.

“Bastard, you bastard, you've led us all here for nothing, you've killed us and for what? For the privilege of knowing you, the bloody Boy Who Lived,” Ron howled. Harry could not clearly hear him, but still he understood and felt the full force of every single word.

Voldemort released Ron's captured wand with a feral grin and it flew into his hand. Ron looked at it as if he had never seen it before, but pointed it at Harry nonetheless.

Harry learned then that the barrier was one way; keeping him out. Ron's first spell slashed a bloody trail from cheek to shoulder on one side.

He was under imperius and Harry knew it. That rush of gratitude was the real Ron; this one had no control over what he said or did, and still that knowledge did nothing to stop the pain of seeing it issue forth from his own lips. A volley of hateful hexes, stinging, slashing and burning hurt no less for knowing Ron would never have willingly used them; Harry only hoped that whatever happened he never, ever learned he had. At least his final crucio was hearteningly feeble; it seemed that even under imperius Ron couldn't truly hate him.

Of course, Voldemort grew quickly tired of that, and Ron was stupified and cast aside like a snapped wand.

`You thought to take my immortality, you and that fool Dumbledore,” he mouthed at Harry, red eyes alight. “I have been to the empty island in the cave and Ollivander's dying words informed me that you had Ravenclaw's wand. I visited the hovel my mother's blood called home, and I know the ring is gone. We both know what happened to my diary, and to the true cup from Durmstrang. We both know what you are. It is time, then, to take back what your mother stole from me,” he raved.

His worm-pale, twisted fingers held Harry's claimed wand aloft. “Your little mudblood slut here will provide a fitting death to make a new horcrux, and I can think of no better repository for it than your own wand. It is useless against me, brother to mine, and when you are dead and gone no one will ever dare to violate this Chamber to retrieve it. Nagini is to become my new basilisk, and Salazar's desires will be restored. So in the end all your striving has been for naught, pretender, and you have wasted the time allotted you on this earth.”

Harry remained pressed against the magical barrier separating him from Hermione, chest heaving, fighting the surge of panic. This was so not how it was supposed to go. He didn't truly need his wand any longer, but it hurt none the less to see it in Voldemort's hands and hear his plans for it. It had been a part of him, the first key to unlock the magic within him.

His mind couldn't begin to take in the bit about Hermione.

“I can take it from you,” Voldemort mused, approaching Harry confidently on his side of the sphere, “in so many… different ways.”

Each step deepened the throb in Harry's scar; he was fighting desperately not to show it but his eyes began to water with the effort. If Harry couldn't get through the barrier, could the horcrux?

The corpselike visage spoke slowly as it approached him; caressing each syllable as though it brought a deep and moving pleasure. “That's right Harry. Cry. Cry for me like the scared little boy you still are. Rutting with the mudblood can not make you a man. I…”

Voldemort got too close. Hermione saw his expression change, saw him hover and swiftly turn away. `It's true then,' she thought. The tug was fiercer for Harry because he had more of it, but Voldemort felt the pull of his ruined soul then, and he sensed that it was he who was being drawn toward Harry and not the other way round. His barrier cost him; he could not pull the horcrux through without bringing Harry with it.

“You what?” Harry taunted him hoarsely, and Hermione saw he felt it too.

“I think,” Voldemort hissed, turning on him from a safe distance, “that I might enjoy watching you kill her, and making the horcrux for me.”

Harry shook his head. “You can't do that. You fooled me once, and Sirius died. I learned my lesson. And you could never control me. We both know that.”

“No?” Voldemort asked, and pointed his wand at Hermione.

Her heart slowed when it should have raced, she felt a sluggish wave like ice flow through her veins.

“You will give me your magic, or she dies.” Voldemort said, not a hiss now but almost a squeal of ill-suppressed frustration. The faceless Death Eaters stirred like a flock of startled birds. “I will drain every ounce of MY magic from your veins, you half blood freak, and I will have my… it back before you die. Only then might she survive.”

Harry's eyes skittered away from hers then, and his head bowed for a moment.

“He's going to kill me anyway, Harry, we both know that.” she cried to him desperately, “Don't…”

Voldemort's wordless silencio had been meaningless; he had been reading her lips through the barrier before he turned away. Some spell he could not name erupted like a slap across her cheek; she staggered and he looked up to see blood rush to the mark beneath her skin as her shaking hand rose to cover it.

“How?” asked Harry, his voice ruined and not his own. As if it mattered now.

<O><O><O>

Hermione gave him the greatest gift she could then, and allowed herself to slump to the ground in the best imitation of a dead faint she could manage. She thought carefully of every fact she knew about Occlumency from researching and forcing Harry to practice; she had never really tried but if Voldemort assumed her unconscious and did not actively seek her out she might pass for exactly that. She only knew it seemed her one chance to help Harry; to wait and think and listen for an opening of some kind.

Voldemort drew out his imagined victory then.

She was left alone inside the glowing sphere of woven magic while the others emerged to claim his prize. Ron was flung outside, flopping limply to the floor of the Chamber.

He's okay, he's only stupefied, he's okay, he can't move, Harry will ennervate him.

But Harry was stripped of his wizard robes and forced to crawl through a gauntlet of Death Eaters to Voldemort in his muggle clothing. The Death Eaters were indiscriminate in their taunts and hexes, although Hermione noticed that good old muggle kicking and spitting were good enough for many of them. There wasn't much left of his shirt or the knees of his jeans by the time he reached the head of the line and his trainers were both gone. Blood dripped from his nose and the ear that she could just see through her barely slitted eyes. There was something heartbreaking and innocent to Hermione about the image of his socked feet. He paused as he passed Ron's abandoned and stupefied form and his fingers grasped at Ron's ankle for a moment until he was kicked away. She realized then why he didn't ennervate him; Ron was safer where he was, and spared from watching.

He didn't need his wand; he could call on so much magic now he could be fighting them all off. Why didn't he, how could he let them do this to him over her? They'd talked about it so often, promised each other to fight, to let the other defend themselves. He was breaking his promise far too easily even for saving-people-Harry; why?

At the end of the gauntlet Harry landed at Voldemort's feet once more. The Dark Lord's pale face had more than just revulsion on it now, and his snarled “kneel,” probably had as much to do with keeping clear of the pull from his severed soul within Harry as subjugating his prey.

“Ssseveruss,” Voldemort commanded with an eager lisp, his scarlet eyes never wavering from Harry's green ones. “Bring it to me now.”

Snape swooped wordlessly from his place in line. He had managed a well placed kick and particularly stinging hex, and from the look on his face Harry knew that though his allegiance may not have changed he had still enjoyed them. His rage at Harry knew no bounds now that he was being forced to watch his undoing.

He moved to Voldemort and bowed deeply, then knelt before a locked ebony chest not far from the catatonic Trelawney and waited until Voldemort had hissed the proper password to induce the usual snake lock to uncoil. Nagini slithered forward, attracted perhaps by their sudden movement, and coiled around Snape's feet.

“Do choose the right one, Severus,” Voldemort warned smoothly as Snape's fingers reached into the chest. “You know what I want. If Dumbledore could not bring himself to share in the cave we can surely recompense for his selfishness now.”

The magic draining potion, then. The one that Snape had taunted Harry with.

“You see now why Dumbledore begged me to end it,” Snape had sneered. “You might have lived a squib if you had drunk it, but he was old, his connection to magic too ingrained to survive losing it. He must have sensed what it was doing. He was prepared to die for Draco anyway, if it meant I could keep my cover and help you.”

You might have lived a squib.

Harry's heart constricted. He wondered if he did survive the potion if Voldemort might just let him live a while to mock his magic-less state. There was more than one way to kill a wizard after all, if only the horcruxes could be destroyed first he might still manage it…

Snape removed a stoppered bottle from the chest and looked pointedly at Nagini until she slunk off his feet and over toward Harry instead. He returned to Voldemort and knelt again, offering up the bottle.

Voldemort's red eyes flicked to several of the Death Eaters in line and they moved forward to hold Harry down even as he reached for Harry's jaw himself.

He flailed against them then, letting every bit of magic he could still tap fly. They were thrown back, leg-locked and stunned, several of them far worse. He scrambled to his feet and ran back to the bubble, throwing himself against it. His body hit it with a resisting whump but Hermione still felt his familiar presence appear on the mat at the door to her consciousness, hammering. Either her Occlumency was pathetic or his ability to skirt round it very strong; as warm and deep and magical as their first real kiss when he had passed the cup to her tongue-to-tongue a thought suddenly appeared in the forefront of her mind.

`You have our child in you, Hermione. Please, love, please keep safe. You've given me everything I ever wanted and I'm not afraid. Please go on.'

Hermione felt as if her heart stopped with the weight of his words and in its place she could still hear a faint, determined throb. Joy swelled up within her at the very possibility and battered with balled fists at the wall her desperate fear of losing him had erected, aching to be felt despite it all.

`Beautiful, wonderful, but still not you. Never you. Please Harry, don't leave me…' she thought brokenly, hoping against hope he could hear her, too.

Freed by their master, Avery and Macnair and Bellatrix reached him as one, each with a different hex. He slumped down the invisible barrier to his knees; absorbing them while his mother's eyes implored her.

She blinked; all she was willing to risk. She would not let go. There was still hope, there was always hope until… She remembered Lily's words, her caution that Hermione could not help him in the end. Was this it? She would never have agreed to this, never. But surely Lily had said he would live? Had she meant only Durmstrang, the change into thestral form? Had the child been conceived then, or had he been saved only for that? She wanted the baby, she did, but she wanted Harry too.

Murder was not the only way to split one's soul. Hermione saw then that both she and Harry were torn by the blind, instinctive need to protect a life in its most vulnerable stage. Once upon a time whatever magic had created all life had done this same thing, cradling a tiny flame of hope against the vast black emptiness that sought to extinguish it.

Once Lily had done the same for her child and look what she had managed? This driven, lovely man who refused to turn from the struggle, trying long after he even knew why to do what he knew to be right.

There was something more powerful than death, despite the way Voldemort both feared and flaunted it. Life was a force to be reckoned with, and hope was a thing with wings. Harry had to survive. He had to.

The Death Eaters reached him again, pinning him. Bellatrix took hold of his hair and dragged his head back.

“No,” he managed, vehement and broken at once. “No. You can't take my magic from me… I…”

Voldemort drew closer and grinned, and his tongue flicked out, snake like and eager.

“I can.”

“You can't,” Harry all but whispered, “because I give it to you. Freely. You could never take it from me any other way.”

And he wrenched free and grasped the bottle in Voldemort's hovering hand and drank, deeply, as if thirsting for what it held. When he had finished every drop inside he flung the bottle away and it shattered at the stone feet of Salazar Slytherin himself.

“Foolish boy!” Voldemort taunted. “Your Gryffindor bravado is no more potent than your mother's charm. Your choice of words changes nothing in the end.”

“It changes everything,” Harry said softly; and only then did he cry out.

<O><O><O>

Hermione knew that even if she lived to be Dumbledore's age and tried to pensieve her memories of this time she would still never, ever forget that sound.

Draining one's magical core was clearly a painful and terrifying process; compounded as it was by the destruction of the horcruxes it seemed to literally be tearing Harry inside out.

Voldemort had bet wrong - or been lied to, and if Hermione had been able to tear her attention from Harry long enough she would have seen the truth for once on Severus Snape's face. Attempting to reclaim Harry's magic resulted not in the recoverable release of the last surviving segments of the horcruxed soul, but in their evident destruction.

It was as if three of the cup horcrux had been unleashed inside him and all were fighting for their very survival. As the very core of Harry's magic was extinguished within him they were drained of sustaining magic as well; and without it to support them or a magical object to contain them they were nothing more substantial than an ill-conceived idea, a desperate wish made by an abandoned son, stillborn from their host.

A final cry tore from Harry's lips as his body slumped to the floor and relinquished his own magic along with Voldemort's unwitting contribution from that Halloween night sixteen years before. It was wordless and anguished and accepting all at once, as if he'd always know that this might be the cost.

And with his choice and sacrifice Voldemort was rendered human once more.

<O><O><O>

There was absolute silence in the Chamber for a moment. Hermione realized the cowering Death Eaters did not know what to expect; most probably knew little enough of the horcruxes anyway. The look of contained fury on Voldemort's face seemed to indicate it would remain that way. He might wish to finish Harry off, but he had to be certain first.

He flicked his wand at Harry's fallen form and it skittered weightlessly across the floor to rest near Ron's. The sight of the two of them lying there, seemingly lifeless and cast aside broke something deep within Hermione that she knew could never quite be pieced together again, no matter what came next.

“Go on, my loyal ones, you see what lies before you. Go up and spread the word that Harry Potter's magic is no more and I have won. Take the castle, and spare none that cross you. Glory belongs to the one who brings Godric's sword and hat to me. Go!” Voldemort ordered.

The Death Eaters remained stunned and silent a moment more, then cheers and wolf whistles broke out with whoops of bloodthirsty glee and they swooped for the tunnels, jostling each other like children to earn their Lord's favor.

Except for one, called back. “Severus, my… friend, stay with me.”

<O><O><O>

The steady drip of water could be heard once the Death Eaters were gone, and the occasional sound of an explosive spell above, blasting a door or collapsing a staircase.

“Explain yourself!” Voldemort hissed to Snape as soon as they were alone. “Explain to me what just occurred. You said that draining the boy's magic would release the horcruxes!'

“Clearly, my Lord,” Snape said smoothly, “I was…wrong.”

“Wrong? Wrong? You dared to be wrong about this, of all things?”

“One does not dare to be wrong, my Lord. One is simply… mistaken. There is not a great body of knowledge to rely on when one goes further than any wizard before. There was no way to predict…”

“You are never simply wrong, Severus.” Voldemort countered, drawing his cloak tighter around him as if chilled. “I might almost think you had betrayed me with this, had you not cost your would-be savior his own magic as well.”

Severus Snape's lips stretched in a horrible parody of a smile. “Harry Potter? My Lord, surely you jest. Potter could never save anyone. He's just a boy, who lived.”

“Who lives,” came a soft voice from behind them; and Hermione could not stop herself then; her eyes flew open and she struggled up within the confines of the bubble, praying.

<O><O><O>

Losing his magic had felt like swallowing acid and turning his insides out; Harry felt raw and battered and bereft. But still he felt, and still he breathed and still he was alive, and still he knew his purpose was not yet fulfilled.

He had yet to kill Voldemort.

The battle raged on above, and people were still dying. Ron was cold and still beside him, only petrified, but beyond Harry's reach now to help in any way. Even without a wand in his hand Harry felt the emptiness where once his magic filled him and knew that the simplest finite incantum was beyond him. And Hermione… he could do nothing for Hermione. He was less than useless as a wizard now.

But Harry had been raised amongst muggles, had never even known he was born to be a wizard for over half his life… and with enough desire and a lack of inhibiting self-preservation even a muggle ought to be able to bring about a wizard's undoing.

His greatest surprise was to find himself still connected somehow to the castle. He had wondered at the feeling before but so much magic had flowed through him then that he had not understood the difference. The magic was gone now but still the castle claimed him as its own, and still he - though far more mutedly - sensed it. It was comforting at first; he'd felt as if held in embracing arms as he'd slowly come back to himself after the magic drained away. Now, though, the castle was urging him to his feet and on to complete his destiny.

Harry thought of his last time in this Chamber, how his loyalty to Dumbledore had called the sword of Goderic Gryffindor to him through Fawkes. His heart constricted at the loss of his magic, and with it his connection to so many impossibly wonderful things.

“Oh, Fawkes” he whispered brokenly. “I'm sorry.”

Hogwarts grieved with him. `Fawkes, sorry, fawkes, sorry, fawkes… ' vibrated softly through the floors and walls themselves.

Harry struggled drunkenly to his feet, and staggered toward his fate.

“Who lives,” he said to the two who mocked him.

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He knew intimately now how a mouse felt when it saw that gleam in the cat's eye. All of Voldemort's disappointment in losing his horcruxes and his loathing for anything helpless and non-magical roiled to the surface. Harry's months of training at listening and channeling the natural magic around him along with his own was useless now. He would have given anything to discover he suddenly possessed skill in some obscure martial art form, but alas… he was just Harry Potter still.

Harry ran and ducked and dove and tried to hide. He was hexed and tripped and slammed into walls for his trouble. Invisible hands held his head in one of the stagnant puddles until he thought his lungs would burst. Voldemort could have killed him with a flick of his finger now, but he didn't, couldn't, couldn't stop himself from playing with that he had once actually…. But no, he had never feared Harry.

And Harry couldn't stop himself from getting back up and trying again. He only needed one chance, just one, and even if the opportunity needed to be greater the more broken he became, the odds never changed. Please, just one.

Voldemort hurled Harry halfway across the chamber after a particularly bold run in which he managed to get nowhere near the snake-faced bastard, and he landed with a sickening crack and a hastily muffled scream. Snape moved closer and rolled Harry's balled and trembling form over with his foot, a look of distaste upon his face and mercy in his eyes.

“My Lord, shall I… let me dispose of this for you,” he said, his wand leveled between Harry's eyes.

Harry shook his head desperately; he well knew Snape could do it.

“Please…” he managed softly, and hastily added “don't,” remembering Dumbledore.

A liquid burst of song pierced the echoes of the cavern and Fawkes appeared once more. He hadn't troubled with the sorting hat this time; the Sword alone was in his talons. The castle itself must have called to him because it sure as hell couldn't have been Harry, but he was in no shape to look gift swords in the… whatever.

He grabbed for it from Fawkes outstretched claws and the sword came comfortably, familiarly into his hands, undisturbed by the lack of magic in them. It was Goderic Gryffindor's, magical in its own right, and it had accepted him before.

Harry turned and lunged past Snape, knocking him to the ground as he limped for Voldemort. He wasted no time brandishing the sword. Harry had nothing left; fear and pain were subsumed by his one need, to finish this. To close the door, end the story, leave some kind of peace behind him to mark his passage through this world for Hermione and… little thump.

He struck desperately.

He missed.

Voldemort spun easily away, graceful in his death-warmed-over kind of way. Harry skidded past him, carried on by momentum alone. He stumbled, falling hard. The sword tore from his hand and skittered across the wet stone to lie, gleaming, barely two arm lengths off. He pulled himself determinedly to his knees, gasping, and began to crawl toward it.

Don't stop… don't give up… don't stop now….

The kick from behind him actually drove him closer to the sword and he welcomed the pain of it, dragging himself forward and thinking `go on, one more good kick and I'll have it, you demented bastard and then you're…'

But Voldemort stepped lightly by him and his foot came down upon the sword.

Harry felt the fight go out of him then; he knew he'd seen the best chance he'd have and he'd blown it once again. He slumped to the ground, tears of frustration and failure finally mixing with the involuntary watering as the pain in his well-kicked ribcage was amplified by meeting something sharp upon the Chamber floor. How infuriating to know Vernon Dursley might have been right about him after all. He was a freak, hopeless and useless. He'd wanted to be so much more.

“Come, Harry, we have toyed long enough. You may kiss my foot and I will move it for you, you can at least die with the sword in your hand like the man you could never quite manage to become.”

Harry groaned, fairly certain that actually hurling on Voldemort's foot was significantly less likely to be met with any kind of noble death offer. Like it mattered anymore. His entire body was shaking with the effort of simply not dying now. Swordplay was beyond him.

Voldemort actually crouched down; he truly seemed to need to see Harry's dying eyes, his own alight with rabid ecstasy.

“Go on and die, Harry. Feel the despair of it. There's nothing there. And when you are gone at last I shall take your pregnant whore and refashion my immortality.”

Over my dead body.

Harry let out a last, heaving breath.

And reared wearily up, striking out. This time he did not miss. The broken basilisk fang he'd found beneath him must have lain there since his last defeat; it was only fitting that it served to end Tom Riddle's life once more. Harry wasn't a wizard anymore, but he buried the basilisk fang so far in the unblinking crimson eye that there was no spell that could have saved him. Death had cringed and snapped at Voldemort's heels long enough to see it's chance and sprang, leaving no time for words.

With a soft, surprised gag as the point curved through his foul brain and down into his throat, Voldemort met at last his greatest fear with nothing but what was left of his own soul, and was no more.

Harry swayed on his knees, trying desperately to focus through his streaming eyes. Any connection they had had died with the horcruxes and his magic; his scar was nothing now but marked skin. He extended one shaking hand but could not make himself touch the husk before him to be sure.

Footsteps approached; Harry saw what he knew to be Snape's black boots and tensed for a blow, although he could not fathom why now.

There was a rustle of fabric and a pale white forearm was thrust close to his battered face.

“Look, Potter.”

Even Harry could see the angry black scar of the dark mark dissipating as blood pulsed through the veins beneath it and rushed away to be cleansed by the heart.

Assuming of course Snape had one.

A wand appeared in Harry's bleary line of vision next, and he wondered for a moment if Snape meant to put Harry out of his misery or attempt to save his life. He wanted Hermione desperately, but felt already the yawning chasm his dead magic would claw in their life together. He was fairly certain Ron lived, knew he would take care of her if he did. If the child was magical, it would despise him… he was withdrawing from the world with every breath.

He called upon the source of the deepest magic he had ever known, the one that had led him to her. `Into your hands I commend what's left of me,' his heart conceded. `I don't even know what to ask for anymore. Live or die, do with me what you will.'

And that was the last he knew.

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A/N: Wow. This one hurt a lot more than I thought it would… I don't envy JKR a bit anymore, actually. And no, this is NOT at all how I think she's going to end it, for obvious reasons.

Nor is it quite how this story ends, for there is at least one more chapters' worth left, possibly two, and most likely an epilogue of sorts after.

I know everyone had strong ideas about the final battle, and many of you have made excellent arguments against the path I chose. I wimped out on Voldie at Durmstrang, so I truly tried to do them both justice here, where I always wanted to do it. I am happy to hear your theories though, so feel free to dissent with this ~ it's only my version after all. Thanks for reading along, and your reviews mean the world to me.

Lindsay

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28. Author's note

*** AUTHOR'S NOTE ONLY ***

Hi ~ It's Lindsay, and because I am a complete and utter idiot and this is all in my head but not yet all out on the “page” so to speak, I am giving you, my beloved readers, some options.

1. If you HAVE NOT READ THE FINAL BATTLE and came in through the most recent chapter link, please go back one Chapter NOW to Chapter 26 (Portkey 27).

1. If you HAVE read the final battle and think I am a total hag for ending it that way, you now have two further options.

1. Can't stand the suspense? Go to the bottom of the page and find the answer you seek.

1. Love suspense? Don't hate me? I promise the next chapter update will be out 1/21. DON'T read to the bottom of the page, for there be spoilers there.

1. Thanks for not thinking the worst of me.

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Oh come on!! Would I do that??? Of COURSE he lives. I am like the single biggest sucker for Harry of all time. I know I put him through the ringer sometimes, but I always make it up to him and I absolutely promise you a happy ending, okay? Feel better?? Smile. You know you can.

And thanks for reading and caring.

~ Lindsay

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29. Chapter 29

Official Fine Print: Nope. Not mine. The brainchildren of the mighty pen of JK Rowling. Just playing with them. Wheeeee!

Magic Never Dies

Chapter 28

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Voldemort's magic gave out with him. Snape's dark mark was not the only spell to undo itself; Hermione's prison dissolved as well. She pushed herself to her feet and stumbled numbly across the distance to where Harry lay, although by the time she made it he had already slumped to the floor. Snape moved away as she reached for him.

He was battered, badly, the closer she looked, but still breathing.

“Is he?” she asked softly, gazing up at Snape.

He looked closely at her for moment and then did not bother to misconstrue her words. “Alive? Yes. A squib? More than likely. It may not necessarily be permanent, however. There is a small possibility his own magic might recover; if it does not I have been working on a process to reignite the core of those who suffer magical…accidents, for some years now; he would be a perfect candidate for the procedure if he survives his injuries.”

“That was no accident,” Hermione said, her eyes returning to Harry and watching each shuddering rise and fall of his chest. “You lied to Voldemort, and gambled that the magic draining potion would destroy the horcruxes. You used him.”

“Would you have preferred I not?” Snape asked bitingly. “Grow up. I am going up to see what is left of Hogwarts. I trust I can leave you to it.”

Already raw, his words felt like acid against her skin. She said nothing, more anxious by nature to attempt to right the tilting axis than fight it. She heard him go.

She wished that she could ask him to enervate Ron so that she could remain by Harry, but knew as well that the last thing Ron needed to see now was Snape. She needed Ron to help her; she knew they needed to get Harry to Madam Pomfrey, assuming the Hospital Wing remained somewhat intact.

Awakened, Ron seemed thankfully to have no immediate memory of events just prior to being stupefied; all he wanted to know was the result. His eyes glued themselves to Hermione's face and the first thing he asked was “Harry?”

“Alive,” she told him. “I need you to help me get him to the Hospital Wing.”

“Voldemort?” was his next question as he scrambled, swaying slightly to his feet.

“Gone,” she said, barely believing the words even as she spoke them. “Dead. Harry killed him.”

Ron's unsteadiness abruptly fled. “But the horcruxes, the scar one and the others…”

“Voldemort tried to reclaim them by draining Harry's magic. It destroyed them.”

They'd reached Harry now and he was still unconscious. Hermione saw Ron wince when he took in his condition as he dropped to his knees before his friend. She crouched down beside him and laid her hand gently against Harry's cheek; there was not even the slightest flinch although it was badly bruised. Only moving her fingers to his chest convinced her he was still breathing, still trying.

“Bloody hell, Hermione, what kind of spell…”

“They took his magic, Ron. It wasn't a spell. He fought Voldemort without magic, and he killed him. Look.”

She pointed to where the body lay; the broken end of the Basilisk fang just barely protruding from one eye socket in the ruined face.

Ron's face paled and he swallowed. “Sweet bleeding Merlin, Hermione,” he said; his voice starting out as little more than a whisper but building as his brain finally processed what his eyes told him. “He did that? He did it! He killed Voldemort, that's bloody Voldemort, and he's dead! Harry did that? Bloody hell!”

“Ron, we need to move him,” she reminded. “I don't know if Madam Pomfrey can do anything for him, but we need to get him out of here.”

“Too right,” Ron agreed. “Do they know upstairs, about Voldemort?”

“Snape went up already,” she said, listening intently for a moment after. “It certainly sounds quieter. We'll just have to go carefully. I don't know what Snape would say about Harry, but if any of the Death Eaters know he's alive and without magic they'll almost certainly go after him.”

Ron nodded grimly and cast a mobile corpus. “We'll have to…”

Harry's body convulsed and his eyes flew open, lips forming a raw but mostly silent scream. It appeared for all the world as if Ron had crucioed him instead of trying to use a simple levitating charm.

Ron remained frozen for a moment, stunned by his reaction, until Hermione swatted his wand away and cast a finite. Harry's body fell the short distance it had risen and went slack but his eyes remained open and glued to Ron, breath coming in desperate panting gasps.

“Mate, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, we were just trying to move you up to the Hospital Wing. It was just a mobile corpus, really,” Ron stammered. A cold wave rushed over Hermione.

She grasped Harry's hand and ran her wand along a small open cut on his forearm murmuring “curatio.” His reaction was immediate and unmistakable; he jerked away from her as if she'd burned him, eyes shifting to her, watering and confused.

“It's the magic, Ron. He can't tolerate magic for some reason. We're going to have to get him upstairs ourselves without it, and make sure Madam Pomfrey knows before she tries to heal him.”

Between the two of them they managed to help him ease into sitting up, but once he was upright things devolved into a sort of group hug as they clung to each other, slowly giving in to sobs as reality broke like waves.

Hermione knew that every little touch must hurt him, but she couldn't stop letting her fingers be the ones to reassure her that he was still alive. A small corner of her mind admitted that if he had been uninjured she might have jumped him and shagged him on the spot, Ron be damned. His hand tentatively pushed back her hair from her eyes, shaking fingers brushing her cheek and she realized his touch still sparked magic within her, whatever Voldemort had done.

“You're okay?” he managed, his ravaged whisper a shadow of the voice she craved. When she nodded, he persisted with “Really okay?” as if he had to hear her say it, as though a thousand times would still not persuade him to ever take it for granted again.

“I'm fine. Completely fine. Everything is going to be better now, Harry. You have to be alright too.”

It moved her to tears to be part of the boys reacquainting as well; their private language more transparent to her now then ever before. Despite Harry's emotionally starved upbringing and Ron's youngest-of-the-brothers need for constant vigilance on the potential teasing front they managed for once to allow nothing but their abating fear and deep gratitude for the other's survival to come through, clinging to each other as if they would never let go. If Ron had doubts about any of Harry's actions he did not voice them, and she had well known Harry would never say a word about Ron's deeds under the imperius. She became aware, arms around them both as they struggled to regain control, that they might always be her boys but they had both made some invisible, irreversible journey into manhood this day. Neither would ever be the same.

And I'm pregnant. With child. I'm going to have a baby. How is that possible?

She knew how it was possible of course, knew the mechanics of it intimately, but it was never a possibility she'd considered for this point in her life. Except that life was changed now, opening up in a broad vista once Voldemort's shadowy stranglehold had been removed. She'd planned everything so carefully when she started Hogwarts. Top grades, prefect by Fifth year, Head Girl by Seventh. Graduate top of her class and decide between Muggle University or the Wizarding apprenticeship Professor McGonagall had encouraged her to pursue. Hermione had always nursed a secret desire to become an Unspeakable, to understand all that was behind that locked door in the Department of Mysteries. A child would change all that. Wouldn't it?

But it was Harry's child, too. Harry; unloved and unwanted for so long, never knowing what it felt to be part of a family. Harry, who had willing drunk from the cup that would claim his magic in a last desperate attempt to keep her and the tiny heartbeat within her safe. There wasn't a degree, wasn't a job anywhere in the world, wizarding or muggle, that could ever come close to having being loved with that kind of single-minded, pure-hearted devotion. She suspected the loss of Harry's magic, if not reversed, would be a painful absence that would plague him all the days of his life. If the child, if she and the child could in any way make recompense for that, no change in plans could be too great.

It was a slow trip above once all three finally regained the will to move. Ron and Hermione each laid one of Harry's arms around their shoulders and they made their way back to the entrance with him between them. Hermione could sense already his deep frustration at the weakness his injuries imposed; the subject of his magic remained unspoken. At the end of the tunnel Fawkes awaited them and offered to fly them out the same way Harry and Ron had gone second year. Hermione was afraid that touching the deeply magical Phoenix might be beyond Harry but in the end it did not seem to affect him at all. Interesting, that… perhaps it wasn't magic itself but the intentional bending of it to the purpose of a spell? She wished she had time to think. Whatever met them upstairs, the time until she could lay quietly next to him and begin to wrap her mind around what had occurred and what was to come seemed endless as an ocean.

She and Ron clung twice as cautiously to Fawkes and to Harry between them until the solid floor of Myrtle's lavatory was beneath their feet. There was no sign of her, and she did not answer Hermione's soft call. They made their way across the room and opened the heavy wooden door to a landscape as much like the Hogwarts they knew as the surface of the moon.

The halls seemed dark, many of the torches that lit them had been destroyed or simply gone out as the magic that illuminated them was destroyed by flying spells. There was grit and stone dust everywhere, lying like a layer of ash over everything unmoving. There were many “things” unmoving, too, lying where they fell; the lost of Voldemort's army were hardly less frightening dead than they had been alive. Hags, trolls, inferi, all manner of repulsive creatures for which they had no name lay stupefied, petrified or outright dead before them.

“Were they all evil?” Hermione wondered aloud, “or did they just follow Voldemort because Wizards treated them with revulsion?”

Ron muttered something that sound suspiciously like “I'm not joining any S.P.I.W. for inferius for Merlinsake. They're animated bodies, they don't bloody well care.”

Once, Harry would have grinned at that.

Hermione saw his eyes take in the damage and ruin, skittering anxiously from shape to shape. So far all they had come upon were Voldemort's supporters; either their side had been lucky or they had already gathered their wounded home. Harry was clearly nearing the end of his rope. One leg was injured badly enough he could not manage to put weight on it at all and his limping slowed their progress significantly. She wanted to tell Ron to run ahead for he was clearly anxious about his family and Luna but she knew that Harry was anxious as well and would not let her help bear his full weight alone.

One more corridor brought them to the central staircases and a larger view of what the battle had wrought.

Harry gave a low, keening moan. Ron couldn't even manage a single `bloody hell'.

“The castle helped,” came a voice nearby. All three started nervously and Hermione muffled a startled scream against her hand.

It was Neville, filthy and a bit worse for the wear but somehow radiant as well. “It was the most amazing thing; even Dumbledore's portrait and McGonagall were shocked. The staircases, the armor, the statues… even the doors all joined in. It was as if the whole thing was alive and determined to get Voldemort's army out right along with us. That's why it looks so bad. There really is magic in the walls of Hogwarts.”

He seemed to fully take in the three of them then, as if for the first time, and gave a small involuntary wince when he saw Harry.

“Harry…what hap… never mind. Stupid, that. You did it, then, didn't you? Snape said he was dead.”

Hermione saw Harry nod numbly, his eyes still ranging the visible halls and below.

“Where is everyone? Are they… who…” his voice gave out but Neville seemed to know just what he was asking anyway.

“Mostly in the Great Hall. It's in good shape and they did some buttressing charms,” he said reassuringly. “The Hospital Wing was sort of questionable structurally so Madam Pomfrey's ruling the roost in there. And it's not so bad, really, lots of spell reversal and that sort of thing. Hagrid got hit with something a bit nasty but he's going to be okay when the exploding warts run their course. Might want to avoid him `til then though, nasty if you get hit with one.”

“You didn't happen to see Luna,” Ron asked in a hopelessly forced parody of casualness, his voice cracking on her name.

“She's alright. Brilliant to fight next to for all she's so, well, Luna, the rest of the time. I… I'm sorry to tell you, Ron, but Charlie was… he… I think it was quick, if that helps. He was bloody brave.”

Ron made a strangled noise, and Harry a small, defeated moan. Hermione clutched at both of them.

“I'm pretty sure everyone else in your family is going to be okay,” Neville went on quickly. “It was sort of hard to tell once your Mom found out about…. The twins are pretty hexed up and Bill took a couple of rough hits. Ginny was brilliant, and even Fleur came to help out. Your dad's sort of running things for Lupin, he sent us out looking for you.”

“How are Remus, and Tonks?” Hermione asked, knowing Harry would want to know.

“Beat up a bit,” Neville acknowledged. “Lupin… I don't think anyone could say that being a werewolf was anything to be ashamed of after that. He and Tonks and Moody were… amazing. Not many of us really knew how to fight creatures like that; it wasn't what we were expecting.”

Harry staggered between them; Hermione knew they couldn't waste any more time getting him somewhere he could at least lie down. Ron was looking decidedly pale as well.

Neville seemed to follow her thoughts. “The main stairs are all gone; you'll have to spell yourselves down. I'll go ahead and tell Madam Pomfrey you're coming, shall I? Harry, well… I…” he trailed off, looking to Hermione as if for help. “Let me be the first to say thanks.”

Harry's head shook, although most of him had started to shake now and it was sort of hard to tell if it was deliberate. He seemed beyond words. Hermione shared a glance with Ron, taking in the two story drop to the entrance to the Great Hall.

“Harry, mate, we're going to have to use a spell on you to get you down there.”

“If I'm really your mate you'll just give me a shove instead,” Harry groaned. “It'd hurt less, I assure you.”

“We could stun you…” Ron offered, not thinking.

Harry shuddered. “Once again, that would mean a spell, wouldn't it?”

“Not necessarily. Just remember, who's your pal, then,” Ron said nervously. And hauled back and punched him, a single, well-aimed blow.

Harry crumpled soundlessly to the ground, his nose bleeding profusely.

“Ron!” Hermione cried, dropping beside him.

“No, I'm not Voldemort's eighth horcrux or anything. It just seemed the kindest thing, Hermione. Let's hurry up and get him down there before he comes too.”

Neville looked from one to the other, his eyes clearly worried that they'd all of them lost their wits in the battle.

Hermione wasn't entirely sure he was wrong.

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After the devastation elsewhere, the Great Hall was a sight for sore eyes. It appeared untouched, entirely normal but for the hospital beds and rolling curtains brought down from the Infirmary. The sky overhead was crystalline and full of twinkling stars.

Hermione held the door and Neville and Ron carried Harry in between them. All motion came to an abrupt halt and there was a moment of shocked silence followed by a heart broken wail from Mrs. Weasley.

“Not Harry too,” she sobbed. “Not Harry too.”

Snape rolled his eyes. “Not unless they've managed to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory and killed him simply by transporting him. Do get a grip. I told you, he was alive.”

Professor McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey rushed forward and guided Ron and Neville to an empty bed. Hermione took in as much as she could as she followed them.

The worst injured were given beds, others who had more superficial or easily reversible spell damage ranged the room at the various house tables. The house elves were working tirelessly at providing bandaging materials and biscuits and tea. There were a great number of Aurors in Ministry robes but it seemed fairly clear to Hermione they had arrived only after the battle was mostly decided. Few wore near as much grit and stone dust as the Order Members, and fewer still were injured. Rufus Scrimgeour had set himself a war room of sorts at the Head Table, and a group that could only be Ministry advisors by the look of them was drawn close around him.

Ron and Neville eased the still unconscious Harry onto the bed Madam Pomfrey indicated and Hermione's attention was drawn abruptly back as the Hogwarts Infirmarian raised her wand to scan her most familiar patient.

“Madam Pomfrey, wait!”

The Head nurse's anxious eyes flew to her. “Miss Granger?”

“Harry… Voldemort drained him of his magic. There was a potion, Harry drank it to try and save me and Ron. When we tried to use magic to bring him here it really hurt him for some reason.”

“He has no magic left?” Professor McGonagall asked softly. “None at all?”

Hermione shook her head sadly, the truth of it catching at her heart again. “No. I don't think so.”

“However did he kill You-Know-Who, then?” came a quiet voice behind her, and she looked back to discover Scrimgeour there.

“With his bare hands,” she hissed, well aware of Harry's feeling toward the Minister. “Where were you?”

Scrimgeour cocked a leonine eyebrow and made a tutting noise. “Really, Miss… Graber, was it?”

“Granger. Hermione Granger. I was with him, Ron Weasley and I saw everything. And there wasn't a single Ministry official to be seen while they beat him and mocked him and drained his magic. None around when he found a basilisk fang left over from the last time and drove it through Voldemort's eye with his own hand. He's still down there in the Chamber if you dare. So don't even try to play with the truth of this. Every witch and wizard has the right to know how close Voldemort came to running rampant through our world and what it cost Harry to stop it.”

Scrimgeour's yellowy eyes gleamed. “Really. You wish that I should tell the world then that Mr. Potter is now what amounts to a squib? Tell me, how long do you think he would last - assuming of course he lasts at all. He does not appear… well.”

Madam Pomfrey's head came up with a snap; she had been using her hands in place of her wand to categorize Harry's injuries and carefully lifted them before they might fall prey to her anger. “I have treated this boy for the wounds he has incurred battling that evil thing since he was eleven years old,” she said sharply. “I will not let him suffer now if I have to take him to a muggle hospital myself, although I hope it will not come to that. Take your talk of death away from this bed, Minister.” Two spots of color lit her cheeks.

Professor McGonagall jumped in after her.

“What exactly are you saying, Minister? Surely the only news that needs to be announced is that Voldemort is gone and the Boy-Who-Lived killed him for good this time?”

Arthur and Molly Weasley closed in on the circle around Harry's bed. Remus Lupin sat up in a bed two down, and Tonks moved round the foot of it, closer. The Minister held his ground determinedly.

“This is a delicate time for Wizards. Whenever a… great evil is removed from the world there is a vacuum, and a worry of what unknown will move in to replace it. We need to pull together and present a strong and unified front to the remnants of his supporters. Telling the people the truth about Mr. Potter's condition would result in panic and civil unrest and encourage the Death Eaters to greater acts of desperation to prove themselves the Dark Lord's successor. And yet… too many know now of Potter's habit of distancing himself from the Ministry to believe a sudden joining of forces. I feel it might be best - and safest - for all involved if the news of You-Know-Who's demise is reported as a… Ministry victory. As indeed it is a victory for us all.”

There was utter, stunned silence in the Great Hall.

“How can you possibly claim to be responsible for everything Harry did down there,” Ron wondered incredulously, “when you can't even bloody well say his name out loud? It was Voldemort. And now he's dead. And no matter what you rat arsed political wankers do, you'll never change the fact that Harry was the one who did it as long as I'm alive to tell the truth.”

Mrs. Weasley was at once so scandalized by her youngest son's language and so proud of his brave defense of his best friends that the only sound she could produce was a sort of “Meep!” before remembering anew the loss of Charlie and dissolving into fresh tears. Arthur took her in his arms and said clearly, “Ron, I've never been as proud to call you son as you've made me today.”

“Or me, to call you our friend,” Hermione agreed, and found herself grinning despite it all at the blush that stained Ron's cheeks.

Scrimgeour glared at them.

“I must insist,” Madam Pomfrey said clearly, her voice full of steel, “that if talk of this travesty of justice is to continue, it be done elsewhere. Mr. Potter is my patient, and from the looks of things he's going to have rather a lot to be going on with when he wakes up without taking on a pack of lies and manipulations as well.”

She pointed her wand and motioned a curtain neatly between the bed and Scrimgeour, effective as shutting a door in his face. Other curtains neatly followed, forming four walls round the bed and leaving only herself, Minerva McGonagall, Molly and Arthur and Hermione and Ron inside.

“Can you help him, Poppy?” Professor McGonagall asked anxiously.

“Without magic it will be slow. First we must stabilize his condition and see to his injuries. Only time will tell if the sensitivity to magic is permanent. We can do nothing about even attempting to restore his own if it is.”

“Restore it? Can you do that?” Ron asked hopefully.

“Not I, Mr. Weasley,” Madam Pomfrey said with a sigh. “If there is any chance at all it will be Professor Snape that does that. He has been working toward something like it for years now.”

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The next two days passed in a haze of exhaustion and numb waiting for Hermione. Harry remained unconscious and Madam Pomfrey fretted continuously about his care.

It appeared as if the only good news was to be Voldemort's death; the cost seemed to grow greater as time passed. Professor Flitwick chose not to join Professor Binns in an after life of teaching; the little Charms wizard was found dead and there was no sign of a ghost about the Charms corridor. Kingsley Shacklebolt and Hannah Abbott had both been killed by Bellatrix LeStrange, and Sturgis Podmore and Hestia Jones had fallen to Amicus Carrow in revenge for Lupin's disposal of his sister Alecto. Narcissa Malfoy was brought up to the makeshift morgue in the little room Hermione remembered Harry disappearing to after the Goblet of Fire spit out his name Fourth year. Professor Trelawney was still raving and sent for a visit to Gilderoy Lockhart's ward in St. Mungo's. Draco Malfoy was at first thought a casualty as well, but Madam Pomfrey luckily took a look at him and pronounced a particularly powerful stunning charm instead. A simple finite cured him, or at least revived him. His father had fallen to Tonks in the battle and he seemed far too diminished and lost to be deemed returned to normal.

She was vaguely aware of the Ministry Officials still hovering beyond the curtains like vultures waiting for Harry to live or die, not put off by Professor McGonagall as they might have been by Dumbledore. In fact, the only good thing so far had been Ron's reunion with Luna Lovegood. Hermione thought she would never forget his face when Ron spotted Luna entering the Great Hall behind Mad Eye Moody, or the enthusiasm with which he had caught her up in his arms. Their joy in rediscovering each other healthy and alive seemed somehow visceral to her and far beyond the pull of simple relief. She knew the old saying about love in wartime, but she felt certain that those two were headed for far more.

Voldemort was dead. She knew it was hopelessly naïve and immature, but she couldn't stand that all was still bitter and wrong. Seven long years she had worked and prayed for his defeat, and still his passing had left her world in tatters.

Hermione let her head down on her arms, folded beside Harry's still form on the narrow hospital bed, and gave in to the pull of sleep.

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Day three dawned brighter than she thought possible. She awoke stiff and sore from sleeping half slumped on the bed to the sense of something moving in her hair. Stifling a shriek she jumped back to meet Harry's open eyes.

“I go and kill Voldemort for you,” he murmured, his voice still hoarse and strained, “and you let yourself go entirely to hell.” Trembling fingers held up the bit of plaster and a piece of scarlet Phoenix feather he'd salvaged from her hair. “You need a good scrubbing, Hermione Granger.”

“I've been waiting for you to do it,” she whispered, hardly daring to believe her own eyes and ears.

“Might be a bit before I could do a decent job of it,” he said with a brief rueful grin. “I'd recommend not waiting quite that long.”

“I know you're going to get horribly sick of this question, so allow me to be the first to ask it. How do you feel?”

“Like it was a rough match and you're about to tell me I dropped the snitch,” he told her, his eyes betraying him. “He is dead, isn't he? Really dead. I didn't dream it…”

“As the munchkins assured Dorothy in Oz, he's not only merely dead; he's really most sincerely dead,” she told him, calling on their shared muggleness and hoping to see…

That smile. The one that reached his eyes and lit their lovely color from within, the one that had always reached her heart as well. It was still there, there was hope then that everything would be alright somehow.

She wanted nothing more than to take him home to Grimmauld place and hide him from everyone who would want something from him now, to tuck him into a big comfortable bed and feed him and shag him senseless, not necessarily in that order. She hated that they had worked so hard and risked so much thinking that they would free themselves when the brutal reality of the aftermath showed them how slow that freedom would be in coming, if it ever did.

He looked as if he was going to reply in kind with some sort of attempt at a joke, but his face seemed to somehow drain with the effort and he said instead, “I can't make myself believe that you're safe. My mind keeps replaying his voice, and I hear him saying, `Go on and die, Harry. Feel the despair of it. There's nothing there. And when you are gone at last I shall take your pregnant...'” His voice gave out altogether there.

“Your pregnant whore, and refashion my immortality,” she finished for him. “I heard him, Harry. It's my fault he knew. I didn't really faint, I wanted you to think I was unconscious so you'd stop thinking about me and concentrate on what you had to do. He's a master legilimens, and I'm no Snape.”

Harry's eyes dropped to where their hands lay clasped on the blanket near his hip.

“I am so sorry, Hermione,” he said, his voice lower and rough enough to make her flinch at the sound. “I never meant for you, for that to happen. I know it's a lame excuse a million guys must have used before, but I can't believe I was stupid enough to screw up when it put you in that much more danger.”

Hermione shook her head and laid her cheek against their hands where her eyes could still reach his.

“It takes two to do what we did, Harry. And I don't regret it for a moment, any of it. I…” She thought of the morning in the cave near Durmstrang when she had spoken with his mother, and all Lily had said. “I think this child is a gift. I think you fought so hard because of wanting and needing to protect us, that it may have saved your life. And that was all I ever wanted. To be a family with you is more than I ever dared to hope for.”

“Even if I'm a squib?” he asked softly.

Words rushed to her lips but she bit them, forcing herself to consider what she said. `You don't know it's gone, Snape may be able to help you get it back, I can do enough magic for the both of us' all piled up and were swallowed down as not what he needed to hear. `You could never be without magic to me' and `we could run away somewhere no one's ever heard of magic' weren't right either.

“Even if you're a squib,” she finally replied, liking the simple dignity of the way he put it best. “You'll be my squib, and that's what matters most to me.”

If she was reading the look in those still beautiful eyes correctly, she'd made her point. She imagined for a moment an infant staring back at her with green eyes like his, eyes that would never know loss and sorrow until so much later in life. Still, there were no guarantees… and yet look at how much love Lily and James Potter had managed to instill in their small son, and how far that love had traveled into the future without them.

“The most important magic your Mum ever did didn't require a wand or a spell, Harry,” she told him. “No matter how you explain it, it was her love for you that caused Voldemort's spell to go wrong. If all you ever do is love us, it'll be enough.”

And dang, he could still move even without magic to heal him. He had her up on the bed with him in a heartbeat and all their tears combined didn't make the taste of him any less sweet.

Hermione took it as a heartening sign of their new standing in the Wizarding world that when Madam Pomfrey breached the curtains with her usual early morning briskness to check her patient's condition that she didn't let lose a horrified `Miss Granger! Mr. Potter!' as she once would have done.

Her simple `Feeling better Mr. Potter, are we?' and quick retreat without even a word of caution was music to Hermione's ears. From the undimmed heat of Harry's attentions she would have to doubt if he'd even taken notice.

Perhaps there was hope for the future after all.

“For your information, rutting like rabbits is unlikely to have any salubrious effect on depleted magical reserves whatsoever,” came the unmistakable voice of Snape, who had evidently been behind Madam Pomfrey and remained undeterred.

Or, perhaps not.

She felt Harry stiffen - in the other, less enjoyable manner - and tensed herself for the battle to come. Why did Snape have to be the only one to offer hope for Harry's magic?

“Sure makes you feel better, though,” Harry said over her shoulder, fingers continuing to gently trace a pattern low on her stomach beneath her shirt. It was arousing enough until her brain translated the seemingly random strokes and swirls into `hullo baby' and she found herself almost overcome by a wave of both tender love and lust. “D'you mind? We can always play pawns in another of your arse-covering little schemes a bit later, can't we?”

“Oh by all means,” Snape sneered. He muttered a contraceptive spell quite distinctly and shuddered. “Merlin forbid the two of you reproduce. I am sure five minutes should more than suffice for you, Potter, but I have more important things to attend to. I shall leave it for you to come to me.”

`Now why the hell was that so funny?' Snape wondered as he retreated to deliver the healing potions he'd managed to salvage from one of the storerooms to Pomfrey. What a pity if Granger lost her mind as well. She'd actually been reasonably bright… for a Gryffindor.

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A/N: Well, that one wasn't quite what I expected either… Hmmm. Have to see what the next one does. Thank you again for your reviews and comments on a very difficult chapter last time round.

My formal apologies are hereby extended to Particle Accelerator - I hope we've worked it all out, but I still feel I owe you one for the vehemence of my response. Thank you for your explanation and your kind words and I wish you all the best with your story. Thanks for reading, too.

Lynney

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30. Chapter 30

Official Fine Print: Nope. Not mine. The brainchildren of the mighty pen of JK Rowling. Just playing with them. Wheeeee!

Magic Never Dies

Chapter The Last

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Harry's “allergy” to magic remained unabated, but once he had regained consciousness Madam Pomfrey's anxiety eased considerably and she seemed to find his care something of an enjoyable challenge. Hermione was helping her research her methods and she had to admit the theories involved were fascinating. They seemed to be looking at the very line between what physically defined witches and wizards from muggles, a grey area that had long been argued but insufficiently studied. It was a chicken-and-egg argument; did the presence of magic within them alter the structure of their physiology, or was there something inherent in their bodies that called out to magic?

Hermione was shocked to discover that the most useful and clearly thought out work on the subject she could find in the library, which was one area that thankfully remained mostly untouched by the battle, was written by none other then… Severus Snape.

From the look of it, the Half Blood Prince must have been curious about what made one magical for a very long time. Hermione would have been unsurprised to have learned that he had been working towards a counter for the magic draining potion almost since its creation, but she had only her suspicions to guide her. Had he thought that he himself would someday be forced to drink it by the madman he'd created it for? Certainly he must have long held suspicions that Dumbledore or one day Harry - wizards both powerful enough that Voldemort would have sought to destroy their magic - would be exposed to it.

Perhaps that would, in part, explain more of his long disdain for Harry? Distancing himself emotionally from a child he knew was more than likely to face the greatest loss a wizard could sustain, one he himself had both created and dreaded? Had Dumbledore known? Had Dumbledore perhaps left Harry at Privet Drive in part to force him to learn to survive amongst muggles against the chance that this might one day happen?

There was no real way of knowing, she doubted either Snape or Dumbledore's portrait would tell her the truth, and what did it really matter? If she had learned nothing else these last seven years she knew now that nothing about this particular battle between good and evil was ever simple and few things were in the end truly what they seemed.

If the struggle thus far had been based in some part on symmetry, as Lily Potter had suggested; if nature or old magic or the creator of all was at work balancing forces, was there any real justice in leaving Harry without magic after he had struggled so hard and sacrificed so much? Hermione understood better now that evil had to be equally ruthlessly met and squashed, and she knew that Harry had been born and bred to fight it one way or another. Was this really his destiny, or just another product of the fight that might be countered by those that loved him? Or better still, by one that hated him? Perhaps Snape's chance at redemption was Harry himself, but Hermione found herself wondering then if Snape was still at a loss for a counter to the potion. He certainly wasn't acting the way she might have expected if he was confident that he could undo what he had done.

Or as one that actually sought redemption would.

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The continued presence of the Ministry (Scrimgeour had gone, but left a party of petty officials behind) suggested that the rebuilding of Hogwarts was amongst its top priorities in the new post Voldemort era. From its coverage, the Daily Prophet certainly seemed to think so. The Quibbler, however, begged to differ, and ran long stories enumerating the ways in which the bureaucracy was hobbling progress. Its value as a dissenting voice had greatly raised its subscriber base, and Ron and Hermione knew the balance there was one of the few factors that kept Scrimgeour's ambitions toward Harry in check. It bought them time, and for this they were eternally grateful to Luna and her father.

Professor McGonagall was an entirely different type of administrator than Dumbledore had been, and the adversity of the situation played to her strength. She began, at last, to begin to place some of her own stamp upon the school she led. The Governors had been called in, the school toured and the damage assessed. Plans were made to provide classes provisionally to those who were due to take their O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s on schedule, all fifth through seventh years anyway and in theory at least capable of dealing with the castle as it rebuilt itself and the wards were replaced. A full reopening to all students was scheduled for the following September. Letters were drafted and the school owls worked overtime.

She tentatively approached Ron and Hermione herself, bearing the Governors' invitations to rejoin their class without penalty for time missed in the first term. As the same could not be extended to Harry, one of them at least found themselves torn.

“You know he'd tell us to do it,” Ron said. “Especially you.”

Especially her. Hermione laughed silently at the thought of taking her N.E.W.T. exams whilst seven months pregnant.

“Ron,” she said, “there's something Harry and I need to tell you.”

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“You knocked up our best friend, the brains of the whole operation, before having any real clue how it was going to work out? We all thought you could bloody well die at any time, you idiot! Let me guess, it had to have been in the cave when you were offering to remind ME the words to a certain charm… Way to go, Harry.”

Lest Harry feel the lack of a father under the circumstances, Ron had conveniently stepped up to fill the role.

“I know,” Harry agreed, head hanging and fingers working the blanket that covered his knees. “It was stupid and… just stupid. There's nothing else I can say.”

“Hmm, how about that you're going to marry her and start trying to stay alive? That'd be a start. ”

Harry shot him a baleful look. “I asked her to marry me before we even knew, the day I managed to transform back from being a thestral. She did say yes, but she didn't want to tell anyone else then because of everything else going on. I know it was rotten timing but … I love her, Ron. It was a stupid thing to have done, but…” Harry flushed, and Ron realized it had been a long time since he had seen his friend this way, a regular guy somehow instead of the doomed Boy Who Lived. Years, probably. Harry had always remained just Harry to him, but any visions he might have had of any real future together had blurred off into mist long before the concepts of marriage and children should have entered the picture.

“I can't actually say that I'm sorry it happened,” Harry said softly, guiltily, “because it wouldn't be true. I'm not.”

“Tell me you aren't sitting there panicked, wondering how you're going to get on in the magical world with a wife and child and no magic,” Ron said stubbornly. “I know you, Harry.”

“I have Grimmauld Place and enough wizarding money to last us ages if we're careful. I can take care of the baby and Hermione can take her N.E.W.T.s with Ginny's year. She's the one with the mind that needs to keep busy. She can go on to University or do an apprenticeship or whatever will make her happy.”

“And you're going to be happy playing Mum as a known squib? You'll be the target of every surviving Death Eater and you'll have no way of protecting the baby.”

“What the hell is my choice, Ron? Be as mad as you want to be about me messing up in the first place but there's nothing I can do about it now. That's all I have left to offer. It's not any less than Seamus had, or Snape for that matter… Lord, that's hardly a compelling argument, is it? Shite.” Harry buried his head in his hands.

“It's not the same thing. Your child will be a full witch or wizard even though you're…”

“Or a squib as well!” Harry cut across him defiantly. He lifted his head. “It even happens in pureblooded families, the chance is always there. And isn't that just what this was all about? I don't care whether it's a witch or wizard or squib. Blood is nothing. I love Hermione and I love the baby already and if I can kill Voldemort as a squib I can bloody well take on a bunch of left over Death Eaters.”

Ron's face abruptly seemed to crumple, the anger wrung out of him to reveal the fear for his friend underneath. “I know you'd try. And if any one could, it'd be you. But Harry, without magic, you really don't stand a chance. I hate to be the one to say it, but I think you should go see Snape.”

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Harry knew he should go see Snape. He wasn't entirely stupid, after all.

It had been hideously painful when Madam Pomfrey had scanned him again for signs of magical activity when he had first woken up; so much so that he still had a tendency to flinch at the mere presence of a wand. Considering he was for all intents and purposes trapped at a school for witch craft and wizardry where almost the entire population, however diminished, owned and used them, he was doing a lot of flinching. Flinching was hard work. Harry hurt in places he didn't even know he'd had muscles to flinch with.

He'd had the excuse of immobility to avoid dealing with Snape at first, but Madam Pomfrey had conjured him a perfectly functional (if decidedly wizard inspired and heavy on the leather-and-buckles) splint for his injured leg. She'd been fascinated by the muggle concept of immobilizing a broken bone, although the mere idea that it could take six to eight weeks to achieve healing astounded her when she could re-grow them entirely in magical children over night.

The biggest problem with Harry, they found, was that there was quite a large difference between a suddenly “magicless” wizard and a muggle whose body had never contained so much as an ounce of magic. While the arrangement of straps and braces effectively kept Harry's injured leg still enough to heal quietly, his other injuries proved far less predictable or likely to correspond with anything in “Modifying Muggle Maladies without Magic: a Mediwitch's Guide” - Madam Pomfreys' well-thumbed instruction manual to Harry at the moment. His healing process was turning out to be…somewhat dangerous.

To put in bluntly, while Harry appeared to have no facility for controlling magic, it was becoming increasingly clear with the passing of days that he was not entirely without magic within himself. Night time was the worst. As Harry's mind shut down gratefully into sleep finally undisturbed by visions from Voldemort (though visions of him still tended to plague his dreams,) Harry's body attempted to heal itself magically. Its frustration at its apparent failure to make use of whatever was still there somehow erupted in bursts of uncontrolled magic about the ward. Glass smashed, beds flew, curtains ripped, doors slammed and potion flasks and vials clattered on the shelves. Unconscious, he was still…

“Quite the wizard,” Madam Pomfrey sighed on the tenth morning. Snape twitched beside her, looking at the wreckage.

“You're certain they weren't just… cavorting?” he sneered.

“Severus Snape! Stop poking fun at the poor boy, for goodness sake. He's of age, and he's just done in you-know-who and lost all his magic. Have you no sympathy at all?”

Snape had only looked at her as if she'd suddenly gone barking mad. Which of course she might well have been for even suggesting it, the greasy git.

Harry especially hated that Hermione steadfastly refused to leave the next bed over for safer sleeping sanctuary and so remained in the firing line he was nightly unaware of causing. He hated that others had to clean up after him; that they could repair such damage with a wave of their wand brought home to him again how useless he'd become.

He couldn't even be a squib right.

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“There is no guarantee that it will work,” were the first words out of Snape's mouth when Harry limped into the dungeon potions lab where Snape had requested they meet. Slughorn had made changes in the room and Harry could tell they made Snape's skin itch. The rotund potions professor had fled squealing in fear when the battle started and had not been heard from since. No one had exactly bothered tracing orders for crystallized pineapple from Honeydukes yet. Harry wondered if after all that had happened Snape would stay at Hogwarts, and if so, what he would teach.

“Even if it doesn't, would it maybe stop the unconscious stuff?” he asked hopefully. “Even that…”

“It is not a panacea, Potter. Nor is it a simple potion. Do not think you will drink one foul tasting brew and regain your magic.”

“Forgive me. It's just that's how I lost it.”

Snape glared. Harry got a distinctly uncomfortable feeling.

“The problem is that it's you, Potter. I've worked for years on this and it shows every sign of being successful on an average wizard. Something you have never been. Something even now you are not. You should have no magic within you at all, and magic should be invisible and beyond your ability to feel. Yet you hurl objects with more force than most seventh years in your sleep and seem unable to distinguish winguardium leviosa from crucio in physical affect. I thought you would be the perfect candidate after the incident, but given recent events I am no longer certain I can help you at all.”

Harry knew he should not be surprised. When the hell had anything in his life worked out properly? And what had ever made him think Snape might actually help him?

“So you won't let me try, then?” he asked.

“It is not you I do not wish to try. A wizard who has typically lost his magic, in a spell or potion accident, loses it completely. The body is unchanged, but in muggle terms even you might grasp, the pilot light to light the furnace has burnt out. The… donation of a small portion of magical essence from another witch or wizard of similar magical makeup can… reignite the flame.”

Harry was impressed with the metaphor. He was no expert when it came to muggle mechanics - beyond the lawn mower, that is - but Vernon had made him relight the pilot light to the water heater at Privet Drive on several occasions under the theory that if there was a gas leak, it was only Harry getting blown up.

“Erm…okay. If it's not me you're worried about doing it, it would have to be the donor then. Why?”

Snape sighed and turned away. Who the hell had ever known he was capable of sighing?

“Because from what I can tell, your magic was well and properly drained the way it should have been. When Poppy scanned you there was no magic within you that matched your own original signature. There was and is, however, obviously still magic within you that your body simply doesn't know how to access or make use of… hence the wild exhibitions of unconscious fireworks at night. Until we can pinpoint what that magical energy is, you are an unfit host for any other. You might well unwittingly cause damage to the donor in the process.”

Harry felt himself grow cold, his fingers stiff. “You think Voldemort…”

“No. That, I can assure you, was a magical signature I knew only too well, and this bears no familiarity to it. Neither Poppy nor I could place it at all against anyone you had possible exposure to directly after losing your own. There is no real reason to think it dark. It just seems to be… muted somehow. Blocked. It may not in fact be enough to spark off your own, though we can't be certain if you simply need time to recover from the effects of the potion first.”

“You would have been famous, wouldn't you, if you could have fixed my magic. That would have gone a long way toward wiping clean the questions of who you were really working for. You could have…”

“Left Hogwarts, left teaching obnoxious, mouthy little brats, left off hiding from a madman in the godforsaken dungeons of yet another, if more benevolent, madman and had my own research facility somewhere safe from the grasping claws of the Ministry of Magic? Rub it in, Potter. You'll be not an ounce more magical when you're through. Can you begin to see why you drive me mad? You've never once done what you're meant to. If you're ever going to regain your magic, you'll just have to manage on your own. I can't help you.”

Harry was no clearer as to whether Snape had manipulated circumstance for good or selfish purposes in convincing Voldemort the potion would do exactly the opposite of what it had done, destroying the horcruxes along with Harry's magic. He had no real way of knowing whether he had worked for so many years seeking a remedy for nameless lost wizards, for himself, or for Harry and the fame curing the Boy Who Lived To Become A Squib might one day bring him. Snape had been playing so many hands with so many different odds that Harry's head was left spinning. He sensed, however, that the game had come to little more than naught in the end.

There was no cure for Harry now, no public redemption for Severus Snape.

“So there's nothing I can do.”

He ached to be gone, suddenly from Hogwarts as well as the potions class room. There was too much magic here; perhaps if he was back at Grimmauld Place… Good thought there, Harry. Or it would have been if you'd gotten around to clearing out the Dark Arts stuff in your super wizard days. With your luck you can imagine how it will affect you now…

He hadn't thought of that when he'd told Ron that they could raise the baby there. Hermione and Ron and Luna could do it, Lupin and Tonks would surely help. Harry knew that. And he could… watch. Cook. Pour them a cold butterbeer when they were done.

“No, Harry. I'm afraid not,” Snape's voice cut across his thoughts. Harry was halfway out the door when it hit him and he turned.

“You called me Harry.”

Snape did not look up from the parchment he had begun perusing on his desk. “It is your name, is it not?”

“But…why?” Harry persisted, although he knew it was unwise. “Why now?”

“Because it is somewhat easier to pass through these lips than `sorry,'” Snape said, still glaring down at the parchment, “and I thought by now its use might achieve roughly the same effect.”

Bloody fucking hell.

The air sucked out of Harry's lungs in a gasp and he would have fallen were it not for the overpowering need to run, to be gone, to put the past so far behind him for awhile that it ceased to exist. He turned and limped down the corridor as fast as he could, his uneven gait threatening to pitch him to the floor more than once. He climbed innumerable stairs, cursing fruitlessly all the while, to find Hermione in the library. He closed her book without asking, shoving it along the smooth length of the library table with enough force that slipped over the edge to the floor. Madam Pince squeaked in outrage and he glared at her.

Even she could flatten you with a single wave of her wand now.

“Come with me,” he begged Hermione.

She nodded without questioning him and rose to her feet, taking his arm to steady him as he lead her back through the still gritty corridors and down the steps to the Entry Hall and the doors.

She followed him outside and through the courtyard without a word. Snow was drifting from a glowering gunmetal sky; there was already a dusting across the grounds. It was the first time he had been outside since before. He headed resolutely down the walk that led toward the front gates and Hogsmeade.

“Harry,” Hermione said at last. “Where are we going?”

He stopped and turned impatiently. “Home. I'm seventeen, legal even for a squib. I've killed Voldemort and I've lost my magic and I'm tired of being stared at like a specimen and pitied. I just want to go home, or as close as I've got to one, and I want you to come with me.”

“Okay,” she said unfalteringly, and stepping away from him she carefully transfigured her own sweater into a cloak for herself and her scarf into one for him. She held it out cautiously, like a bit of apple to a spooked horse.

He moved closer, emboldened by her lack of scolding. “I want you to come with me and to say you'll stay. For always. I want you to decide if the yes you gave me that morning at Hagrid's means yes even if I'm a squib for the rest of my life.”

“We don't have to go anywhere for me to give you an answer to that,” she said, easing the cloak over his shoulders. “Of course it means yes, whatever happens. More than ever now.”

There was such utter conviction in her eyes than his knees felt like buckling once more. Once more the answer was to keep moving, to just keep on going wherever it led him. It had gotten him this far.

“Come with me then, Hermione, please. Even if it's just for tonight and we have to come back. I just need to be away from all this.” His wave took in the castle behind them, hunkered down against the snow-heavy sky.

“Okay,” she agreed again. “But you do realize we'll have to apparate or walk all the way into Hogsmeade for the floo. That's further than you've gone on that leg, Harry, and I… well, it's up to you.”

He knew she was right about walking; knew also that she understood he wasn't about to walk back in to the Castle and ask to use Professor McGonagall's floo either.

“Would you… could you sidealong me, please?” he forced himself to ask.

“Isn't it going to… of course I will, Harry. Of course I will.”

He realized Hermione was forcing herself to do a fair number of things she found unpalatable without dissent or complaint. He was watching the path beneath his feet but the sound of her voice was thick with unshed tears. His heart ached for her, both elated and sorry that she had chosen to love him.

They cleared the gates in silence and moved together to apparate. He slid his arms around her and felt hers draw him closer, moved with her in the familiar motion to begin and felt his world dissolve.

What a wonderful way to discover that apparition for him now was like being shoved through a rubber tube while experiencing all the enjoyment of a good crucio. He was glad she'd chosen the kitchen because it was mere steps to hurl what felt like everything he'd eaten for days into the sink. Even then he'd barely made it. He ran the tap, rinsing his face and drinking deeply from his cupped palms, trying desperately not to show how shaken he was.

“Sorry.”

“Harry…”

“Note to self? No more apparition. Convenient, but I never did like the feeling,” he said, and turned back toward her, trying to smile.

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It was glorious being alone. It occurred to Harry then that a large part of his perception of loneliness had come from being constantly surrounded by people he felt alienated from by the weight of their unspoken expectations. It hadn't altogether changed since dispatching Voldemort; he still constantly felt as if he was supposed to do something, he just was no longer sure what. He supposed regain his magic and stop making them feel awkward that he'd lost it in the first place.

Alone in the house with just Hermione for company he felt a deep sense of ease begin to settle over him like a warm blanket.

She flooed Hogwarts to let Ron know they were safe and where they were while he had a shower, and he heated tinned soup and toasted cheese sandwiches while she had her turn at the bath. They ate in contented silence on the floor before the fire in the front room in sweats and pajamas, splitting the last of the butterbeer between them.

“I was sort of afraid if some of the Blacks' old stuff would be a problem,” he admitted. “We never did get the chance to clean this place out entirely.”

“I think you should be fine in the main bit,” she agreed. “Just don't go poking around the attics or anything. Ron and I….” her voice died off.

“I'd really appreciate it if you guys could do that,” he said, picking at his crust.

“Much better for the baby,” she offered.

His eyes sought out hers then. “Maybe you shouldn't do it. Maybe Ron could ask Luna to help.”

She nodded, the curtain of her hair falling between them. He reached out and pushed it back.

“Did you see Madam Pomfrey?”

She nodded again, but this time drew forward gratefully, pushing their plates away and nestling against him. She still touched him as if he might break, but he was deeply relieved that talk of the baby brought her closer rather than put her off. There'd been little time or privacy in which to discuss it at Hogwarts.

“Is everything…okay, then? You're alright?” He didn't really know what to ask, he only wanted her to know they were never far from his mind.

“Fine. We're both fine. It's very early yet, she was actually amazed we even knew.”

“I heard a heartbeat, an extra heart beat in you just before we climbed out the window that night.”

She drew back very slightly so she could see his face.

“Harry, the baby barely has a heart yet. You can't normally detect a heart beat until the fifth week and barely even then…”

“I heard it,” he repeated stubbornly. “I know I did. An extra little thump. I thought of it, of him or her, as little thump the whole time, that's what made it so real. I wasn't defending an idea, I was sure. You didn't seem to doubt me then.”

“I didn't. And I don't doubt you now. You aren't the easiest person to love, you know. You require constant rearrangement of the known universe on a regular basis.”

“I did,” he said grumpily. “You'll be happy then if I'm right boring from now on, will you?”

He felt her lean in and kiss the tender skin beneath his jaw before her head tucked back under his chin.

“You'll never bore me, because I know you. I'll go to bed every night grateful that you're still alive and with us now that Voldemort is gone, and I'll wake up every morning wondering if this will be the day magic finds you again. And I'll never mind if it's not because it will give us something to look forward to the next day, and the next, and I have perfect faith that it will someday Harry Potter, because you are the single most magical person I have ever known or hope to.”

Harry felt a tightness within his chest, a bracing within himself that had been part of him so long he had no idea it wasn't supposed to be there, break. A bright green light flashed from his memory and for the first time he could see past it; saw again with his own eyes. Time slowed immeasurably, the flash of light would take eons to reach him and in that time his gaze locked with his mothers' in the most astonishingly wonderful way. His grown mind knew it to be the hybrid legilimency he had discovered in himself, but of a desperate strength that easily rivaled Dumbledore's. The child knew it only for a mother's comfort and all of his instincts about what was unfolding in his bedroom were for the moment subdued as surely as a bumped knee healed beneath her kiss.

His mind flooded with images like a muggle film at high speed, most of them places and events and people he did not know. He recognized Hogwarts several times, barely recognized the cave above Durmstrang as it flashed by with an intense sensation he could not name. He saw Godric's Hollow as it was before Pettigrew's betrayal breached its safety. He felt the weaving strands of love and laughter and passion and delight, of anger brief as cloudbursts and forgiveness rich and powerful as chocolate after a dementor, all that made it home because Lily and James had loved there. He saw it all, too much for a 20 month old infant to take in or understand, felt it enter into his mind and heard a voice, Lily's voice. `Harry James Potter, you are the single most magical person I have ever known. Take heart and fight when the time comes to you. Always know you are loved. Abdo Memoria.'

The green flash hit her then and for the first time he truly had to watch her fall, but he did so as some hybrid of himself at not quite two and seventeen, more comprehending than a child could ever be, the pain at once worse and more bearable. His heart swelled in love and horror and regret and anger at her taking and he turned into the second flash of green, felt himself move not away from it but directly toward it, into it, as if he could not wait to feel its flare. He had a brief, blurred vision of Voldemort, his red eyes eager, wand poised. He held an object in his hand, waiting for Harry to die. And then the hate of the Avada Kedavra met the power his mother had infused in him with a sound like a single, solemn gong. The green light did not turn back on its master as he would have thought, it was simply gone, as surely as if it had never existed. Voldemort gave a heart rending shriek of utter disbelief and terror as his soul was wrenched from his body, a snake-like, writhing mist. It hovered, splitting horribly into two, there and then… gone as well.

And both grown and infant Harrys grabbed at their foreheads and cried as if their hearts would surely break. It seemed to Harry he was all alone in the world, the house around him quiet and cold, no one to hear him, no one to come. Mum always lifted him up when he cried, held him close to her and sang or hummed or spoke softly. Why didn't she move, why didn't she get up, come?

Grown Harry felt warm arms around him once more, a hand stroking his hair, soothing words, a gentle rocking. His scar burned with a sharp, stinging pain unlike anything Voldemort had ever caused and he pushed blindly into the small, cool hand that covered it. He could hear his own ragged breathing, barely a step from small Harry's sobs. Slowly, slowly the sobbing grew fainter and at last retreated again into the nonverbal recesses of his mind. The present took over once more and he became keenly aware of Hermione holding him and her repeated reassurances that it was over, that he was safe now.

Safe now.

He could feel something preparing to unfurl within him, the way his body would relax sometimes and grow heavy just before sleep. He didn't know what it was but it didn't frighten him as new discoveries about himself so often had, before.

He thought of the memories unlocked of Godric's Hollow, his perception even before he could properly talk of the sense of rightness and safety James and Lily's feeling for each other had given his first home. It was not the magic he remembered; it was love.

He took a deep breath and raised his head from her chest.

“What happened?” she whispered, eyes troubled and anxious.

“It was what you said. The last bit. My Mum said something almost just like it before she died. And she did something, with legilimency. There were all these images of things she wanted me to know but knew she wasn't going to live to tell me, memories and things that had happened to them. She pushed them all into my head and said `abdo memoria'”

“'Conceal these memories.' She wanted you to have them, but later, when you could understand them. Perhaps the words were a trigger,” Hermione reasoned.

“How could she ever know for certain that someone would say…” he started.

“That you were the most magical person? Oh, Harry… believe it. For once, forget the Dursleys and Snape and Malfoy and just hear the truth and believe it. You are,” she implored him.

He drew her closer still, onto his lap, leaning back against Mrs. Black's horsehair abomination of a sofa. “I saw it all this time. Not just a voice and a green light. I saw her. I saw him kill her. I saw him try to kill me. And Hermione, I knew then that she'd done something. I just… forgot, later. I wasn't afraid of the green light even though I understood it had hurt her. I knew it was going to do something else and it did. I watched Voldemort's soul come out of his mouth, but he couldn't properly make the horcrux because he was already dead himself. It split into two pieces and then just seemed to disappear. My head started to hurt like it was being split open and then I cried, because it was over and I knew I was alone and no one would love me like that ever again. Until you.”

Her arms tightened around his back and she leant forward, bringing her lips to his. He kissed her back blindly and desperately glad again to have survived, to be alive and to have the chance to start again with her. He let his fingers frame her face and retrace the features he had watched grow from the bossy, bushy-haired girl who had barged into the train compartment looking for Neville's toad. She had come to mean so much to him that it was hard to believe somehow that they could be one and the same, that he could have ever not known her. She had never once looked away from the darkness of his past or the uncertainty of his future; had never left him alone even when he had been blind to her devotion or in his own despair uncaring or hurtful.

Her lips opened under his and he knew peace at last.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Harry awoke the next morning to the probing of a cold wet nose against his neck. His eyes felt gritty and over-large for their sockets but the rest of him ached better than it had in a while and if he was not very much mistaken the lovely warmth snuggled close to his chest was Hermione.

His brain slowly put two-and-two together and reached the answer Crookshanks. “Hullo,” he mumbled. “Go away.”

A paw was next, velveted but with just a hint of claw. Harry supposed he had been on his own for some time now, even for the soul of independence. He had a cat flap and he was more than able to hunt for himself to supplement the enormous dispenser of dried food Hermione always left for him, but Crookshanks was a Hogwarts cat at heart, spoiled by the soft hearts and table scraps of the house elves. Although come to think of it, in Crookshanks case they were probably more like appeasements to a feared predator, a concept he better understood as the unprotected nape of his neck came under attack.

He rolled on his back to find they had never left the sitting room floor, but Hermione had thoughtfully done a padding charm and conjured them pillows and a thick quilt. One of the downsides of being unmagical now was not being the one to banish their clothes; he found he had no idea where Hermione had sent them to. He felt around for his glasses and sat up to get a better vantage point, shivering and tucking the quilt more closely around her where he'd been. Crookshanks rubbed along his ribs encouragingly.

He finally found them - neatly folded - on the sofa. Only Hermione could have been that overcome with desire and yet that neat at the same time. Re-clothed in sweats and socks he limped blearily into the kitchen, orange shadow at his heals.

Once Crookshanks was made happy with a tin of sardines found high on a shelf Harry heated water for coffee and tea and found mugs and spoons. The sugar bowl was empty, but he knew there was more in a sack in the pantry closet across from Kreacher's old abode. He saw that Ron had moved their supplies to the top shelves - Crookshanks was erratic in his efficiency as a mouser, hunting only when it suited him. He reached for the sugar and found it just beyond his reach. Bloody Ron. Bloody tall Ron. He'd have to get a….

The sack slid forward against his finger tips.

He brought it down, craning his neck to see behind it. Nothing. And his fingers kind of… tingled.

“It's nothing,” he told himself, and refilled the sugar bowl.

Later, settled down before the fire and comfortably propped against each other with their tea and coffee, Harry remembered and flexed his fingers thoughtfully.

“Hand hurt, love?” Hermione asked without looking up from her book. Harry had seen she was reading “Magic: Now You Have It, Now You Don't.” and felt uneasy even mentioning his suspicions.

“Overuse from last night I suspect,” he told her with a grin.

<O><O><O>

Ron and Luna came from Hogwarts by Floo that afternoon, and stayed for dinner. Ron seemed to grow more uncomfortable and on edge as the day wore on; as if he had something to say and no idea about how to begin. Luna clearly knew about the baby and had been told not to say, a task Harry knew to be beyond her for much longer. The combination made for silences far too awkward for four people who had shared a cave together. Harry met Hermione's eyes and made a “are you going to call them on this or shall I?” face.

Never one to dance around an issue that could be attacked immediately, Hermione dove right in. “So, Ron, what's your big news?” she asked abruptly.

“Erm…” said Ron, panicked. Harry would have laughed if he hadn't felt for him.

“Come on then, spit it out,” he added. “No time like the present.”

“I, er… I think I'm… um… I wanted to… Oh hell. I'm going back to Hogwarts. When the new term starts. To take my N.E.W.T.s.”

“Good for you, Ron,” Harry told him. “Your Mum will be over the moon.”

Hermione actually flew round the table, smiled enormously at Luna, and hugged him. His face, when it reemerged from her hair, was beet red and grinning.

“I am so proud of you, Ron Weasley. That's wonderful news,” she told him.

“What about…” Ron started, but Hermione held up her hand.

“Wait. I feel a talk coming on.” She glanced across the table and met Luna's dreamy blue gaze. “What about you, Luna?”

“Oh, yes,” agreed Luna, nodding. “We do talk. I mean, we should talk. Yes.”

“I feel,” Hermione continued, her eyes shifting over to Harry with a sense of purpose, “we are all actually about to embark on a conversation about our futures without fear, or dread or uncertainty for the first time ever. A reason to celebrate if there ever was one.” She moved to the end of the table and lifted her water glass. “To the four of us. And to you, Harry. Neville said it first. Thank you.”

“Thank you, Harry,” Luna concurred at once.

“Thanks, mate,” Ron said seriously, nodding.

Looking at them, the faces of the people he loved best in all the world, Harry still saw the ones he couldn't save. Sirius. Cedric. Dumbledore. Charlie. His Mum and Dad. Countless others whose faces he had seen in through Voldemort's twisted gaze, whose names he had never known. It hurt; he doubted it would ever stop hurting. Still, turning from the gratitude and friendship of those who offered it so lovingly wouldn't bring them back. It had to be enough to never forget them, to never let their numbers grow as long as he could help it.

He nodded, unable to voice what he really wanted to say.

“You're welcome,” he was what he managed, accepting it at last.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

The baby was born in August, not long after Harry's birthday. Hermione proved to be one of those blessed women born to birth babies, a fact that deeply shocked her sensibilities and secretly pleased her no end. She was deeply tired, but also deeply in love already with the tiny baby girl nestled in her arms. Something about the joyful discovery that love multiplied without diminishing the existing supply at all made her almost giddy, a deeply un-Hermione-like state of affairs. She was amazed to find herself kissing the small head and thinking again! like a child begging for another push on life's swing. She thought perhaps she'd wait awhile to share that thought with Harry, drained and sprawled across the bed beside her. Harry, it conspired, was not one of those men born to help birth babies. The process required more faith in nature than his own natural protectiveness could comfortably manage. He assisted Mrs. Weasley right up until the point that it became clear that both mother and daughter were safely parted and reunited anew then promptly dropped like a stone, breaking his glasses once more and giving the twins fodder for jokes enough to last at least through the child's adolescence.

Her name was Daisy. Daisy Elizabeth Potter.

There was, of course, a story to that.

Hermione had turned, by her very nature, to a book and begun a list of possible names for both genders early in her fourth month. Harry had swiftly crossed out Persephone and Ophelia and Angharad.

“If I can't spell it, we're not considering it,” he'd said.

They'd made the mistake of leaving the list in the kitchen, where it quickly became an open forum for all passers through that somehow went on for the rest of the pregnancy.

The twins' suggestions all sounded like spells gone wrong or far more fitting an exotic dancer than a baby. Ron was fond of names better suited to a Quidditch team and indistinguishable as to gender, and Luna's were, well… Luna's. Mrs. Weasley provided nice serviceable names like Sarah and Mathew, but they all seemed wrong somehow when joined with Potter. They'd been working their way through flower names for a girl when Professor McGonagall had fire-called looking for Lupin one afternoon in early July. It turned out she was a surprising fount of knowledge when it came to names and their meanings. (`She should be,' an enormous Hermione had whispered to Harry as he patiently rubbed her feet. `Minerva means wise.') Harry didn't want to add the weight of Lily's name to a newborn baby, and both Pansy and Petunia had bad connotations. Even Lavender was marked forever by the Won Won affair. Harry had thought that if they had to use a flower it should be a simple, happy one.

“Like, I don't know… Daisy, or something like that,” he'd said.

There'd been a snort from beyond Professor McGonagall on the other end of the fire at Hogwarts. An unmistakably Severus Snape sort of snort. Harry was quite certain it was followed by an invisible shiver of disdain.

“Merlin preserve us from a future in which a Daisy Potter might walk the halls of Hogwarts. Wandering after lights out and maintaining the family tradition of arrogant disregard for rules would be quite enough without the auditory assault of “Daisy' in association with `Potter'.”

Thus the name.

Harry had said they could always call her by her middle name, rife with possibilities like Eliza or Beth, but now that she was here Hermione thought Daisy fit her perfectly. Her smoky blue baby eyes already revealed small swirls of green. Hermione knew most babies had bluish eyes at birth and only time would tell, but she cherished the idea of their daughter carrying on Harry's lovely eyes. The downy hair that crowned her head - wayward already - was Harry's as well.

Harry shifted on the bed beside her and one eye opened to reveal a slit of green.

“Omphe?” he asked, his voice muffled by the pillow. Reluctantly, he lifted his head and tried again. “Okay?”

“We're fine.”

The `we're' intrigued him enough to slowly push himself up onto his forearms high enough to take in the baby again as well. Hermione thought she'd never tire of the look that stole over his face at the sight of her, fierce and tender all at once.

“Hullo there, Daisy,” he said softly. “Haven't you got the most lovely mummy ever. Yes you do.”

She felt herself smiling broadly, dazed with delight in them both. There were actually moments for her now when it seemed impossible to believe that Voldemort had still existed less than a year ago. The last eight months had brought many changes, but none greater than one in Harry himself.

They'd come to realize that Lily had left more than just memories locked away in her small son's mind. She'd given him a greater gift by far. There'd been enough of Lily's magical essence left in Harry to bring about the slow rebirth of his own. In unlocking the memories with her words, Hermione had unblocked the puzzling source of magical energy Snape had identified. Unblocked, Harry's body took over and began re-nurturing the spark into what it had once known. She had found it perfect somehow that it had taken his body roughly the same amount of time to rekindle his magic as it had taken hers to produce Daisy. He was quite close now to where he'd been the night he faced Voldemort.

So far, there were precious few in the Wizarding world that knew Harry Potter was anything more than a total squib, which was exactly the way Harry wanted it. He was finally left alone by those who would have hounded him otherwise, the ones like Scrimgeour who wanted nothing more than a puppet to mold to their own purposes or the likes of Rita Skeeter, who'd actually informed him there was little less newsworthy to the Daily Prophet than a squib. The unbelievably (to the average wizard) slow healing of his injuries without magic had put off any idea of pomp and ceremony before long, and the fickle interests of the average witch and wizard quickly moved on to their own lives without You-Know-Who.

Lupin and Tonks knew, of course. Both were frequent visitors to Grimmauld Place. They had married shortly after Harry and Hermione had paved the way for them and convinced them no one would find the slightest thing to gossip about in their age difference after tiny Hermione and her enormous middle and the limping squib-who-lived preceded them down the aisle when the weather warmed in June. It helped that the weddings were both small, Weasley-back-yard affairs and that having gotten themselves that far neither couple cared in the slightest what anyone else thought.

The many Weasleys obviously knew as well, including the freshly graduated Ron, who'd managed three N.E.W.T.s and was even now considering job offers, and Ginny, who'd softened appreciably with both of them once Hermione had become visibly and irreversibly pregnant and Harry's devotion to her in her condition proved equally visible and irreversible as well. Fleur and Bill, it was revealed, were not far behind Harry and Hermione on the path to parenthood, although Hermione despaired of how Fleur managed to maintain her veela grace whilst swelling to proportions rivaling the giant squids'. Luna Lovegood was an honorary Weasley already, all but inseparable from Ron these days and already enlisted as Godmother to his Godfather.

Professor McGonagall and Hagrid, his first and still unwavering mentors in magic, rounded out the small circle.

And now Daisy, as well.

“Do you want to hold her?” Hermione asked him. He pulled himself up and sat beside her against the headboard, nestling the baby against his propped knees so that they could both see her. She stared back at them sleepily and gave an enormous yawn.

“Boring already, are we? Just you wait,” he told her.

“No,” Hermione disagreed gently, leaning into his shoulder to watch her more closely. “Boring is good. Boring is lovely when you consider the alternative. Besides, who can be bored when the world is full of books to be read.”

He smiled at her fondly and her heart still sped up.

“Tell us a story, then,” he said. “As long as it's not the story of house elf liberation throughout the ages or anything like that. A proper story with `Once upon a time' to start and `they lived happily ever after' at the end.”

“The house elves will at very least have a union within Daisy's lifetime; won't they sweetheart. Tell Daddy yes.”

A small milky bubble blew from Daisy's lips as her eyelid dropped lower. Harry shook with silent laughter.

“Once upon a time,” he prompted.

“Once upon a time,” Hermione began softly, weaving her fingers with his as they watched their daughter's eyes slip closed.

And they lived happily ever after.

Fin.

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