Disclaimer: See Part 1.
Author's Note: A plot-filled chapter where I'm rather mean-but I did include two things that should please all of you (hint: an OotP moment and Ginny getting her come-uppance of sorts.) Warning- character death.
From My Soul
Part 17
Harry always remembered the two weeks after he kissed Hermione for the first time as two of the happiest weeks of his life. It probably seemed especially so, in contrast to what happened afterwards, the two weeks book-ended, as it were, by Hermione's parents being attacked and then the day they learned anew the true cost of war, but whatever the reason, he remembered it as a halcyon period. The tragedy that struck and ended that period of happiness seemed worse, so stark was its contrast to the weeks before it.
But, oh, the days before it… They were happy days.
He learned how she liked to be kissed, learned the taste of her, the softness of her skin, learned how she liked to be held. He learned, too, just how much she meant to him in what it felt like to see her smile at him every morning, how (ridiculously) content he felt every night to hear her say, "good night," before she kissed him again, quickly, for the last time. He discovered how effective she was at banishing his nightmares; not that they went away entirely but they came more infrequently. It was hard to have nightmares when he went to sleep every night with his lips still tingling from her kiss and his thoughts full of her.
In spite of his growing frustration at the lack of action and the restlessness he was beginning to feel, it was still a happy time. Because when he was frustrated and when he was restless, he had Hermione to soothe him and just having her there tended to calm him. Having her there comforted him, warmed him-and distracted him like nothing else could. In those first few days, when he held her and when he kissed her, the rest of the world disappeared and, for a few moments, nothing else mattered but her…
It wasn't only physical. He learned, too, just how very-good (for lack of a better word) it was to be with Hermione like this, how good it was to be with someone who was his friend as well. He could talk to her and she talked to him. It was amazing how much they did talk, he sometimes thought; it would never have occurred to him to think that talking would play that large a role in a new relationship but it did. He told her about his nightmares, a little more (usually in passing) about growing up at the Dursleys, about his fears, about Dumbledore's death, about his hopes (the few, tentative hopes he managed to have, given how uncertain everything was.) She told him about her own fears and her nightmares, about growing up, about her parents (she talked a lot about her parents, more than she ever really had before, he realized, and felt a pang of guilt that he'd never really wondered more, asked her about them before-had he really been so self-centered?) and how she worried about them, and the guilt she felt. (He could never do much more than tighten his arms around her and kiss her again when she mentioned that, the thought always present in his mind that she'd stayed because of him.)
Ginny had never really wanted to talk much, unless it was in some way related to her. And to do Ginny justice, he hadn't really felt comfortable talking to Ginny either. He'd been preoccupied with other things about Ginny, with discovering what it was like to kiss a girl, the first tentative touches. And, in retrospect, although it hadn't occurred to him at the time (brief as it had been), he didn't know if he would have wanted to talk. He wasn't used to confiding; it came from him in stops and starts and only with Ron and Hermione, whom he'd gotten used to telling nearly everything to. But Ginny had never been a part of that; she'd never been with him for much of the time. Really, before that last year had begun, he'd never thought of Ginny at all except when she was directly before him (and even then, she'd been something of an after-thought).
Not that he spent much time thinking about Ginny now. He only thought of her in the context of Hermione, as being different from Hermione. Otherwise, it was all Hermione; she had taken over his thoughts to an almost alarming degree, he thought at fleeting moments (only when Hermione was not there)-but then he would see her again, see her smile again, kiss her again, touch her again, and again, she was the only thing that really mattered.
Oh yes, those first couple weeks were happy. He was happy. Until the war and the real world intruded on their little haven with a vengeance.
In retrospect, he should, perhaps, have been leery of the simple peace of it, should have known it couldn't possibly last-but he didn't think of that and when the blow struck, it felt all the heavier for his very unprepared-ness.
It began as any other night.
Ron prefaced his departure for the night with a positively cavernous yawn, leaving them alone. And after a few minutes of silence in the front room, he reluctantly pushed himself away from Hermione, letting his hands fall from where they had slid under her shirt to touch the smooth, bare skin of her back. And she kissed him, lightly, before smiling slightly at him. "Sleep well, Harry."
"Good night."
He had gone to bed and fallen asleep, as usual. But then he'd awoken not long after, suddenly finding that he was thirsty and wanted a glass of water.
He was on his way back up the stairs to his room when he heard it. The insistent knock on the front door.
He should have known then but he didn't think so clearly at the time, only wondered who it was at this late hour.
He was still tired, his brain rather muzzy with tiredness and the late hour, and so he opened the door to Remus and let him come in, all without any real sense of dread.
More fool he.
He turned to ask Remus what had happened, why he was here, and then he saw it.
Harry's breath caught in his throat as he stared down at the small golden cup Remus was holding. Even from across the room, he could see the engraving of the badger on the side.
Hufflepuff's cup.
He took one step forward and then belatedly registered the pallor of Remus's face and the expression on his face. They had another horcrux but they had paid a terrible price for it. His mind scattered in all different directions, every member of the Order whom he could think of flying through his mind, with only one burning question. Who?
He wasn't sure who would have gone. Tonks, most likely, perhaps Hagrid?-Mr. Weasley?-Bill?-Fleur?-Charlie?-Hestia Jones? Maybe even one of the twins? Who? Who had they lost?
"Would you go wake up Ron?" Remus asked quietly.
Oh God, no…
Harry felt his entire body go numb, cold spreading out from his chest to engulf his whole body. No no no no no… The Weasleys…
"Who?" His voice sounded unnatural, his throat dry.
Remus shook his head. And Harry didn't pause, only turned and walked stiffly, feeling as if he were some sort of robot or something, perhaps even watching himself from outside his own body. With the same detachment, he watched himself as he walked up the stairs and into Ron's bedroom. He saw himself shake Ron and watched as Ron blinked and stared.
"Harry, what's up?" Ron muttered groggily.
"Remus is here," he heard himself say as if from very far away.
Ron nodded and scrambled up, his expression abruptly somber with a trace of fear.
Harry knocked quickly on Hermione's door, knowing that slight sound would be enough to wake Hermione up and bring her down.
And although Harry felt as if time had slowed down so it seemed like a year since he had first opened the door to see Remus, it was in reality only a few minutes before he was back in the front room-with Ron, alert now and pale with apprehension, with his ankles sticking out from his too-short pyjama pants, and joined shortly afterwards by Hermione, a robe hastily thrown on over her pyjamas, her face too looking worried. Hermione came to stand beside Harry, her hand automatically going into his-and for the first time ever, Harry's fingers did not close around her hand in response. His hand remained passive and still, unresponsive to Hermione's curling her fingers around his.
Moving slowly, Remus placed Hufflepuff's cup on the table.
Hermione's hand tightened convulsively around Harry's and Ron let out a strangled gasp.
Remus focused on Ron. "I'm very sorry, Ron, but it's Charlie."
Ron paled even further, just staring blankly. "What about Charlie? How badly is he hurt?"
"He's-he's dead," Remus said, his voice very quiet, although it still sounded as loud as a gunshot in the preternatural silence of the room.
Hermione let out a strangled whimper and automatically turned to Harry, burying her face in his shoulder.
Ron shook his head. "No. No! He's not; he can't be. No, I don't believe it," he repeated, his head still shaking, although it was less in denial but more as if he'd simply lost control of his neck muscles. "No."
Remus looked as if he'd aged a hundred years in the past few minutes, his face positively gaunt. "He-he was part of the group that went to Riddle House."
At the sound of those words, Ron stilled, his previous movements stopping as he let out one cry as if he'd been shot and then he was silent. Silent and staring and so pale his freckles stood out in ghastly contrast to his skin.
"Voldemort wasn't there-we knew that, from Snape's information, but none of their hideouts are ever left completely unguarded." Remus had paused at Ron's interruption but then continued on, his voice audibly shaking and even fading completely at several points but, bravely, he continued on, telling them all what they needed to know of Charlie's last moments. "There were three Death Eaters left-Macnair, Goyle Sr., and Antonin Dolohov-to our four. It-it happened quickly. We had the advantage; they were surprised… But Dolohov-he didn't stay. But-but just before he dis-Apparated, he-he hit Charlie…" Remus stopped again, his throat working. And he saw it again, that moment when everything had seemed to happen at once. Tonks' counter-curse at Dolohov that had just missed; Dolohov's wordless snarl and slash of his wand and the flash of green light; that look of something like surprise on Charlie's face before he hit the ground; the popping sound of Apparition and the disappearance of Dolohov with a fleeting impression of a look of malicious triumph; the utter shock on Bill's face and the guttural cry ripped from Bill's throat, before he basically went berserk. With Bill in such a state, it had been surprisingly easy to capture Macnair and Goyle and, if it hadn't been for the horrifying sight of Charlie's body, it might have been a moment for triumph.
He and Tonks had left Bill with Charlie-out of sympathy and necessity as Bill had simply collapsed by Charlie's body and had been staring down at the still, lifeless form of his brother with a heartbreaking expression of utter shock and disbelief, more potent than the loudest sobs could have been.
Given the price they had paid, it had been, in comparison, shamefully easy to find the small golden cup. Riddle House was still mostly empty and the gleam of gold from the cup had been all too easy to spot, his sharp eyes picking it out immediately, in spite of its having been buried deep in the ashes of a long-ago fire in a long-unused fireplace of one of the many empty rooms. He had identified it for what it was immediately-the engraving of the badger on the cup hardly necessary-the cup itself was such a contrast in its delicate workmanship to the rest of the house.
The next horcrux. Picking it up gingerly, he had sensed the power in it with an odd thrill of both apprehension and excitement. But there was no triumph in it, no joy in the finding. They were one small step closer to their ultimate goal but at such a high price, such a terrible cost…
In his years in the Order, he had known a lot of death, had confronted it, seen it, many times. It never got any easier. He never wanted it to become any easier to deal with the untimely loss of a good person; indeed there were times when he positively clung to the shock and horror he felt over any death, clung to the grief at the loss of a life, as one more proof, in his moments of doubt, of his humanity. For all his remembered moments of bloodlust in his animal form and the accompanying guilt when he recovered his own mind, he valued his utterly human reaction to death all the more.
He suppressed a shudder at the thought of Molly and Arthur-especially Molly. He remembered Molly's fears, as revealed by the boggart, and Molly's terrible acknowledgement of the slim (almost nonexistent) likelihood that her family, especially as large as it was, would survive the war intact. Well, she had been right-and Remus hated to think of her reaction to this.
It had taken some time before Bill gave in and consented to stand up, picking up his brother's body. Neither Remus nor Tonks had tried to offer any assistance before Apparating back to the very outskirts of the grounds of Hogwarts, just outside of the Apparition wards, where McGonagall and Hagrid had met them.
And Remus had left for his dreary duty of informing the Trio while McGonagall contacted the other Weasleys.
Remus felt his heart break as he studied the three teenagers in front of him. They were so young to know so much death-so young.
Ron had crumpled down until he was sitting on the floor, as if his legs had simply given out on him, during the rest of the brief recitation of the end of Charlie's life and what had happened afterwards.
Dolohov. The name hit Harry with stunning force, breaking through even the numbness of horror he felt. Dolohov. Just the name catapulted him back in time to more than a year ago and for a fleeting instant, he was living it all again, seeing it all again-that purple flame passing through Hermione and Hermione falling to the ground, not moving, so terribly still… Dolohov. He knew now just why he'd gone to pieces at that moment and the memory only strengthened the fears for her which haunted his nights and darkened his waking visions. His arm automatically went around Hermione's shoulder, making the first move towards holding her, but not so much to comfort her as to reassure himself. He clutched her tightly, his fingers pressing into her skin. Her arms stole around him as she returned his embrace, clinging to him with an abandon that was as unusual as it was sobering.
Remus's eyes narrowed slightly as he watched Harry and Hermione automatically move into the other's embrace, his more experienced gaze noting not merely the intensity of the embrace but the ease of it and the subtle intimacy of it that made the hug more than one shared by purely platonic friends. This plainly wasn't the first time Harry and Hermione had held each other. They were not just friends anymore.
And in spite of everything, Remus felt a flicker of gladness at knowing that Harry and Hermione had found their way to each other, since he'd long suspected that Hermione's feelings for Harry were not remotely platonic and had recently realized that Harry's feelings for Hermione weren't platonic either. After all, life-and love-went on.
And his thought was somehow given even more poignant proof as, at that moment, Harry and Hermione separated (Harry's lips brushing Hermione's forehead lightly as they did so), moving to kneel on either side of Ron, their arms going around him in a sort-of awkward three-person hug.
And Remus found himself somewhat comforted. Clearly, no matter how close Harry and Hermione now were in their new relationship, the Trio was as solid as ever-and the Trio's friendship, at least, would help Ron cope with his first real brush with loss.
~*~
Harry quite honestly dreaded seeing the Weasleys. He didn't know how he was going to face them. He didn't know how he was going to be welcomed. Irrational as it might be, he felt responsible for Charlie's death. He knew Ron was suffering from the same guilt; after all, it had been Ron's idea to go to Riddle House (something he knew Ron would never speak of again.)
They trailed after Professor McGonagall into a room just off the front entrance hall where they saw the Weasleys.
Mrs. Weasley was sobbing hysterically and clutching Mr. Weasley who was trying to comfort her, even while tears were streaming down his own cheeks. But as they walked in, Mrs. Weasley turned and flew at Ron with a cry--"Ron!"--and in another moment, was hugging Ron, still sobbing. But Harry had no chance to gauge Ron's reaction because in almost the same instant, another body with flaming red hair had flung itself at him-"Oh, Harry!"-and Ginny was clinging to him, her face buried in his chest.
Automatically, he returned Ginny's hug, patting her back rather awkwardly. He glanced at Hermione, who had withdrawn from him slightly, and he knew a moment of surprise. Surely she knew she didn't have to worry about Ginny anymore. After these last few weeks, surely she must know… He met her eyes and sent her a look of helplessness-well, what could he do?-and knew she understood, whatever brief pang of uncertainty she may have felt put to rest. Her sober expression didn't change but he could see it in the slight lightening of her eyes, felt it in the brief touch of her hand on his back, before she moved over to where Bill was sitting with Fleur hovering over him.
Bill was staring blankly at the floor, his face set in stony lines of grief that repelled any offers of comfort.
Fred and George were pale and, for once, there wasn't the slightest hint of a smile in their eyes as they, too, sat quietly. They had looked up when Harry, Ron and Hermione had entered but other than that, there had been very little reaction. They looked stunned , their expressions more blank than Harry had ever seen them. (And somehow, that made him flinch even more than Mrs. Weasley's open devastation.)
Mr. Weasley was now patting his wife on the shoulder. "Now, Molly," he said soothingly, "let Ron sit down. He's fine; he's safe."
"But for how long?" Mrs. Weasley wailed with a fresh burst of tears but she released Ron, although she kept a hold on his arm as she led him over to a chair.
Ron met his father's eyes. "You okay, Dad?" he asked quietly, rather inanely he felt, since Mr. Weasley's face was haggard with grief and looked as if he, too, had aged a century in the past few hours.
Mr. Weasley nodded before his face crumpled and he had to look away, blinking rapidly.
"Ginny, please," Harry said again. "Shouldn't you sit down?"
Finally, Ginny stirred, releasing her grip on Harry, although she still remained too close to him for Harry's own comfort. "Sorry," she murmured. "It's just-Charlie…" Her voice wavered.
"I know. I'm so sorry, Ginny," Harry said, inadequately as he felt. "Come on. Sit down," he added coaxingly.
She did, sitting down heavily and looking up at him, an appealing expression on her tear-streaked face as if she wanted him to tell her it was all going to be okay, that no one else was going to die. But he had no words and so said nothing.
She still somehow managed to look pretty, he thought, in some oddly-detached part of his mind, in spite of her pallor and in spite of her tears. He noted this with a curious lack of interest and realized that, after all, Ginny had really stopped affecting him. She was only Ginny, a part of his past, albeit a pleasant part, but still very much in the past, except as far as being Ron's sister.
On that thought, he headed over to where Hermione was sitting down next to Fleur, talking quietly with her, noting the sympathy in Hermione's expression as she and Fleur spoke softly-about Bill and his reaction to Charlie's death, Harry guessed, judging from the glances they aimed in Bill's direction.
He knew Hermione had been pleasantly surprised by Fleur and had grown to like her quite a bit in the few days before Bill and Fleur's wedding. It was, he thought, very like Hermione to think of how Fleur must be feeling, rather on the sideline as she was, with the rest of the Weasley family insulated by their very grief and Bill having retreated behind a shell of frozen emotions.
He sat down beside Hermione and was comforted, as she automatically reached out with her hand, lacing her fingers through his. It was a small gesture, unnoticed by anyone else, with their hands half-hidden between their cloaks as they were, but it meant so much. A silent gesture of love and devotion, both seeking and offering comfort and strength-and as he gripped her hand, he could only wonder, again, what he would do if she weren't with him.
He kept his gaze mostly fixed on the wall or on the floor, too oppressed with guilt and grief and uncertainty to want to look any of the Weasleys in the eye.
There wasn't time, nor was it safe, to have a real funeral.
Charlie was going to be buried not far from Dumbledore's tomb by Hagrid, as Professor McGonagall had mentioned when they had arrived at Hogwarts, but there would be no real funeral. It would present too great of a target for attack to have not only Harry there, but also the entire Weasley family with the exception of Percy, as well as Remus, Tonks and the Professors of Hogwarts. Any attack would manage to destroy the entire Inner Circle of the Order as well as a number of its most trusted members.
This brief time inside Hogwarts was all the Weasleys would have to mourn together and then they would separate again, returning to their separate duties. And never had Harry been so keenly aware that it was war-time as when he'd been told that there would be no funeral.
They sat in a heavy silence, conversations failing even before they'd begun, as no one could think what to say. Mrs. Weasley's tears had finally ceased although every once in a while, her breath would hitch in her chest with a sob. She was gripping Mr. Weasley's hand as if she would never let go and was looking around at all of them, her teary gaze resting on each of them briefly, and Harry, watching her, realized with a jolt that she was wondering, which one will be next? He remembered Mrs. Weasley's boggart in 5th year; her worst fear had come true.
The sound of the door opening sounded as loud as a gunshot and they all started, turning to stare.
For a moment, no one moved and then with a strangled cry, Mrs. Weasley leaped up and in the next moment had flung her arms around the first of the two new arrivals.
"Percy!"
Percy accepted his mother's embrace rather than returned it. "I- I heard about Charlie," he said rather shortly and unnecessarily, his manner constrained.
"Oh, Percy, my boy, my boy… You're back; I knew you wouldn't desert us. You will help us now, won't you, Percy?" Mrs. Weasley was babbling in between her renewed sobs.
Percy stiffened visibly. "I never deserted you. A man must look out for himself, you know, mother. I will help if I can but, after all, I am very busy. The Ministry is sadly under-staffed and there is a lot to be done for someone who works hard." He spoke formally, coldly.
His tone and his words finally seemed to break through Mrs. Weasley's grief-stricken haze. "But Percy…"
Bill stood up, surprising everyone, and moved to stand in front of Percy, gently putting his hands on his mother's shoulders and guiding her aside, before he faced Percy squarely. Bill was the taller of the two, predictably, and the scars on his face along with his pallor and his grim expression combined to make him quite an intimidating figure. Percy visibly flinched but otherwise stood his ground.
"Hello, Bill," he said in a tone in a tone of forced calm.
Bill didn't bother with pleasantries. "I think my mother is asking," he began quietly (and Harry noted Bill's rather pointed use of the singular pronoun, 'my' as if Mrs. Weasley weren't also Percy's mother), "will you join the Order and help us fight?"
Percy stepped back. "Fight? Fighting is for people like you; my place is in the Ministry."
Bill's eyes narrowed. "There won't be much of a Ministry if we don't win this war. We need everyone to help and not necessarily in actual battles either."
"What? So I can die like Charlie did? Not likely!"
The moment the rashly-blurted out words left his mouth, Percy paled, seeming to realize what he'd said and done. There was a collective intake of breath as even Mrs. Weasley stared at Percy as if he'd grown a second head. For a moment, there was a terrible silence as Bill faced Percy, his expression dark and so wiped clean of all emotion it looked even more terrifying than rage would have been.
No one spoke. Harry hardly dared to breathe.
And then Bill said, his voice very cold, very definite, and terribly final, "Charlie was a hero. You are a sniveling coward and no longer my brother."
At that, Mrs. Weasley let out a sharp cry as if she'd been stabbed.
Percy looked towards her and Mr. Weasley, who had his arm around her. "He can't disown me! He's not the head of this family!" Percy's voice was rather shrill.
For a long moment, Mr. Weasley looked at Percy, his gaze sad and questioning but also as if he were looking at a stranger. "Bill speaks for all of us in this," he finally pronounced with quiet finality.
Mrs. Weasley let out a muffled whimper and turned her face into Mr. Weasley's shoulder but made no protest.
Percy stared, looking at everyone in turn-Bill whose cold gaze never wavered, Fred and George who returned his gaze unflinchingly and unwelcomingly, Ginny whose eyes met his for a moment and then faltered, Ron who stared at him with the cool eyes of a stranger, Fleur who looked through him rather than at him, Harry, who avoided his gaze, Hermione, who studied him as if he were a Blast-Ended Skrewt-before he looked back at his father.
He opened his mouth as if to say something and then seemed to think better of it and simply turned and walked out with an attempt at offended dignity that looked rather more like he was leaving with his tail between his legs.
Throughout this scene, the other new arrival had not said a word. Rufus Scrimgeour had, in fact, hastily stepped backwards in a lame attempt at respecting a family's privacy but now he stepped forward again, looking embarrassed but trying to act as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. "Arthur, I came to say how sorry I am for your loss. Terrible tragedy. Such a fine young man. He'll be much missed." He spoke jerkily.
"Thank you, Minister," Mr. Weasley replied politely if stiffly.
"I- er- I wonder if I might speak to Harry for a moment. Official, private business, you know." Rufus Scrimgeour attempted a small smile but only succeeded in grimacing slightly.
Harry was not surprised. He'd been expecting it from the moment he'd seen the Minister standing behind Percy, even wondered whether the Minister had been the one to nudge Percy into coming at all. He stepped forward and simply walked out of the room, knowing that Scrimgeour would follow.
He headed towards the nearest unused classroom, which was just off the main entrance hall and turned to face Scrimgeour. "Minister."
"Ah, yes, Harry. Good to see you, despite the terrible circumstances," Scrimgeour tried (and failed) to sound avuncular. "Did you know Charlie Weasley well?"
"Yes."
"Ah, of course. Terribly sorry to hear about it. He was a fine fellow. A fine fellow," he repeated and then fell silent, looking ill at ease, before he seemed to recover.
"The thing is, Harry, I wondered what you're doing lately. I know-I'm sure you must be making plans as to how to defeat- er- You-Know-Who and I'm the last person to doubt your courage. I just wondered if you could tell me, as Minister, what you're planning. My discretion is assured naturally."
"I can't do that."
Scrimgeour gaped but recovered himself quickly. "Oh, well, perfectly understandable. A good commander never reveals his secrets, eh? Then could you just, oh, say a few words about the situation, of encouragement, that I could tell the public? You see, Harry, it's a difficult time right now. The people are frightened and nervous. These random attacks that have been made-people fear for their lives and they are getting worked up over the lack of obvious action. They would like for some victory, some sign that we are fighting, that there is cause to hope. You have not been seen much although we heard of your previous visits here and found it encouraging but other than that, it's been very quiet on our front, you understand."
Harry simply listened. None of this was a surprise to him. He'd read of the attacks-on both Muggles and Muggle-born wizards as well as a number of Squibs and Pure-bloods with known sympathies for Muggle-borns-in all different parts of England and with no real rhyme or reason behind them, other than the common theme of the importance of pure blood. It was a reign of terror, made all the more horrifying because of the very randomness to the attacks. They had happened at all times of day, to all ages and occupations. No one knew when or who or where the Death Eaters would strike next, leaving the dreaded Dark Mark lingering in the sky, and the uncertainty was more fear-inducing than anything else could have been.
There had also been two editorials so far in the Daily Prophet asking about his activities and whereabouts and openly wondering whether the Order which Dumbledore had led was going to re-form and whether it would act and when. One of them had gone so far as to hint that Harry's much-vaunted reputation for courage was exaggerated and undeserved, wondering what Harry was doing and why he hadn't made any moves against Voldemort so far. (Harry had found that after his 5th year, he was inured to that sort of attack, but he had, at the same time, also been immeasurably comforted by Hermione's anger on his behalf at the author of the editorial. Her furious tirade against any persons who would read and believe such utter drivel had, in fact, been cut off by his lips on hers and had led to one of their more heated snogging sessions to date, so much had Harry appreciated her steadfast loyalty.)
Scrimgeour was still explaining. "Nervousness and fear are making the people restless. It would help immensely if I could just tell them a few words from you, reassure them, a line or two. Something along the lines of we shall never surrender or victory at all costs and in spite of all the terror. Or that we should never yield to force or the overwhelming might of the enemy…"
"We shall fight on the beaches?" Harry asked ironically.
"Yes, quite. That's the spirit exactly," Scrimgeour enthused, completely missing the irony.
Harry pretended to think for a moment.
Scrimgeour leaned forward, clearly anticipating some words of inspiration.
"I have nothing to say, Minister," Harry stated clearly and walked out of the room, pausing at the last second to add, "Goodbye."
And for the first time since hearing about Charlie, Harry felt a brief spurt of satisfaction at the thought of Scrimgeour's absolutely dumbfounded expression.
The git. As if he'd really give him a quote to leak, when he had no doubt that Scrimgeour would also use it to make it sound like he was heavily involved in the secret plan against Voldemort and take the lion's share of the credit for himself.
No, that wasn't going to happen. Not if Harry could help it, at least. He remembered Scrimgeour's grumbled words from months ago and repeated them to himself with some satisfaction. Dumbledore's man through and through. Dumbledore's man-and not Scrimgeour's. Never Scrimgeour's.
He got back to the room where the Weasleys and Hermione were and then stopped short at the sight of Remus running towards the room. Harry swallowed, feeling a cold hand squeeze his chest, and then ran forward to join Remus.
Remus glanced at Harry as he addressed Ron and Hermione. "Ron, Hermione, we need to leave. The wards we put up have detected a number of Apparitions into the immediate area. We don't know if they're hostile but we're not taking any chances. We need to get you three out of here. Hurry!"
Harry's impression of the next few minutes was an odd combination of feeling both very prolonged and very rushed, his heightened awareness stemming from tension making him note everything that happened with a minute-ness he didn't often have.
This next threat seemed to be the last straw that broke Mrs. Weasley's will and she turned towards Mr. Weasley with a cry of mingled fear and appeal, "Oh, Arthur!" Mr. Weasley, on the other hand, reacted as if he were rather relieved in some way to have something active to do, and comforted his wife with an absent, "There, there, Molly; Fred and George and Ginny will look after you," before he said curtly, "Bill, come with me." Bill, too, finally seemed to come out of his frozen state with this new threat and stood up, with an expression of grim resolve to defend Hogwarts from any threat.
Ron gave Mrs. Weasley a quick, fleeting hug, and then he and Hermione hurried out of the room. Harry grabbed Hermione's hand in an instinctive move and had the vague impression of seeing Ginny frown, her expression a mixture of shock and displeasure and jealousy. But it was only a fleeting impression and was immediately forgotten as he half-tugged Hermione with him, as they followed Remus, who had paused to wait for them but was now half-jogging through the corridors of Hogwarts and out one of the side entrances.
Remus didn't stop until they had gone halfway to the Quidditch pitch. "Professor McGonagall has made it so that we can Apparate out while still preventing anyone from Apparating in for a few minutes," he explained briefly. "I'll see you in Grimmauld Place."
Ron Apparated away almost immediately, followed quickly by Remus, but Harry hesitated for a split second, torn. He wasn't sure if he was imagining things but he could have sworn he could feel something, an odd prickling in his scar, a crackle in the air around him, as if everything in him was attuned in some way to the coming of danger. And every particle of his being revolted at simply running away. It just wasn't in him to run and hide so constantly like this; it had gotten him into trouble more than once, he knew, but at the same time, it was ingrained into him not to run. These past months of hiding had grated on him even more than he had realized and at that moment, all his pent-up frustration seemed to come to a head.
Part of him, his rational mind, knew that it was stupid-if not suicidal-to even think of remaining, knew that Hogwarts itself was well-protected enough that he would probably be more of a bother than not if he stayed-and yet-and yet, for just one moment, he hesitated.
It was the barest instant but he was brought back to reality, to sanity, by Hermione tugging on his hand and her voice, saying urgently, "Harry!"
He looked at her, saw the expression on her face, and he heard her voice in his mind whisper, Reckless. Don't be stupid, Harry.
And he listened, obeying the urgency in her tone as she'd said his name and of her expression, more than even the voice in his head.
"Let's go," he said, more to reassure her than anything else.
Some of the worry in her expression eased a little before she finally released her grip on his hand and Apparated away.
And he Apparated as well, following her- towards safety.
~To be continued…
A/N 2: Scrimgeour's suggested lines and Harry's response are paraphrased from speeches by Winston Churchill,
because they're simply part of the British psyche and it made sense to me that they'd refer to it.
And before any of you ask, why Charlie, I'll give you a pre-emptive answer. Obviously, one (or more) Weasleys need
to die; the twins don't seem like they'd be involved enough in the action for it to make sense (plus I
can't separate the two in my head); Mr. Weasley and Bill have already been severely injured so killing them would
be pointless, in a sense; Mrs. Weasley is, again, not part of the active fighting; killing either Percy or Ginny would
just be wishful thinking on my part, and Ron, well, while I do think he might die, he can't die until towards the
very end. That only leaves Charlie.