From My Soul

Disclaimer: JKR still owns HP and everything related to it; no money is being made, etc etc.

Author’s Note: My contribution to the growing number of post-HBP 7^th year fics out there.

For Anne, Ebony, and the ever-brilliant and wonderful Lori—for making me realize that our ship cannot and will not sink- no matter what delusions about love JKR seems to have.

The title is a small (tiny, really) tribute to Lori, taken from one line from the latest chapter of HWTF.

From My Soul

Part 1

They were leaving the Burrow tomorrow.

It couldn’t be too soon for him.

He was restless, much as he loved the Burrow and the Weasleys. He knew what he needed to do, had decided it weeks ago.

And besides, here at the Burrow, he was uncomfortable. Because she was here.

He couldn’t help himself; he stared at her. She was avoiding his gaze, he knew, as she had been since he’d first arrived at the Burrow. He supposed he could hardly blame her.

But it hurt, somehow, that in the way she was smiling and talking and, well, flirting so determinedly with friends and neighbors who had come for Bill and Fleur’s wedding, he could see that she was set on moving on.

He couldn’t blame her; he’d ended things with her after all and he made for dangerous company. She was pretty and popular; no wonder she wanted to move on. He hadn’t expected her to wait.

It just bothered him. It wasn’t so much hurt—he wondered why he didn’t feel hurt but somehow, he didn’t even though he kept telling himself he should—as just being bothered. Bothered that she, who’d sounded so sincere when she’d said she didn’t care about the danger she’d be in, had decided to move on so quickly without waiting more than the four and half weeks it had been since he’d ended things.

A small voice in his mind commented rather snidely that she’d waited just about the same time as their relationship had lasted, but he pushed the thought from his mind.

He couldn’t blame her. He didn’t blame her. He hadn’t asked her to wait until later; he couldn’t even think of a ‘later’. He couldn’t think of anything beyond the next few days, tomorrow and the day after that…

And even now, a month after everything had happened, thinking about their weeks together felt like remembering something that had happened years ago, to another person, in another time. That hadn’t really been him…

But even so, that she’d found it so easy to move on bothered him.

He didn’t even know what was really bothering him; he just knew he’d be glad, for once, to leave the Burrow.

They were leaving tomorrow.

He and Ron and Hermione.

There had been a minor scene with the Weasleys when Ron had mentioned this. Mrs. Weasley’s first reaction had been to forbid it absolutely when Mr. Weasley had, though with a grave face that showed the effort it took, reminded her that Ron was of-age and therefore free to make his own choice.

Harry had stayed silent, watching, a reluctant, uncomfortable bystander. He knew that Mr. and Mrs. Weasley didn’t blame him; they didn’t begrudge his putting Ron in possible (probable) danger; they were only reacting as parents, wanting to protect as much as possible. But they cared for him too and they’d given in with as much grace as they could muster.

He’d been nearly mauled by Mrs. Weasley’s final motherly hug as she told him, in a rather choked whisper, to be careful and take care of himself. He’d had to look away, blinking furiously, to keep back tears at the thought he couldn’t help—that his own parents would have reacted this way too. They would have hated the thought of his going off alone but they had understood that he needed to do this, that he needed to go into the battle of his own volition…

He needed to do this. For his parents. For Sirius. For Dumbledore. For all the people whose lives had been affected, ruined, by Voldemort.

This was his choice, he’d told himself yet again, and he didn’t regret it.

He slipped his hand into the pocket of his dress robes (he’d wondered on putting them on today if this would be the last time he wore them, probably was) and closed his fist around the fake Horcrux.

It hadn’t left his pocket since that awful night, a silent reminder of his reasons, his mission—not that he needed it.

He hadn’t thought much about the mysterious RAB; he hadn’t had the time.

The Dursleys seemed to have made up their minds that if he was only going to be around for them to torment for the few weeks until his birthday, they’d make the most of it and had deliberately kept him busy- cleaning the house, cooking, watering the lawn, weeding the lawn, mowing the lawn and any other number of chores. And for once, he’d almost welcomed the mundane tasks; they kept his hands busy and served as something of a distraction from the thoughts which intruded whenever he was alone.

R.A.B.

He remembered what Hermione had said before, that the note sounded like someone who had known Voldemort.

The Dark Lord.

He stiffened, his fist clenching tighter around the locket, as he realized. Dark Lord… It had to have been a Death Eater, or a former Death Eater at least. No one else would have called Voldemort the Dark Lord; and who else would have known the Dark Lord well enough to guess that he’d make Horcruxes? He remembered what Dumbledore had said; that Riddle/Voldemort had never had friends, that not even his Death Eaters really knew him though they claimed to know him more than anyone else.

It had to be a Death Eater.

R.A.B.

The memory flooded into his mind with such clarity it might have been yesterday—and he wondered why it had never occurred to him before.

Except that it had been a random little detail which had been forgotten in the interest of other revelations, like Sirius being related to the Malfoys.

“My idiot brother… soft enough to believe them… he joined the Death Eaters… he was murdered by Voldemort. Or on Voldemort’s orders, more likely; I doubt Regulus was ever important enough to be killed by Voldemort in person… he got in so far, then panicked about what he was being asked to do and tried to back out…”

Regulus Black. R.A.B.

It had to be.

And that meant…

His stomach dropped.

They had to go to Grimmauld Place.

The house he’d avoided thinking about, the house he wished he never needed to set foot in again.

“Harry.”

Hermione’s voice sounded close by and he started, not having noticed her approach from his preoccupation.

She sounded rather breathless as if she’d just made a discovery. Or as if she and Ron had just been snogging, he couldn’t help but think, and wondered why his stomach seemed to twist oddly at the thought.

“I just thought of something,” she said excitedly and, glancing at her, he knew it was a discovery. He recognized that look in her eyes from when she had an idea; he’d seen it so often from that moment in first year when she’d pointed out where she’d read the name, Nicholas Flamel.

“About the locket. R.A.B. It’s--”

He said the name at the same time she did. “Regulus Black.”

She stopped. “Oh, you know,” she said, and the mixture of surprise, disappointment, deflating of excitement and an odd pleasure somehow struck him as being inexplicably funny.

He suddenly felt like laughing, real humor welling up inside him for the first time in weeks, and grinned. “I thought of it just now too.”

Their eyes met and then she was smiling and he was smiling too until they both started to laugh.

What exactly they were laughing over, he didn’t know. He just knew that it felt good to laugh like this. It felt good to share some real amusement with someone, with Hermione. And he suddenly wondered why it seemed like it’d been so long since he’d last talked to her. Which was ridiculous, of course; they’d seen each other only weeks ago. But somehow it did feel like it had been months since he’d talked to Hermione. Since he’d seen Hermione.

But whatever that rather preposterous feeling, it felt good to laugh.

Their laughter died down until they were only smiling at each other, before Hermione continued on, her voice once more serious, although her eyes still smiled. “But that’s not it; I remembered something else. Harry, I think I know where the real Horcrux is.”

He stiffened, the last remnants of amusement leaving him. “Where?”

“Remember those glass-fronted cabinets we had to empty out that one day? It was in there, that heavy locket, remember, that none of us could open. We just tossed it into the sack with the rest of the things; it’s still there; it must be. No one would have moved the sack, I don’t think, not when we put it up in that old, unused room by Buckbeak’s room where we moved all the other stuff we cleaned out.”

His chest tightened and he felt a rush of energy along with gratitude. She was right; it had to be that. He’d forgotten it, only vaguely remembered it even now but she was right; it had to be the real Horcrux.

They had to go back to Grimmauld Place but at least now they had a specific object in mind. They wouldn’t have to stay in that bleak place too long.

He’d really begun now; he knew where to start his search for the real Horcrux.

Thank to Hermione.

“Thanks,” he heard himself say.

She looked surprised. “For what?”

“For-” he made a vague gesture with one hand, “for thinking of it, for giving me a place to start looking. For- for just helping. Even here when you should be having fun, should be with Ron or something, for still thinking about this.”

She flushed slightly at the mention of Ron but shook her head. “You don’t have to thank me. Of course I’ll help you, didn’t I tell you I would?” A shadow crossed her expression as she added, her voice lowering slightly, “I didn’t help you enough this last year. I- I should have believed you about Malfoy. I should have trusted you more. I’m sorry, Harry, so sorry for not trusting you. I- I should have helped you more…”

“No!” he said forcefully. “Don’t say that; you did help me. You were right about how I shouldn’t be so quick to trust the Half Blood Prince and you were right that it wasn’t right for me to use his advice so blindly to do well in Potions. You were right in reminding me that I was spending more time obsessing over Malfoy instead of doing what Dumbledore told me to do and trying to find out about the Horcruxes from Slughorn. You were right about that.”

He gave her a sheepish look. “We were both wrong about some things and both right about others so we’re even.”

She managed a small smile and putting her hand on his arm, gave it a quick, reassuring sort of squeeze. “We’ll get it tomorrow, Harry. We’ll find the rest of the Horcruxes too.”

He nodded, his throat inexplicably tight at this simple gesture, and realized again just how incredibly glad he was to know that Ron and Hermione would be with him.

Hermione gave him a last smile and then left and he saw her stopping to talk to Luna.

“Wotcher, Harry.”

He turned to smile at Tonks and Remus who had come up. “Hi, Tonks, Remus.”

Remus studied him for a moment and then asked quietly, “How are you, Harry?”

His smile faltered a little but he answered quickly, “Fine. I’m fine.”

Remus looked rather skeptical but didn’t contradict him and then was silent for a moment before adding, with a small, half-sad smile, “He would be so proud of you, you know.”

Harry swallowed hard, cutting his gaze away briefly. “How do you know?”

“I just do. We talked about you- last year. He was proud of you then, and he’d be proud of you now, I know it.” Remus paused, blinking and then put a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “You’ve done well, Harry.”

Harry’s stomach twisted a little. No, he hadn’t—he’d caused Sirius’ death; he’d trusted the Half-Blood Prince; he’d put off finding out about the Horcruxes—and he still didn’t have the slightest idea where the last 2 Horcruxes were—or how to destroy them once he got them. “I- thanks,” he finally said numbly.

Remus smiled slightly. “You have done well, Harry. No one could have done any better—and believe me, Sirius is proud of you. He always was.”

“Thanks,” Harry said again, more certainly this time.

Remus nodded and Tonks smiled and winked before they left hand-in-hand to join Mr. and Mrs. Weasley.

Harry’s hand closed around the locket again. Sirius, Professor Dumbledore, I won’t let you down. I promise…

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.

Author’s Note: In which I have fun shooting cannonballs at the H/G ship—and even better, the cannonballs are from canon! (Bad joke but couldn’t help it.)

For Gil- just because. *hugs*

From My Soul

Part 2

Harry and Ron crept down the stairs of the Burrow, each with their wand in hand and a backpack into which they’d thrown whatever they could—shrunk so it’d all fit.

“There you two are.”

Harry blinked, surprised and glad to see Hermione waiting for them in the kitchen. He’d been afraid she might not be ready or might not have been able to get away without bothering Ginny or something. And he wanted to avoid any uncomfortable goodbyes with any of the Weasleys.

He gestured with one hand and they all slipped outside, where the sun was just beginning to tinge the sky orange and pink.

Ron looked at Harry. “Where are--”

He never finished the question because at that moment another voice interrupted. A voice that made Harry’s insides twist unpleasantly with apprehension. He’d wanted to avoid a scene like this which was why he’d insisted on their leaving at dawn…

“What are you doing?” Ginny asked in a sharp whisper, her gaze moving from Hermione to Ron and finally settling on Harry.

He noticed in the corner of his mind that Ron seemed to step back a little, leaving him to face Ginny on his own. She met his gaze head-on for the first time since he’d arrived at the Burrow, suspicion in every line of her pyjama-and-robe-clad form.

“I have to do something,” he finally said lamely.

She snorted a little and he blurted out rather desperately, “I promised Dumbledore!”

Her expression softened at this but her stance didn’t change.

“What do you have to do that requires you to leave like this—like you’re not going to come back?”

“I- I can’t tell you,” Harry said, miserably uncomfortable and wishing desperately to get away. And it was true; it was why he’d wanted to leave without saying a real goodbye to Ginny, because he couldn’t explain where they were going and why or anything. He couldn’t; he had promised Dumbledore and he wouldn’t break his promise. But more than that, he realized in that moment, even if he hadn’t promised Dumbledore, he wouldn’t have really wanted to tell Ginny anyway. Her one brush with Voldemort in her first year aside, she hadn’t really been around for the rest of it; she didn’t know everything of the past few years. She didn’t know and he didn’t feel right talking about it with anyone except for Ron and Hermione, whom he told just about everything anyway. Promise or no, he wouldn’t have wanted to tell Ginny. And he suddenly wondered what that said about his feelings for her, about how serious their relationship had been.

But now wasn’t the time to think about that. Now he just needed to get away…

An unreadable expression crossed Ginny’s face and she nodded jerkily to indicate Ron and Hermione. “But you’ve told them.”

He nodded helplessly and watched as a mask seemed to drop over Ginny’s face, making it hard and cold.

“I guess that’s that, then. Goodbye, Harry, Ron, Hermione.” Her voice was stiff with displeasure and she gave him a last look he couldn’t quite decipher before turning and going back inside.

And he knew that it was really over. Even if he survived the final confrontation with Voldemort, it was over between him and Ginny. Once and for all. There was no way to bridge the gap between them now; there were too many things he couldn’t tell her, too many things he didn’t want to tell her…

So much for his unacknowledged little niggling hope that maybe, after all this mess with Voldemort was sorted out, maybe he and Ginny could- he didn’t know- continue what they’d started, get back together…

But no more. It was over.

He stared at the door through which she’d gone for another few seconds before mentally shaking himself. He didn’t have time for this; he had a horcrux to find, three horcruxes actually.

He turned back to face Ron and Hermione again, noting how they both looked uncomfortable, Ron refusing to meet his eyes.

“Grimmauld Place, first,” he said simply and only waited to see their nods before he closed his eyes, focusing until he felt the unpleasant squeezing sensation of Apparition.

It hadn’t changed at all, he thought, as he looked around Grimmauld Place, hearing the pop of first Hermione Apparating beside him and then Ron on his other side. It still looked bleak and dirty and gloomy, in the early morning light.

He looked up to see Number Twelve squeeze into existence between Eleven and Thirteen in its usual fashion and swallowed hard before walking forward.

It was one of the things he’d found when he’d gone to Diagon Alley on his birthday last week to get more money from Gringotts; his inheritance from Sirius had already been added to his vault, including the key to this house.

It was dark inside, dust having settled onto things and he suppressed a shudder.

Beside him, he felt Hermione draw closer as if to dispel some of the gloom settling over him by reminding him that he wasn’t alone.

He glanced at her, a silent thanks for her support in his eyes, and then at Ron. “Let’s find that locket,” he said simply.

The sack wasn’t where they remembered putting it; Kreacher had probably moved it, to save what was inside, he thought with a grimace.

Finally they split up to look for it; it had to be in the house somewhere… The thought did occur to him that Mundungus Fletcher might have filched it—but he doubted it. He somehow didn’t think the locket would have been hidden by Kreacher in a place Dung would have looked or that it was the sort of object Dung would have appreciated, an old locket no one could open.

Harry paused outside the room which Sirius had used. He doubted the locket would be in it (he couldn’t imagine Kreacher ever hiding a Black heirloom or any item in this room even with Sirius gone) but he wanted to look, wanted to see…

Slowly he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Immediately he felt Sirius’s presence in the room almost as if Sirius had just stepped out and would be coming back any minute. The room was full of his spirit, his presence, somehow, as if the force of his personality lingered on in the room even a year after his death.

It didn’t look like anything had been moved in the last year and slowly, his body moving almost of its own volition, he moved to the old battered-looking dresser and opened the first drawer.

And then blinked and had to swallow several times, hard, his heart squeezing at what he saw.

To one side was a picture of Sirius with James and Lily and Remus. They were all grinning, Remus elbowing Sirius for whatever Sirius had just said that had him smirking and as he watched, James leaned over and kissed Lily’s cheek, making her flush and laugh.

They looked so happy, so young, so carefree…

He felt, to his horror, a lump of emotion in his throat and pricking at the back of his eyes and looked away.

Only to see that on the other side of the drawer were letters, letters he recognized. The letters he’d written and sent to Sirius during 4^th year.

Ridiculously, the letters—the fact that Sirius had kept them—touched him more than even the picture had and he sat down heavily on the bed, staring alternately at the picture in one hand and the letters in his other.

“Harry, I found it!”

He heard Hermione’s excited voice a second before she burst into the room, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright and holding something in her hand.

She took one look at his face and faltered, concern replacing the excitement. “Harry, what is it? What’s wrong?”

She moved closer, sitting down beside him on the bed and looking at what he held.

“Oh,” she breathed softly, understanding and sympathy in the one word and in the look she gave him.

He stiffened, automatically tensing to reject any pity but she said nothing more, nothing to indicate pity. She only sat beside him, putting a hand on his arm—and somehow her very presence was more a comfort than anything else. Somehow, even without his saying anything, she understood. Understood some of what he was feeling, understood that, at that moment, he didn’t want to hear any feeble words of comfort, no matter how sincere they might be… She just understood… And that was a beautiful, incredible thing.

Sirius, his parents, were gone. Dumbledore was gone. He couldn’t rely on them anymore. He was alone now—but he still had Hermione. And he still had Ron. Ron helped, just by being there, by being himself. And Hermione—he could rely on Hermione- could rely on her for help, for knowledge, for magic… Now that Dumbledore was gone, Hermione was the only person he could turn to when he didn’t know something. He had Hermione, the cleverest and most powerful witch of their year—and that was something.

He gave himself another mental shake, forcing his mind to return to the task at hand, finally looking at what was in Hermione’s hand, recognizing it immediately.

It was Slytherin’s locket.

Slowly he reached for it, taking it from her, feeling the way the gold had absorbed the warmth of her hand on top of its original warmth.

Yes. This was a real Horcrux. He could feel it, somehow. There was something- he couldn’t describe what- but it was clear this was no ordinary locket.

This was the real Horcrux.

“Harry,” Hermione began rather hesitantly though gaining confidence when he looked at her curiously, “Regulus Black said he planned to destroy the Horcrux to bring Voldemort closer to mortality. Did he succeed? Is the locket still a Horcrux? I- I don’t know anything about Horcruxes other than what you’ve told us. There was nothing on it in the library; didn’t you say something about it being a forbidden subject at Hogwarts? I don’t know; I can feel that it’s powerful but I don’t know if that’s just because it belonged to Slytherin or because it’s still a horcrux.”

In some detached portion of his mind, he noticed with a small flare of something like amusement, how hard it looked for Hermione to admit that he probably knew more about something magical than she did, how hard it was for her to admit that she didn’t know the answers.

He smiled slightly, knowing this wasn’t remotely funny but somehow feeling a renegade flicker of amusement nonetheless. “I don’t know either,” he admitted. “I told you everything Dumbledore told me so I don’t know anything more than you do.”

She seemed to deflate slightly and he opened his mouth to say- something, he wasn’t quite sure what but the words never left his mouth as at that moment, Ron found them.

“Harry, I tell you I think that bloody twisted Kreacher--” Ron said and then stopped, frowning as he looked at the two of them sitting together on Sirius’s bed and Harry suddenly realized that Hermione’s hand was still on his arm. “What’s going on here?” he asked, a tinge of suspicion making his voice sharper than it normally was.

“Hermione found the locket,” Harry said simply, determinedly ignoring the small twist of annoyance he felt at how quickly Ron always seemed to leap to the worst possible conclusion about the two of them whenever they did so much as talk to each other without him there. He ought to trust Hermione more than that if he were really dating her; he ought to trust Harry more than that, come to think of it.

“Brilliant. Where was it?” Ron asked, turning to Hermione, his momentary suspicion forgotten.

“In Kreacher’s little den. He’d put it there along with some of the other things he thought were precious.”

Harry stifled a small, serious smile at the mixture of indignation at the system and the family that had made Kreacher what he was along with her instinctive, automatic recoiling from Kreacher’s treachery and betrayal which he could hear in her tone. He understood that Hermione was disturbed by Kreacher to say the least as she was too clear-sighted not to understand that, in large measure, Kreacher deserved every bit of harsh treatment even as she rebelled against the treatment given to every other house elf.

Ron gave an exaggerated shudder. “That nutter.” He looked at the locket in Harry’s hand with a sort of horrified fascination. “That thing has V-v- You-Know-Who’s soul in it?”

“Not Voldemort’s entire soul, just part of it. 1/7^th of it to be exact,” Harry corrected automatically and then realized, when Ron gave him an odd look, that he’d unconsciously copied Hermione’s didactic tone when she corrected one of their errors. Well, if her voice was in his head as the voice of his conscience, he supposed it wasn’t surprising either. He’d certainly spent enough time with her… And she was nearly always right anyway… There were worse people to imitate.

“Absolutely bloody barmy, if you ask me. Dividing up your soul like that; it’s just not natural. Explains a lot about You-Know-Who, though,” Ron muttered, sounding thoroughly disgusted and creeped out.

Harry’s eyes met Hermione’s and they both grinned involuntarily. Trust Ron to summarize up what was so horrific about the Horcruxes. Not natural. That about said it.

This was why he was glad Ron was with him for all this, Harry thought. Not for actual help with the magic to destroy the Horcruxes but just to keep him sane, to provide the sort of real-world, humorous attitude he needed to remind him that the entire world didn’t consist of Voldemorts or even Dumbledores.

“So now what? Do we just break the thing or what?” Ron asked, looking at Harry expectantly.

“I- er- I don’t know.”

“Brilliant. I’m so glad I agreed to help you with this, mate,” Ron said mockingly and Harry gave him a half-apologetic smile. He knew Ron was only teasing, would never have allowed him to just go off alone, any more than Hermione would have.

They were silent, all of them looking at the locket in Harry’s hand for a moment, until Harry finally said, “I think we just need to keep this with us until we figure out what to do with it. We’ve got 2 other Horcruxes to find as it is.”

Ron frowned. “Two? I thought you said there were 6 other Horcruxes.”

“The diary was one but I destroyed that in 2^nd year. Marvolo’s ring was another but Dumbledore got rid of that. The last piece of Voldemort’s soul is still in his body; it’s what’s kept him alive- or sort of alive- all these years. Then there’s…” Harry paused, realizing the sheer enormity of the task facing him.

Hermione finished for him. “It’s the locket, the cup, the snake, something of Gryffindor’s or Ravenclaw’s.” There was a sort of rhythm to the list, a familiar one and he realized that Hermione had just repeated the silent mantra he had had going through his mind in those first days after Dumbledore’s death and wondered why he felt so little surprise at this evidence that she had thought of them in the same order as he had, that she had also been thinking about them and what they might need to do to find them.

“We can’t really go out and find Nagini since he’s probably with Voldemort anyway. Hufflepuff’s cup and the relic of Gryffindor’s or Ravenclaw’s are the only two we can really search for, right now,” Hermione continued.

“The only thing is, they could be anywhere—and we don’t know what it is of Gryffindor’s or Ravenclaw’s we’re looking for,” Harry finished on a gloomy note. The more he thought about it, the more he felt ill-prepared for all this. What did he know about horcruxes? Barely anything. What did he know about destroying a horcrux? Next to nothing—except that destroying the ring had nearly killed Dumbledore, which didn’t inspire confidence in his ability to destroy one horcrux, let alone four. What did he know about where Voldemort might have hidden the other two? Even less than that. And Dumbledore, the only person who might have been able to help him, was gone…

“It’ll be okay, Harry. We’ll find them,” Hermione said gently and he wondered, again, why it was that he felt no surprise that she had guessed at, and understood, his thoughts. “We’ll find them, I promise.”

And looking at her, hearing the confidence in her voice, somehow, he couldn’t help but believe her.

This was Hermione and he trusted her—even if he didn’t understand himself how they were going to do all this.

He trusted her and she believed—somehow, for whatever reason—that they could find the remaining horcruxes and destroy them; and at least for now, that was enough…

Disclaimer: See Part 1

From My Soul

Part 3

“So, any ideas?”

Ron was the first one to break the short silence that had fallen as they all stared at the locket in Harry’s hand.

He looked at Harry. Harry looked at Hermione. Hermione looked back at Harry.

Harry shook his head. “No,” he confessed rather glumly.

“I’m going to go look through the little library I remember seeing when we were last here,” Hermione volunteered.

Ron made a sarcastic noise. “Oh of course, because what we really need is to see what kind of reading material produces nutters like Kreacher and Sirius’s barking-mad mum.”

“Just because you seem to think it’ll kill you to crack open a book sometime,” she snapped. “Don’t be an idiot; it’s likely that they’ll have books on darker magic than what there is in Hogwarts.”

“And you can never do anything without reading a book first,” Ron shot back.

Hermione flushed angrily, her mouth opening to respond but Harry stepped in before she could.

“Oh just shut up!” he exclaimed, startling even himself with the vehemence of his exclamation. “You’re not helping! And Ron, Hermione’s right; we need to research since we know so little. I’m going to- I don’t know- see if I can reducto the locket or something.”

Hermione looked stricken as she looked at Harry but all she said was, “I’ll go research,” before she left the room, not looking at Ron.

Ron was still flushed as he looked from the door through which Hermione had vanished and then at Harry. “I’ll-er- help you, mate,” he said rather hesitantly.

“Yeah, thanks,” Harry said, his anger gone as suddenly as it had flared. Ron and Hermione had always bickered. It was just the way their friendship (their more-than-friendship?) worked. And he needed both of them too much to push them away now.

He wanted to apologize for yelling, for turning on Ron like he had, but he wasn’t sure what he could say and finally gave up as he left Sirius’s room for one of the unused and mostly empty rooms to see if he could come up with some way to destroy the locket.

~*~*~

Hermione sniffed and blinked back half-angry, half-hurt tears as she scanned the titles of the small collection of books in one of the back-rooms.

She didn’t know why Ron’s little sarcastic remarks about her reading still bothered her so much, why she still responded so angrily. It wasn’t as if they were anything new; he’d been laughing at her bookworm habits as long as she’d known him. It just—hurt. And it bothered her. They weren’t dating—not officially as such. He hadn’t said anything and neither had she—and he’d only kissed her, hesitantly, a few times, and they’d both been embarrassed afterwards. Things had just become awkward between them, tension arising whenever they were alone together.

She welcomed the distraction of the search for the horcruxes, the feeling that she was needed, that this was something she could do. She might not know much about horcruxes but it was magical; it involved spells and research and all those things she knew.

This—whatever this was between her and Ron—she didn’t know so well.

She didn’t know why she found it so- disappointing- that Ron still didn’t accept her love of books; that he still didn’t even try to understand all that you could learn from books.

He fancied her (didn’t he?); why didn’t he understand her?

And what did it mean that she was always either furious with Ron, or hurt because of something he did or said, or just plain uncomfortable around him?

She didn’t know what had happened to her; she’d always prided herself on being the rational one, the clever one—but then this last year, she had barely even recognized herself when she was around Ron. He’d just made her so- so angry that she’d retaliated instinctively. And it had hurt her pride that Ron, whom she’d always rather known fancied her, would snog Lavender…

But she didn’t like the person she turned into around Ron, because of Ron. She didn’t like that she was always angry and mean- reacting to the hurt and the confusion she felt and taking it out on the people around her.

She wanted—she wanted things to be simple again. When she, Ron, and Harry were just best friends. She wanted—wanted to like herself again. Wanted to stop feeling this way whenever she was with Ron.

And for the first time, she wondered if, maybe, this was a sign that she and Ron weren’t meant to be more than friends…

After all, hadn’t this started because she thought she fancied Ron and she’d been upset that he’d chosen Lavender over her?

She shook her head to clear it, wiping away her tears with a determined hand. She’d wasted enough time; she needed to get to work.

Harry needed her and she would not let him down. She wouldn’t—not again, not like she’d done this past year by not believing him about Malfoy. Harry needed her—and at that moment, that was more important than anything else.

~*~*~

He hadn’t thought it was possible but the house was even more depressing at night, now that it was empty except for just the three of them.

Around him the house made odd, creaking sort of noises as it settled and he shivered slightly, though not from cold, as he walked aimlessly around.

He’d told Ron and Hermione to go to sleep while he stayed up, to keep watch. He didn’t think anything would happen—at least not tonight. No one knew- yet- where they were, but he didn’t want to take any chances.

Besides, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to sleep anyway, tired as he was.

He kept thinking of leaving the Burrow, of the last look Ginny had given him—and wondering why it was that his promise to Dumbledore hadn’t been the only thing keeping him from confiding in her. Dumbledore hadn’t said anything about keeping the Prophecy secret and he hadn’t wanted to tell Ginny about that either. Even if it didn’t mean all that much—even if he’d still want to destroy Voldemort if no Prophecy had been written—he hadn’t felt comfortable telling Ginny. And what did that mean? He liked Ginny, fancied her—didn’t he? He’d meant what he said when he told her he would hate himself if anything happened to her because she was with him… And yet…

He wondered- gloomily- if the reason he and Ginny couldn’t be together, the reason the memory of those weeks with her at Hogwarts felt like something that had happened to another person, was because he’d been happy in those weeks—and maybe he just wasn’t meant to be happy…

He sighed, wandering down to the kitchen to get a cup of water.

He and Ron had realized in the late afternoon- after hours of trying every destructive or remotely destructive charm or hex or spell they could think of to destroy the locket (an endeavor that had, predictably, ensured that none of the few items in the unused room they’d chosen, remained in one piece while the locket remained unharmed)- that they were hungry—and that in his impatience, it hadn’t occurred to Harry to get any food. He’d just been resigning himself to having to go find some sort of store or something (since he didn’t have much confidence in his ability to just conjure up food like Mrs. Weasley was able to do) when Hermione had walked into the kitchen, with one of the two bags she’d had with her that morning. He’d noticed it that morning but then Ginny and everything else had distracted him and he’d forgotten to wonder why she needed more than one bag to fit her things in, given that she was much better at shrinking things to fit and packing them neatly into a small space than he and Ron were. The extra bag, they’d found, contained food from the Burrow’s kitchen—to Ron’s absolute delight (he’d looked ready to kiss Hermione and had declared, “I love you,” in his first burst of exuberance at which she’d smiled slightly, indulgently almost, and just said, “Go on and eat.”) So they’d eaten after all, simply, basically bread and cheese and some ham, but neither of them had complained. Harry had grinned at her as they ate and mouthed, “Thanks,” and she’d smiled back, flushing a little.

He smiled to himself as he looked at Hermione’s bag, still out on the table. Thank goodness for Hermione and her foresight; he knew, now, that was why he and Ron had come down to find her all ready and waiting for them in the kitchen of the Burrow; she’d come down early to pack enough food for the three of them, for at least a few days.

He threw himself into a chair, his smile fading as his thoughts returned—again—to the sodding, seemingly indestructible locket.

He and Ron had basically wasted a day in blasting at it with a Reductor curse (or ten, to be honest), to Banishing it across the room to smash into the opposite wall, to the Shattering Curse, to the Crushing Hex, to conjuring up a fire and trying to simply melt the gold of the locket down.

And he’d finally realized just how powerful a magical object a horcrux was when the gold didn’t do anything other than become warmer than it had originally been.

In the end, he’d been reduced, more out of frustration than anything else, to simply yelling, “Accio soul!” at the locket—as if simply calling Voldemort’s soul out of the locket would be enough. As he’d rather expected, nothing had happened. He had made a mental note not to mention that little failure to Hermione as he could already hear her voice in his head saying that a soul was hardly likely to be one of those things one could simply summon—and certainly not when it had been sealed into a magical object as powerful as a horcrux.

All in all, the day had been a rather spectacular failure, as far as figuring out how to destroy the horcrux.

Hermione had said she hadn’t found anything yet—although she did say that she wasn’t done skimming through all the books she’d found. Or at least she hadn’t been at dinner. She’d gone back to researching and maybe had found something more out then. But he couldn’t help feeling a pessimistic certainty that she wouldn’t. How likely was it that the Blacks would have a manual on how to destroy a horcrux just lying around? Especially given that it was such an obscure bit of Dark Magic anyway.

And they were basically back to where they’d started.

He sighed and then tensed, automatically reaching for his wand, as he heard a small noise outside the kitchen.

He stood, walking silently and quickly over to the door and opening it—to see Hermione, who started back with a small cry, as the door opened in her face and she was confronted with his wand pointed at her.

He lowered his wand. “Hermione, I nearly hexed you!” He paused and then added, “I thought you were sleeping,” as he stepped back, returning to his chair.

She took the chair beside his and sat down. “I couldn’t sleep, so I got up again and finished going through the books.”

He glanced automatically at the clock on the wall to see that it was just after 2 in the morning; it had taken her 3 hours to go through the 4 books she’d said she still needed to read when he’d told her and Ron to go to sleep. He felt a flicker of amazement for how quickly she could skim through books and—he knew from experience—still not miss pertinent information.

“Did you find anything else out?”

She sighed a little, making a wry face. “That Sirius was right to hate his family, for one thing. The collection of books they have is enough to make me dislike them. A whole lot on things like Muggle-baiting and a good number on Dark magic. There really isn’t anything on horcruxes, though. There was one book called, ‘So You Want to Be Immortal’ that I thought might be of some use—and it, at least, mentioned horcruxes—but nothing that we didn’t already know. That they’re created from dividing your soul through an act of ultimate evil. It did say, though, that hardly anyone knows how to create a horcrux—it’s not taught in any of the wizarding schools in Europe or America, obviously, not even in Durmstrang—and even if they did, most witches and wizards aren’t powerful enough to create one.”

His shoulders slumped slightly. “Oh,” he said, trying and failing to hide his disappointment.

She paused and then continued, more slowly, “I was just thinking. Harry, a horcrux seems to be something like a symbol of ultimate evil; it stands to reason that destroying a horcrux can only be done by someone who is, well, the opposite of that. The only people we know of who have destroyed a horcrux are you and Dumbledore. I think—just from what Sirius said of his brother and what we can sort of guess from what the rest of the family seems to have been like—that Regulus Black didn’t succeed in actually destroying the horcrux—maybe he was even killed before he could; all he could do was hide it here, which he did. I think one of the things we need to destroy a Horcrux, no matter what the ultimate spell is, is someone who is pure of soul. It’s like what Dumbledore called the power of a soul that is whole and untarnished. So at least we know we have that; we have you. And that’s something, isn’t it?”

“I--” he started and then stopped, his throat closing. What could he say? Thank you? It didn’t seem appropriate; she hadn’t said what she had as a compliment; it had only been, for her, a simple statement. She thought he was pure of soul. Why hearing her say something like that meant so much- affected him so much—why he felt a lump of half-embarrassed emotion in his throat—he didn’t know. All he knew was that hearing her say that meant something.

He wished he knew what it was about him that first Dumbledore and now Hermione called his purity of soul—what it was about him that made them believe in him. But he didn’t. He didn’t understand what it was about him that Dumbledore—Dumbledore, who was such a powerful wizard and so wise—could say, as he had, “I am not worried, Harry. I am with you.”

He felt a familiar surge of grief and looked away from Hermione, blinking rapidly. He would not cry. He would not cry. He would not cry…

He cleared his throat, changing the subject automatically. “What’s going on between you and Ron?” he asked, only half-hoping for a real answer.

She stiffened a little and then sighed. “I- I don’t know,” she answered honestly.

He frowned slightly as he looked at her. “You don’t know?” he repeated blankly.

She made a vague motion with one hand. “Things are just—strange—between us now. I don’t know; I thought I fancied him; I do care about him but I don’t know if that’s enough or if I care about him the right way, or- or anything… I just- I just don’t like the person I turn into when I’m around him these days. I don’t like feeling angry or hurt or- or awkward.” She sighed again and then tried to smile at him. “I really shouldn’t be telling you all this; you have so many other more important things to be thinking of right now. You don’t need to be bothered by wondering about me and Ron.”

“I asked,” he reminded her. “Besides, you’re my friends. I want to know—and I want to know that you’re happy. So that at least someone is…” he added under his breath.

She heard him and frowned, putting a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry about Ginny,” she said, rather hesitantly, her voice soft.

“I know,” he finally said, because for some reason he did know. “I don’t-” he began, hesitated and then continued, “I don’t think we were meant to be--somehow. I just wish- wish it could have ended differently.”

He sighed and shrugged a little. “It’s okay, really. Better it happened now than later, I guess,” he finished. He managed a small smile as he looked at her, a smile which she returned.

They sat in silence for a while until he blurted out, “I’m glad you’re here.”

“I’m glad I’m here too.” And she was. Glad to be here, the three of them working together for one goal again; glad to be helping Harry. And glad, just at that moment, to be sitting here beside Harry, not talking but just comfortable, just herself. No need to worry about anything or anyone else, no need to feel self-conscious, no tension, no anger. Just her and Harry. At that moment, in spite of everything, she was happy. And she couldn’t help but wonder—half-guiltily—if maybe this was what was missing between her and Ron. Maybe the lack of this peace, this simple content to just be, with another person, was what was wrong between her and Ron…

And maybe, just maybe, this was what was—right—between her and Harry…

To be continued…

Note: Yes, Ron says he loves Hermione-- just like he did in HBP. Does it matter? No. And frankly I think JKR making Hermione blush over it in HBP is the height of stupidity. It was gratitude, simple gratitude, and nothing more-- over homework and now, food. Yes, very deep. We say we love people all the time out of gratitude; it doesn't mean that much and it is NOT a real declaration of deep feeling. Ron's wasn't and is not a serious declaration and shouldn't have been treated as one in HBP-- because I don't believe he has that sort of real feeling for Hermione. It's called a teenage crush-- that JKR doesn't seem to believe anything besides a teenage crush exists is her problem and yet another reason why her so-called romance doesn't work. So her views on romance have all the emotional range of a teaspoon-- again, that's her problem and it doesn't make us delusional for believing there's more to romance than that.
With that said, *gets off soapbox* Just wanted to get that out there because it really annoyed me in HBP.

Disclaimer: See Part 1.

Author’s Note: Thank you to everyone who’s reviewed this so far- you all rock!

In this chapter: OBHWF plays the Titanic. Enjoy!

From My Soul

Part 4

The letters were late.

It was ridiculous that somehow, in all this uncertainty and despite what this might mean for his search, his first thought on seeing the letters from Hogwarts, delivered by the usual owls the next morning, was that the letters were late.

Only by a few days but they were late.

He’d rather assumed since he hadn’t heard anything a few days ago when the letters usually arrived, that Hogwarts wouldn’t be opening again but these letters proved him wrong.

Hogwarts… He couldn’t imagine Hogwarts without Dumbledore there; he could hardly imagine it without Snape—only there, the difference was a good one. He felt the familiar flare of anger and hatred at the thought of Snape; Hogwarts would be better off without him, although he wondered whether Slughorn would be staying on for Potions and who would be taking over Defense Against the Dark Arts.

And yet, for all his curiosity, there was a sort of detached quality to his questions too. For the first time, he wondered about the coming year without the same sense of it affecting him.

Because he already knew- had decided weeks ago- that he wouldn’t be going back.

He didn’t even bother to open his letter, only put it away. He knew what would be in it; the usual list of supplies and books needed and a reminder of the Hogwarts Express leaving from Kings Cross on September 1. He assumed there would also be an addition reassuring parents and students of Hogwarts’ safety even after Dumbledore’s murder along with what would probably be an explanation of additional safety measures which the school had taken.

He would need to send a reply to McGonagall later, telling her his decision even if he couldn’t tell her exactly what he was doing.

His gaze moved to the letter addressed, in McGonagall’s familiar script, to Hermione Granger.

It was thicker than either his or Ron’s letters and he picked it up, knowing even before he did so, what he would feel.

The Head-Girl badge.

Hermione had done it; she was Head-Girl.

He should be happy for her; this was an accomplishment for her, a goal he knew she’d been working towards. He should be happy.

He wasn’t. All he could feel was a sick sort of terror in his chest—and for a moment, he had a mad impulse to just hide the letters and pretend they’d never come. Let Ron and Hermione think that Hogwarts wasn’t opening again.

But even as he thought it, he had a sudden memory of letters flooding into the house on Privet Drive through the chimneys and bursting through the mail slot—and knew he couldn’t do it.

Besides, it’s dishonest and stealing to hide letters addressed to someone else, the part of his mind that spoke in Hermione’s voice reminded him.

“Morning, Harry,” Hermione said and he glanced at her curiously. She sounded more cheerful than she had in days and he wondered why. Optimism sounded out-of-place in that gloomy kitchen. He made a mental note to ask her about it but at that moment, there was something else to worry about—something that might well make all of what they’d talked over yesterday since finding the locket rather pointless if she wasn’t going to be here.

Silently he handed her, her Hogwarts letter, and then busied himself with pouring a glass of pumpkin juice for her, not wanting to see her expression when she realized she was Head Girl.

He’d been expecting some reaction, some exclamation, but there was nothing and he finally forced himself to look at her.

She was staring at her open letter and the Head Girl badge lying on top of the parchment, an odd expression which he couldn’t read on her face.

“Congratulations, Hermione,” he forced himself to say and then winced at how stiff his tone had been. It was worse than when he’d been upset over not being made a Prefect in 5^th year; his congratulations then had sounded positively enthusiastic when compared with this.

He tried again, managing a small smile. “I always knew you would be.”

“Don’t, Harry,” she finally said and looked up at him, her eyes meeting his. “I’m not taking it.”

He stared blankly at her. “Not- not taking it? But- but, Hermione, it- you--” he stammered, at a complete loss.

She smiled a small, serious sort of smile. “I told you before, didn’t I? I’m staying with you, Harry. I won’t go back to Hogwarts—not if you don’t.”

Thank God. He felt a surge of relief, the fear that had been twisting his insides into knots since he’d seen the letters dissipating.

“But—are you sure?” he asked lamely. “I- I know how important it is to you—and you’ll be missing N.E.W.T’s and- and all that…” He trailed off. He had to protest, had to make sure—even if he knew he’d hate himself if he persuaded her that she should go back to Hogwarts.

“I know that, Harry and I knew it before, when I told you I’d stay with you. I knew that but Harry, don’t you see, it doesn’t matter? There are more important things; this, finding the rest of the horcruxes and destroying them, is more important.”

“More important things, like friendship and bravery,” he said softly, remembering what she’d said so long ago in their first year—and she’d shown that to him over and over these past few years, hadn’t she? Shown just why the Sorting Hat had placed her in Gryffindor—because she was more than just books and cleverness; she was friendship and bravery and—and loyalty.

She smiled and flushed slightly with pleasure at this evidence that he still remembered her words from their first year, and their eyes met and held. “I’m staying with you, Harry,” she repeated and now there was a trace of her usual bossiness in her tone, the tone that promised woe to anyone who disagreed with her or tried to persuade her otherwise.

And all he could say was, “Thanks.” The one word was inadequate to express the depths of his relief and his gratitude but it was all he could say. Thanks… He was grateful- so grateful; he didn’t know what he would have done if Hermione had decided she had to return to Hogwarts after all. What would he do if he had to try and find the other horcruxes on his own? He may have originally planned it that way—but he knew, now, that it had been foolishness to even think it. He couldn’t do it alone—even Dumbledore had said that it required two people to get past the charms guarding the fake locket in the cave; how could he- all on his own- possibly hope to find the other horcruxes, let alone destroy them? He couldn’t do it alone; he needed—he needed Hermione.

It was as simple as that.

And that reminded him of her tone when she had entered the kitchen this morning—and what they’d talked about yesterday.

“Did you think of anything new?” he asked.

“Not about how to destroy the locket,” Hermione said rather reluctantly. “But I did think of something else. Dumbledore said that Voldemort probably hid the horcruxes in some place that had some special meaning for him, like the cave and in the house where his mother’s family had lived and stuff.”

He looked at her curiously. She’d had an idea; he knew the tone of her voice when she was thinking out-loud to verify an idea she’d had. She’d had an idea—and he felt a flare of hope.

“Yeah, what about it?”

“I think-” she paused and then finished rapidly, “I think I know where one of the other horcruxes is. It’s got to be at Hogwarts.”

Hogwarts. Harry stared. Of course, Voldemort would have wanted to hide a horcrux at Hogwarts; it had been his first real home; he’d even wanted to come back to it to teach…

Hope, excitement, surged up inside him—and then dissipated as quickly as it had come, as he thought more about it. “But where in Hogwarts? The castle alone is huge and there are all those rooms we don’t even know about; it could be nearly anywhere. And if he’d tried to hide it just on the grounds, we’ll never find it.”

She smiled now and he stared at her. She found what he’d just pointed out to be funny? “That’s just it, Harry. I think I know where in Hogwarts it would be too. Think about it; he made the diary into a horcrux because it was proof that he was Slytherin’s heir, right? What more significant place to him is there in Hogwarts than the Chamber of Secrets? And, because you need to be a Parselmouth to get in, it’d be safer there than anywhere else in the castle and he probably didn’t even feel the need to put any extra protective spells around it if it’s in the Chamber, which no one other than him really knew where it was and which was guarded by the basilisk anyway; at least it would have been when he put it there. And at the time he never imagined that another Parselmouth—that you—existed to make the Chamber not the completely exclusive place he would have thought, which should work in our favor.”

She frowned slightly, the confidence in her tone faltering slightly at his continued silence. “Harry, what do you think? Do you not agree? I- I haven’t quite worked out just when Voldemort would have had a chance to hide the horcrux there but it just seems the most likely place from what Dumbledore said.”

Harry finally spoke. “I think,” he said slowly, “you’re brilliant.” He grinned at her, excitement breaking through his initial disbelief, first that he hadn’t thought of Hogwarts before and secondly that he was now so much closer to finding the other horcruxes and therefore closer to destroying them. He couldn’t help but feel even a little bit uneasy; shouldn’t it have been harder to find these lockets when it had taken Dumbledore so many months to find the fake locket’s location? But Hermione’s reasoning made sense; made too much sense to ignore and, if nothing else, he trusted her instincts.

Thank goodness for Hermione. What would he do without her?

He got up, energized now, his mind automatically beginning to work things out. They could stop off at Godric’s Hollow, since he still felt he needed to do that, see his parents’ graves, and then go to Hogwarts. And maybe Hermione would be able to find something she’d missed the last time she looked in the Hogwarts library, in the Restricted Section possibly, and he might be able to talk to Dumbledore’s portrait… And, he thought, with much less regret than he would have expected the thought to evoke except that at that moment, he was too hopeful to fully feel the impact of it, he could say goodbye, possibly for good, to the only home he’d ever known.

He gave Hermione a quick hug and a “Thanks!” before he ran to drag Ron out of bed. Ron was, apparently, taking advantage of Mrs. Weasley not being here to sleep in but he needed to tell Ron what was going on.

They had something to do; they could worry about exactly how to destroy the locket later. For now, they had another destination and another horcrux to find.

~*~*~

Godric’s Hollow was a very small little village, he could see immediately.

They had Apparated, as Remus had advised them to do, in the little barrens behind the village church so the townspeople wouldn’t see them.

And now they were here.

The cemetery was beside the church; it too was small and quiet and he swallowed hard as he looked around.

His parents had spent the last months of their lives here; he had spent the first few months of his own life here. His parents had died here…

And he was finally back.

The three of them walked quietly, with unspoken agreement, to the gate which led into the small cemetery where he stopped, suddenly filled with some emotion he couldn’t quite recognize, something that almost made him nervous, reluctant to move forwards.

He was here, finally, at the spot where it had all begun—and suddenly he was inexplicably uncertain.

“We’ll wait here for you, Harry,” Hermione said quietly, sensing Harry wanted to have a few minutes alone with his parents but that he hadn’t wanted to just tell her and Ron to leave him alone.

“I- thanks,” he said with a small, serious sort of smile, before walking slowly forward, further into the small cemetery.

They watched him pause before one headstone and then instinctively, automatically, averted their gazes in an attempt to give Harry some privacy.

And she knew she had to tell Ron now. She didn’t know when she and Ron would have another chance to be alone together and it wasn’t fair to him, to her, to anyone, to keep things between them uncertain and in limbo as they were now. Even these few minutes alone, united as they were in their sympathy for Harry, were filled with so much tension she could hardly stand it, so many doubts, so many questions, so many things unsaid and undone and the memory of the few things they had done…

“Ron,” she began hesitantly, “I- I’m sorry but I- I don’t think we- we’re right together. It- it just isn’t working.”

Ron paled slightly, opening and closing his mouth before he finally sighed heavily and admitted in a low tone, “I know.”

She felt a wave of affection for Ron on seeing how dejected he looked at this admission and for a moment, wished she could say differently. But she couldn’t lie and she couldn’t go on like this; the tension between her and Ron was too much and it was disturbing her sleep and making no one happy… “I- I do care about you, Ron; I just think we work better as friends. It’s- it’s too tense, too awkward, with you as anything more than that. I thought that the tension might mean something but it- it just isn’t enough. Maybe it would have been—before—but now…” She paused and then added, uncertainly, “We’re still friends though, right? Still best friends?” She glanced involuntarily at Harry as she said this; Harry, who needed them both, Harry, who’d really been the one thing keeping her and Ron as friends for those first few years, Harry, whom she cared so much about and whom she was beginning to be afraid she might care too much about…

Ron hesitated for a long moment and she held her breath, suddenly wondering if this would ruin the trio’s friendship just when they most needed to stay together… And then… “Yeah,” he said simply. “Still best friends.” And he too glanced at Harry and then back at her, managing a small, wavering sort of smile.

She returned his smile and gave him a quick half-hug with one arm, suddenly immensely relieved that it was over and they could just go back to being friends again.

They would still bicker, she knew, but it would hurt less and things would go back to the way they had been. Things would go back to normal, be set right… Somehow. And they were still united in their loyalty to Harry, in their search for the horcruxes—and that was more important than anything else.

Harry stared down at the single tombstone that read, simply,

James Potter

Lily Potter

Rest in Peace.

He knew, for Remus had told him when he’d asked about where Godric’s Hollow was, that the tombstone was the standard one automatically given to anyone who died in the parish; there had been no chance in those first days of confusion after his parents had died, for any of the Order or their friends to have a more personalized tombstone made. In those first few days when no one was quite sure what had happened or why and only knew that James and Lily were dead and he, Harry, wasn’t and Voldemort was gone—nobody knew where or how or for how long—there had been no one to give thought to the final burying ground of his parents.

His parents…

He thought of seeing their faces for the first time in his memory in the Mirror of Erised, remembered seeing their ghostly forms come out of Voldemort’s wand in the graveyard at Little Hangleton, remembered seeing his dad and his mum at 15 in Snape’s Pensieve…

And looking down at the tombstone, he suddenly realized he didn’t care anymore what he’d seen in the Pensieve about what his father had been like at 15. James may have been arrogant and he may have made mistakes—but, in the end, when it really mattered, he had shown what kind of person he was—and died to protect his wife and his son.

Mum, Dad, it’s me. I- I wanted to come see you. Dumbledore’s dead now—maybe you know that already. And Sirius is gone too. I- I don’t have anyone else, really. I’m alone now—except for Ron and Hermione. I still have them; I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t.

I’m going to Hogwarts now to see if I can find another horcrux and possibly learn how to destroy horcruxes once I’ve found them. I’ll find them, Mum, Dad, I promise I will and I’ll destroy them all, no matter what I have to do. And then I’ll face Voldemort for good.

It’s what I have to do. What you would have done if you were here.

I- I don’t know what will happen after that. I just wanted to see you, wanted to talk to you—before everything else.

He reached up with one hand to touch the scar on his forehead, remembering when Dumbledore had told him at the end of his first year that love as strong as his mother’s had been for him, left a mark, not visible but present nonetheless, a protection in his blood.

Mum, Dad, I don’t know when I’ll be back but I wanted to say, thank you for loving me. Thank you for saving me. And I- I love you.

He took a shuddering breath, looking up to gaze blankly around him for a moment at the other tombstones, at the village of Godric’s Hollow.

And then with a last look at his parents’ tombstone, he turned away, turned to continue his search and his mission—and somehow, he couldn’t help but fancy that he felt a warm little breeze and heard a voice he’d heard for the first time when he’d faced the Dementors 3 years ago say, we’re still watching over you and we always will be…

He looked up to see Ron and Hermione waiting for him, sympathy, understanding, loyalty on their expressions and in their eyes—and he knew he wasn’t alone. Despite everything that had happened to him, in spite of Voldemort and the dangers, he wasn’t alone… And that was the most important, precious thing he needed to know.

Disclaimer: See Part 1.

Author’s Note: I’m so sorry for how long it’s taken to post this chapter!! And even sorrier that I can’t promise when the next chapter will be written as classes have started for me, severely cutting down on my free time to write (or even think about writing) fics. However, I will try…

Enjoy!

From My Soul

Part 5

Hermione studied Harry as he approached them. He looked subdued, but there was a certain added determination in his eyes, a renewed purpose and for a moment she wondered with an odd pang of loss where the boy she’d once known had gone. He’d grown up, gotten older—and something about this older, somewhat sadder Harry touched a chord deep inside her that the boy Harry hadn’t…

Her lips parted to ask how he was but for once, Ron asked it for her.

“You okay, mate?” he asked, the words laconic enough but the tone filled with all the concern and loyalty of the friendship of years, the sort of concern that Ron would never actually say flat-out except in this sort of simple question.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Harry was quick to assure them, managing the ghost of a smile.

Ron nodded and then with an air of relief, asked, “Are we going to Apparate to Hogwarts now, then?”

“We have to Apparate to the edge of Hogsmeade and then walk to Hogwarts. Remember we can’t Apparate in or out of Hogwarts grounds,” Hermione pointed out, half-amused exasperation in her tone at having to remind him of this yet again.

“I forgot,” Ron said rather sheepishly.

Harry smiled slightly. “So had I, to be honest,” he admitted, glancing at Hermione. “But that’s why we have Hermione to remind us and keep us from splinching ourselves by trying to Apparate onto the grounds.”

He grinned at her—the same half-sheepish, half-grateful grin he’d given her when he’d pointed out that he should have worked on the First Task on his own too.

She blushed a little and smiled.

He blinked at her for a moment, distracted, as a random thought, a random memory, suddenly swam into his mind—seeing Hermione at the Yule Ball in their 4^th year and thinking how pretty she was…

He blinked again and the moment was gone and he was left to wonder what that had been, why he’d thought of that moment of all moments, now when everything about balls and girls and other, normal things like that should be the furthest thing from his mind.

Ron glanced between the two of them with an odd, strained expression on his face before he said with what seemed like forced humor, “Well, come on then. You might think a graveyard’s a perfect summer vacation spot but I, for one, want to get out of here. It’s wigging me out.”

Harry laughed, tucking that strange—whatever-that-had-been—between him and Hermione away into the back corner of his mind. “Meet you there,” and closing his eyes, felt again that sensation of being squeezed through a keyhole, opening his eyes to find himself on the familiar platform of the Hogsmeade Station.

Beside him, he heard a pop and Hermione appeared, followed by another pop behind him and he turned to see Ron.

“Good, we’re all here,” he said and turning, started to walk rapidly in the direction of Hogwarts, suddenly filled with determination. In his mind, the litany of the locket, the cup, the snake, and something of Gryffindor’s or Ravenclaw’s ran, pausing on the cup and something of Gryffindor’s or Ravenclaw’s. It was there—in Hogwarts, in the Chamber of Secrets—it had to be. It was there… And once he found it, he would have found half the horcruxes he needed to find. And he would find a way to destroy them. Somehow.

Behind him, he heard Ron and Hermione hurrying to catch up with him and realized, with the first twinge of guilt, that he’d simply taken off without a word in his own hurry to get this next horcrux. Which was hardly fair, given that without Hermione, he would still be stuck in Grimmauld Place trying to destroy the locket and getting more frustrated at his failure by the minute.

He paused, letting them catch up to him and then falling in step with Ron on one side and Hermione on the other. “I- sorry,” he finally said. “I just- I just want to find this other horcrux, soon—so I’ll be that much closer to—to the end.” He finished rather lamely. He’d been meaning to say, ‘that much closer to being done’ when he’d realized forcefully that having destroyed all the horcruxes meant facing Voldemort for the last time—which wasn’t a guarantee of much, including his own survival.

“It’s ok,” Ron shrugged it off.

Hermione said nothing and he glanced at her, wondering if she could possibly be that annoyed at his having hurried ahead and remembering with an unpleasant twist of his stomach all the times she’d looked and spoken her displeasure at his continuing to use the Half-Blood Prince’s textbook (he really hated having Hermione annoyed at him; it always gave him the nagging, uncomfortable certainty that he must be in the wrong). She had a small frown on her face as she walked, with her usual purposeful step, her gaze fixed ahead of them—and he realized she’d probably not even heard what she said or if she had, she’d dismissed it and was now thinking—planning?—something else.

He waited, watching her—and he could see when she’d decided to speak in the slight altering of her expression—and then he wondered when he’d started being sensitive to even the slightest changes in her expression like this.

“Harry, what do you plan to do?”

He blinked, frowning at this seemingly ridiculous question from Hermione. “What do you mean, what do I plan to do? I plan to go back into the Chamber of Secrets and find the other horcrux, of course.”

Hermione sighed. “Don’t treat me like an idiot, Harry,” she said rather sharply. “I asked because I know you and I knew you’d do this.”

He wondered for a moment when he’d suddenly become dense in the past few minutes; he hadn’t felt dense as of a couple minutes ago… “Do what?”

“Just rush into action without thinking or planning ahead. Harry, you’re a great wizard and the bravest person I know,” she said, not as if she was complimenting him but more as if she was simply stating a fact that was sometimes surprising and he waited for the ‘but’ which was just hovering on the tip of her tongue. And sure enough… “But you really need to learn to think ahead a little. You can’t always count on your luck and thinking on your feet to get you out of things.”

“I don’t,” he protested, a little stung, in spite of the small voice in his head that spoke in her voice, saying she was right and he really should listen. If he had only listened to her at the end of 5^th year, Sirius might still be alive… If he had listened to her about not trusting the Half-Blood Prince… “And my luck and thinking on my feet’s allowed me to survive facing Voldemort four times now so it can’t be all wrong.” He was uncomfortably aware that he was beginning to sound increasingly defensive.

She sighed again. “But Dumbledore was there too, to save you, on at least two of those times,” she reminded him gently, her tone softening.

The mention of Dumbledore ensured that his flicker of annoyance died as quickly as it had been born.

“You’ll leap back down the pipes to get to the Chamber of Secrets and then, when you’ve found the horcrux--” she paused meaningfully, before finishing, “you’ll realize you hadn’t given the slightest thought as to how you’re going to get back out through the pipes since you don’t have Fawkes to count on.”

He deflated. He should have known that Hermione would be right. Again. She was almost always right, the voice of reason. His voice of reason. “You’re right,” he admitted. “Sorry. I was being a prat.”

“No, you weren’t,” she responded and he was relieved to hear a slight smile in her voice. “It’s okay.”

He managed a small, grateful smile at her. “I guess that’s why I have you, to remind me when I’m being reckless.”

She smiled back and thought how—different—it was to disagree with Harry, to tell him when she thought he was doing something wrong, than to disagree with Ron. Harry was (with the exception of their 5th year—but given that he’d spent the year having to carve ‘I will not tell lies’ into his hand for telling the truth, he could hardly be blamed for not wanting to admit he was wrong given that, for the most part, he’d been right) willing to admit mistakes, to acknowledge she’d been right or, at the very least, respect her opinion. She was suddenly reminded how he had been the one to approach her first after ‘the Firebolt incident’ as she’d taken to calling it; he’d been the one to at least accept that she’d had his own good in mind when Ron had not.

But then when was Ron ever willing to admit he’d been wrong or even try to understand her opinion? She couldn’t remember a time. It was why their arguments never seemed to really end; for the most part, they’d simply been brushed aside because of other, more important, life-and-death sort of matters without managing to reach any sort of conclusion or compromise. It had worked up until then because so far, there had always been something—usually Harry-related—that completely overshadowed any argument they had but how long could they continue to rely on that? And she suddenly wondered if maybe that was the reason why their relationship- such as it had been- had never really had the chance to begin. He had comforted her at Dumbledore’s funeral, been really surprisingly sweet and supportive (and she’d begun to think he really had grown, that maybe this tension between them had only been a sign of their being meant to be more than just friends—but once the initial burst of sorrow and shock and grief over Dumbledore’s death had been over, and they’d found themselves back at the Burrow for Bill and Fleur’s wedding, they had slipped back into their usual bickering. The tension hadn’t gone or lessened in any way, only seemed to be worse than it had been—and instead of feeling happy to be at the Burrow, with Ron, she’d spent her time with him feeling angry or hurt—and disappointed that, after all, he really hadn’t changed or grown, was still just Ron, albeit a Ron more willing to be serious when times called for it. The same Ron she’d always known and cared for, simply because it was Ron and he was her best friend too… But nothing more.

She stifled a sigh and glanced at Ron before looking at Harry, who seemed to be mulling over the problem of how to get out of the Chamber of Secrets.

“Just going from what you told me about it, I think a rope might be the only way,” she ventured to say.

“It would need to be a really long rope,” Harry said rather dubiously.

“I can put an Extendability Charm on it so the robe will extend to however long we need it to be. And then when we’ve found the Horcrux and are ready to come out, we can be pulled out.”

“We?” Harry asked, his voice rising slightly. “I was planning to go alone.”

“I’m coming with you,” she said firmly. “You don’t really know what other kinds of protective spells Voldemort might have placed around the horcrux; you might need help.”

“It- it could be dangerous,” Harry warned.

At any other time she might have rolled her eyes at this statement of the obvious—but this was Harry and she knew that, somehow, even now, he still wanted all the danger and all the risk to be his; it was as if he simply couldn’t accept or understand that other people cared enough about him that the risk didn’t matter… “If I were going to be scared away from helping you in anything because of the danger, I’d have avoided you after first year, Harry.” She knew she sounded rather impatient but couldn’t help it. How many times was she going to have to tell him that she cared more about him than about the risk? How many times was she going to have to argue with him about staying with him despite any risk there might be?

But even as she thought it, she knew the answer: as many times as she needed to. She couldn’t even feel irritated at him; it was just part of who he was, his protective streak—and she loved him for it.

They had finally arrived at the front entrance to the castle and they all paused, looking up at the silent castle, and though neither of them said anything, they all knew they were thinking the same thing—that the castle seemed so strangely silent and still during the summer.

After a moment, Harry stepped forward and pulled open the door and they both stepped into the equally silent Great Hall.

Ron turned to head towards the stairs to go to Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom but Harry stopped him by saying, “I- I want to go visit Hagrid for a bit.”

Ron nodded and glanced at Hermione who nodded back and then said, “I’ll come with you.”

“I’m going to go talk to Professor McGonagall,” Hermione said, putting a hand on Harry’s arm. “I want to tell her in person that I won’t be coming back this year—and stuff.”

He nodded. “Yeah, you go do that. We’ll meet you outside of Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom—and I’m sure Hagrid will have rope we can borrow.”

“Okay, I’ll see you there.”

And they separated, Hermione to head towards the Headmaster—that is, the Headmistress’s office, she mentally corrected herself with a pang of grief for Headmaster Dumbledore—and Harry and Ron heading outside towards Hagrid’s hut.

The atmosphere in McGonagall’s office was tense.

Hermione looked down at her hands. She’d felt that she had to see Professor McGonagall in person, had to explain, somehow, why she couldn’t accept the Head Girl position, why she wouldn’t be returning to Hogwarts this year.

Harry and Ron might have been content just to send return owls as they had this morning but she couldn’t, not when they needed to come to Hogwarts anyway.

She knew she’d be disappointing McGonagall, who’d always been her favorite teacher, and she just needed to explain.

Now, she could only wait, feeling awkward and uncomfortable, for McGonagall’s reaction.

“Very well, Miss Granger,” McGonagall finally said. “You are of age and certainly mature enough to make decisions of this sort for yourself. I will say that I hope, when all this is over, you will return to Hogwarts to finish your schooling and take your N.E.W.T’s—although I rather believe you could take them now and still pass,” she added, in an uncharacteristically generous compliment.

Hermione flushed and smiled, looking up. “Thank you, Professor. I appreciate your confidence.”

McGonagall paused, studying Hermione and then glancing up momentarily at the sleeping portrait of Dumbledore, before seeming to make up her mind. “Miss Granger, will you tell me at least something of what you and Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley will be doing? I understand if you do not feel comfortable explaining it all but some. I am sure you know, for instance, where Professor Dumbledore and Mr. Potter went that last evening. I feel, as your professor and as a member of the Order, leaderless as it might presently be, that I am entitled to know.”

Hermione’s smile slipped but she never hesitated. “I’m sorry, Professor, but I can’t tell you what Harry wouldn’t. I may not have promised Harry absolute secrecy on what we’re doing in so many words but I know he meant it and I won’t—I can’t—betray him, not even to you. I’m sorry.”

She stopped, her gaze lowering to the rug beneath her feet, feeling somehow disloyal to Professor McGonagall for refusing what was, really, quite a reasonable request but at the same time, never doubting that her loyalty to Harry and his trust in her, had to come first. She couldn’t have said anything different, didn’t regret her refusal. Harry trusted her; she wouldn’t betray his trust.

The silence in the office stretched until finally, she had to look up to see McGonagall’s expression and was surprised to see something rather like a smile softening her former professor’s usually strict expression.

“I suppose I should have known better than to ask such a thing of you, Miss Granger. And I admire your loyalty to Mr. Potter.” She paused and then added, more softly, “I hope Mr. Potter realizes how fortunate he is to have you for a friend.”

Hermione met Professor McGonagall’s gaze seriously. “He would do the same for me,” she said quietly. It was why Harry inspired friendship and loyalty in others, because they always knew that he’d do the same for them.

“Thank you for understanding,” Hermione said. “This is what I need to do.”

McGonagall nodded, slowly, thoughtfully. “I know. Good luck, Miss Granger.”

Hermione managed a smile as she left the office, feeling as if she’d officially closed one chapter of her life now.

But there was no uncertainty in her heart or in her step as she headed towards Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. This was what she needed to do…

Disclaimer: See Part 1.

Author’s Note: I know it’s been a disgracefully long time since I’ve updated this fic; I didn’t forget about it and I have no excuse except to blame my muses who went AWOL and left me high and dry while giving me plot bunnies for other fics to write out. I am so sorry!!

This chapter is longer than the rest in an attempt to make up for the long wait. Thank you all for your patience!! I hope this is worth it.

From My Soul

Part 6

Harry and Ron were waiting outside of Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom when Hermione arrived, Harry with a large coil of rope under his arm.

Hermione smiled at the sight of them, Ron shifting from foot to foot, Harry not moving, but both of them looking distinctly reluctant to enter the bathroom. “How was Hagrid?”

“He was fine,” Harry answered briefly but something about the expression that crossed his face told Hermione that seeing Hagrid for almost the first time since Dumbledore’s funeral had been difficult for Harry. She made a mental note to ask Harry about it later.

“Ready to say hello to Myrtle?” she asked instead, glancing at them both teasingly.

Ron snorted and Harry grimaced.

“I think I’d rather go eat one of Hagrid’s rock cakes,” Ron grumbled.

“You should talk,” Harry groused. “Myrtle doesn’t go all- well, girly- when she sees you.”

“Girly? And what’s that supposed to mean?” Hermione asked, her hands going to her hips.

Did that mean Myrtle fancied Harry?

I knew that, another part of her mind asserted. What’s the problem? She’s dead, anyway.

But Harry’s mine!

Wait- what? Hermione’s mind stuttered at the thought, swiftly retreating from her instinctive—and possessive—response. Now I’ve seen everything, jealous of a dead girl’s ghost. She made a mental note to never, ever mention it to Ron or he would probably laugh himself into fits.

Harry colored. “All, you know--” he made an awkward gesture with one hand, “fluttery and giggly and stuff.”

“Fluttery and giggly and stuff,” Hermione repeated. “So that’s what you think I’m like too?” Whatever Harry had meant by the term, ‘girly’ he hadn’t meant it as a compliment—and somehow, she found she needed to know that he didn’t automatically classify all girls—oh who was she kidding, she just cared about what he thought of her—in the ‘annoying’ category.

Harry looked stunned at the question. “What, no!”

“Well, I am a girl, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“I know that, but you’re--” Harry flapped his hand through the air in a gesture of frustration, “you’re different. You’re—I don’t know—better.”

Hermione smiled in spite of herself. Harry looked so—cute—when he was flustered like this, and she wasn’t indifferent to his inadvertent compliment either. Her minor irritation vanished like mist in sunshine. “Okay, let’s go find the next horcrux.”

“Just what I always wanted. Little pieces of You-Know-Who’s soul,” Ron muttered sarcastically under his breath as they opened the door and stepped inside.

“Which sink was it?” Hermione asked Harry quietly.

“That one,” Harry said, pointing.

He opened his mouth to say something else but he was interrupted by a small splashing noise and then Moaning Myrtle’s voice, sounding surprised and very pleased. (Fluttery, Hermione couldn’t help but think, and suppressed a smile at the accuracy of Harry’s description.) “Oh, it’s you. Hello, Harry.”

Myrtle gifted Harry with what was probably meant to be a flirtatious smile.

Harry colored, looking as if he wished he were anywhere else. “Hello, Myrtle.”

“Hi, Myrtle,” Hermione said.

Ron said nothing, looking around as if he half-expected girls to come out of the stalls and demand what he was doing in the girls’ bathroom.

“What are you doing here? School’s out, you know. It’s very lonely here in the summer,” Myrtle added.

“I- we- I had to find something,” Harry finally said. “It’s- uh- it’s good to see you,” he lied, turning to face the sink.

He narrowed his eyes as he focused on the serpent carved into the faucet, ignoring the sound of Myrtle’s pleased little giggle, shifting slightly until it almost looked like the serpent moved. “Open up,” he ordered.

Hermione shuddered slightly at the sound of Harry speaking Parseltongue, that strange, hissing coming from Harry’s mouth. There was always an odd look in his eyes when he spoke Parseltongue that made him look different, somehow, dangerous—until she could almost understand how people could have suspected him of being the heir of Slytherin in their 2^nd year.

And then she forgot all about that as the tap glowed with a bright white light and began to spin, before the sink sank, slowly, until it was completely out of sight, leaving a large pipe exposed.

So, that’s the entrance to the Chamber, Hermione thought, staring. She suddenly wondered how on earth Salazar Slytherin had first managed to create the Chamber and then kept it secret for so long. It couldn’t have been easy to make one of the pipes so much larger than the others, big enough for a body, to extend down below the Castle so far.

“Well, here goes,” she muttered and stepped forward, but Harry stopped her with a hand on her arm.

“I’ll go first,” he said simply. “You bring the rope when you come after me, okay?”

She nodded, taking the roll of rope from him.

Harry glanced at Ron who had gone slightly pale and tried to smile. “It’ll be okay; the basilisk’s dead, you know.”

Ron nodded, his throat moving as he swallowed. “Yeah. Be careful down there, though.”

“Right,” Harry said and taking a breath, stepped forward and then jumped into the pipe.

Hermione jumped in spite of herself as Harry disappeared into the darkness of the pipe.

Getting a hold of herself, she pointed her wand at the rope with a quiet, “Prolatium,” and knew from the slight tremor that went through the rope that the Lengthening Charm had worked.

She handed one end to Ron. “Keep a hold of this.” She paused. “On second thought, tie it to something solid, like one of the faucets or something. When we’re ready to be pulled out, I’ll send up some sort of signal and you can pull us up.”

Ron wrinkled his nose, looking doubtful. “Uh, pull you both up? By myself?”

Hermione sighed slightly. “I’ll make sure I cast a Feather-light Charm on both me and Harry so we’ll hardly weigh a thing.”

“Right.” Ron looked relieved. “Hermione, do you know exactly what you’re looking for?”

Hermione smiled rather self-deprecatingly. “No, not exactly. I know that it probably isn’t Hufflepuff’s cup, but other than that, it could be pretty much anything.”

“Oh good. Well, that narrows it down a lot,” Ron said sarcastically.

“I know.” Hermione’s expression softened slightly as she added, “But it’s what we have to do.” For Harry, she added in thought, for Harry.

“I know.”

Ron nodded, once, and then gestured with his head to the gaping opening of the pipe. “Go on then, get down there.”

After tying her end of the rope to her wrist and taking a breath and a tight grip on her wand, Hermione stepped into the open mouth of the pipe.

Her first thought was, ugh, at the grimy dampness of the pipe as she bumped and slid and fell down, down, down. She could see flashes of other, smaller pipes branching off as she fell and had begun to wonder just how far underneath the school the Chamber was when she felt the pipe begin to level out and she shot out of the end to land with a thud on—

A mattress?

Hermione stared, her free hand (the one not gripping her wand with a force that made her knuckles white), going down to press against the mattress experimentally. Yes, it was definitely a mattress.

“Harry?” she called, raising her voice a little as she untied the rope from around her wrist.

From a slight distance she heard a small scuffling noise and then saw a light appear, with Harry behind it.

“I went ahead to try to clear some of the rubble that blocked the tunnel when Lockhart’s spell rebounded the last time,” Harry explained.

She picked herself up off the mattress, stepping off it, and murmuring, “Lumos” to light her own wand as well. “And the mattress?”

She could see that he flushed slightly from the light from her wand as he waved his wand at the mattress which promptly transfigured itself back into his jacket. “I- er- landed kind of hard on my tailbone and I figured there was no point in making you go through the same thing.”

Hermione decided then and there that Harry was undoubtedly the sweetest boy in the world and any girl who knew him and didn’t fall in love with him was either stupid or crazy—and, whatever else she might be, Hermione was neither. But all she said was, “Thanks.”

“Are you okay, though, if you landed so hard?” she asked as she glanced around at the large stone tunnel they were standing in.

“I’m fine.” Harry looked at the rope hanging from the opening of the pipe. “This was a good idea of yours,” he commented.

She smiled slightly. “Thanks.”

He lifted a shoulder a little as if to shrug off her thanks and set off back down the tunnel.

She followed, trying not to shudder at the darkness and the general, well, creepiness of the place (for lack of a better word).

Her foot crunched on something and she started, just barely managing to bite back a cry, looking down to find it was what looked like the bones of a rat.

And then the next minute she couldn’t keep from letting out a sharp gasp and instinctively grabbing onto Harry’s arm.

It was a snakeskin.

It was, amazingly, still almost completely preserved and she suddenly remembered reading in her 2^nd year that the basilisk was no ordinary snake in that its scales were, much like the hide of a dragon, very strong and couldn’t be penetrated by even Stunning spells, making the basilisk that much harder to defeat. And somehow, even though she’d read about how large basilisks could get, seeing the sheer size of its shed skin was shocking. It was enormous, had been enormous.

“You fought and killed that?” she let out in a stunned whisper, feeling, for the first time, a bit of amazement at all Harry had done combine with all her usual feelings of affection for him.

Harry glanced at her. “I didn’t do it alone. I had Fawkes and Gryffindor’s sword—and I knew what I was going up against because of you.”

She tried to smile but could only manage a twitch of her lips.

“Did you—have a plan for how to kill the basilisk when you came down here that time?”

“There wasn’t really time to think about a plan; I just sort of did what I needed to. My main ‘plan’ was not to get killed.” He glanced at her again, a slight smile on his face. “But at least I knew what I was facing and so I knew not to look at it. Thanks for that, by the way.”

She returned his smile with one of her own. “No problem.” After all, Harry was still Harry…

“And here,” Harry began, stopping before the rubble from where part of the tunnel had caved in, “is where your dear, charming Professor Lockhart stole Ron’s wand and tried to Obliviate us both so he could get the credit for trying to rescue Ginny while leaving us—and Ginny—for dead.”

Hermione blushed. “I- he wrote books and I believed them!”

“Yeah, you and every other female in the wizarding world—and of course your fancying him had nothing to do with his hair and smile.”

“Okay, well, maybe a little of it had to do with his smile,” Hermione admitted. “Am I ever going to live that down?”

Harry grinned. “Nope.”

Hermione rolled her eyes but couldn’t keep from smiling—mostly because she was just so glad to see Harry smile and have him tease her, so glad that he was acting like himself again. It really meant so much to her to see him smiling, to see the humor in his eyes chase away the shadows that had been lingering in them for so long now.

“Come on,” Harry said, taking her hand and helping her clamber through the opening in the rubble.

She didn’t let go of his hand when they were through, her heart fluttering slightly at her own boldness—and neither did he. He didn’t react, didn’t act any differently, but he retained his grip on her hand. They just kept walking down the tunnel as it twisted again.

“How long is this tunnel?” she finally asked after a moment.

“Not much longer,” Harry answered. “It seemed a lot longer the last time,” he added, “but then I was half-expecting to see the basilisk around every corner so every step might as well have been a kilometer.”

She tightened her fingers around his, feeling an odd mixture of guilt and relief that she hadn’t been conscious that last time, guilt because she hated the idea of him having to go through all that alone but relief because she just knew that she would have died from worrying over him if she had known that he had gone down to the Chamber to face the basilisk alone.

They turned another corner—and there it was.

The end of the tunnel. It was a solid wall with two snakes carved into it, their eyes set with large emeralds.

She shivered in spite of herself, even though she knew the snakes were only carvings; they just looked so—alive, so menacing.

Beside her, she heard the strange, sibilant hissing sound of Parseltongue and the wall cracked open, the two halves sliding out of sight.

And hand in hand, they stepped into the Chamber of Secrets.

Hermione’s first thought was, this room is huge. The next was that Salazar Slytherin had gone out of his way to make it very clear that this chamber was meant for Slytherin and members of Slytherin House alone—although Hermione figured that with the basilisk around, anyone but Slytherin would be dead on entrance.

Pillars upon pillars, all carved with yet more snakes and all too tall to see the tops of, towered before them, lining the walls.

She shivered again and tried to joke, “I think I’m sensing a common theme here.”

Harry cracked a slight smile, glancing at her, his eyes warm. “Something like, ‘snakes are good’?”

“Or, ‘Slytherins only; everyone else keep out.’”

He laughed softly. “Oh darn. And I was really looking forward to having a party down here too.”

“Too bad. You’ll have to find some other creepy place to hold a party in.”

They exchanged grins, which faded as they came up to the bones of the basilisk lying in the way.

“Well, there it is. Tom Riddle’s idea of the perfect pet. Poisonous with eyes that kill on sight,” Harry said rather flatly.

“Right,” Hermione responded rather shakily as they stepped around the enormous skeleton.

Harry swallowed and then pointed to the spot at the foot of the statue of Salazar Slytherin. “That’s where Ginny was lying when I found her,” he said, his voice suddenly colorless and flat.

The sound of Ginny’s name made Hermione instinctively draw her hand back from Harry’s, an automatic reaction to the reminder of Ginny’s existence as Harry’s—sort of—former girlfriend.

He let her go and she tried not to feel hurt, tried not to read anything into it except a very understandable distraction now that he was here, in this room where he’d nearly died the last time he’d been here.

She mentally shook herself for having let their purpose in coming here in the first place slip her mind, for even a moment. They couldn’t afford distractions, had no time for them. They had a mission to fulfill.

She looked around, trying to see if there were any spots which could conceivably have been used to keep some object in, but quickly gave up the attempt. The sheer size of the Chamber—to say nothing of its solid stone walls made the idea of actually finding the horcrux—especially given they didn’t know what exactly it was—something close to impossible.

Instead she moved to stand in the approximate center facing the statue of Salazar Slytherin (who looked, she decided, more monkey-like than human although that may have been an effect of the grimace on his face).

“What are you doing?”

She paused and glanced at Harry who was studying her curiously. “I’m going to try out a spell I read about in one of the books in the library at Grimmauld Place. It’s a sort of Dark object detection spell. People used it when they broke into places for some talisman or other but didn’t know exactly where to find it.”

“How does that work?”

She hesitated, frowning slightly. “I- er- I think it works something like echolocation—do you know about that, how bats manage to fly without crashing into things?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I remember reading about it one time the Dursleys dragged me to the zoo.”

A slight shadow crossed her face at the mention of the Dursleys but she continued on. “The way I understand it, every magical object radiates its own power; the spell is a sort of signal that should reflect off the magical object and tell the spell-caster where it is. The more powerful the object, the more powerful the signal.”

“Are you sure you know how to do this?” he asked after a moment.

She managed a small smile. “Not entirely. I just read about it the other day and memorized it because I thought it could be useful. But I’m pretty sure it’ll work just like any other spell.” She tried to inject as much confidence as possible into her voice.

Harry didn’t look quite as reassured as she’d hoped but she raised her wand. “Atrum refero revelator.”

She felt a slight tremor go through her wand as the jet of magic left—and then she was being pressed, buffeted from every side, felt as if she were suffocating, being squeezed through a very small hole, was vaguely aware of crying out from the pain of it and then a final blast of power hit her full-on and she went flying backwards.

It happened so fast. Harry could only watch, rigid with shock and horror and fear, the expression of escalating pain on Hermione’s face before she flew backwards several feet to land hard, and it was only then that he managed to yank his feet from where they seemed to have taken root and rush to Hermione’s side.

Oh God, oh God, oh God… The words had started a terrified litany in his brain as he fell to his knees, taking one limp hand into his, chafing it, as he studied her face frantically for some sign of life.

There was a thin trickle of blood coming from her nose and, oddly, in one of those ridiculous judgments made in times of panic, that was the only thing he could think to solve as he hastily fished around in his jacket pocket for a napkin he thought he remembered having absently shoved into it, pulling it out and transfiguring it into a handkerchief.

He gently dabbed at the blood on her face and then stopped, holding his breath, his hand holding the now-soiled handkerchief pausing in mid-air, as Hermione gave a soft moan, the hand which he still held twitching, and then her eyes fluttered open slowly.

It was another moment before she blinked and her gaze focused on his face.

“Hermione, are you okay? Can you move?”

A frown wrinkled her forehead before she nodded, once, slowly. “I think so.”

Tentatively, moving one muscle at a time, she slowly moved to sit up as Harry helped her up, his hands gentle.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked in concern.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine,” Hermione assured him, trying to smile. “Just a little sore.”

He didn’t look entirely convinced but let it go. “Er- was that supposed to happen?” he asked instead.

“Not really, no.” A slightly sheepish expression crossed her face. “I had thought because no one’s been down here for so long any remnants of Dark magic from the basilisk and everything would be gone but Slytherin put more than just magic into creating this Chamber. The walls are positively permeated with something of his spirit and the Darkest magicks he could infuse into stone. It made the reflection from the spell a lot more powerful than it should have been and, well, you see what that did.”

“Yeah.”

She winced as she struggled to her feet. “But I don’t think it was entirely a waste. That last blast that knocked me off my feet was much stronger than the rest so I think that was the reflection from the horcrux.”

Harry—to his own amazement—found himself thinking, forget about the sodding horcrux; you’re hurt, and then paused to be stunned at how easily he could dismiss the horcrux, which was after all the only clue he had to finally defeating Voldemort, because of Hermione being injured.

Hermione pointed her wand at herself and murmured a quick Pain-Relieving Charm and the lines of strain smoothed out from her face.

He kept his hold on her arm, as if afraid she might not be able to stay on her feet, as she approached the statue of Slytherin, tilting her head back to look at its face.

“I think the face of the statue is the most likely place for us to find anything; it’s got crevices for something to be put in.” She paused and then looked at him, saying simply, “You’re going to have to levitate me up.”

He stared. “I- what?”

“You’re going to have to levitate me. I can’t climb up the statue; the stone is too smooth.”

“But—are you sure you’ll be okay? You were just knocked out and—why don’t you levitate me instead?”

“I’ll be fine and it needs to be me because I’m smaller than you are. Whatever the horcrux is and wherever it is, it’s probably in some little cranny. Plus,” she pointed out reasonably, “you know it’s easier to control something smaller and lighter when you’re trying to levitate it.”

“But—but--” he stammered, trying to think of some other logical reason he could give and failing. She was, as usual, right.

Hermione’s expression softened and she put her hand over his which still held her arm. “I really am fine, Harry. I promise. I wouldn’t do this if I weren’t sure I could handle it.”

He sighed slightly, giving in. “Okay. Just—be careful up there.”

He released his hold on her arm, stepping back slightly to give her room. “Ready…”

Hermione nodded, trying not to tense.

“Mobilicorpus,” Harry said, his wand pointing at her and then moving ever so slowly upwards.

Hermione bit her lip to keep from crying out as she felt her feet leave the ground. It was, undoubtedly, one of the oddest sensations in the world to feel herself floating like this, rising higher and higher.

Harry clenched his jaw, his grip tightening on his wand, keeping his gaze locked on Hermione so he didn’t send her bumping into the statue. It seemed to take forever but was, in reality, about a minute before she was level with the statue’s parted mouth and managed to reach out and rest her feet on the statue’s lower lip, keeping her balance by clinging to the statue’s nose.

Harry hardly dared to blink as he kept his wand trained on her in case she lost her grip.

Hermione swallowed hard, keeping herself from looking down by dint of will, as she peered into the gaping aperture that was the statue’s mouth, seeing nothing although she could sense that the mouth must have served as the basilisk’s bed, of sorts, and tried not to shudder at the thought. Her gaze moved on, over the statue’s stone features, the deep-set eyes carved into the stone… And then stopped, her gaze caught by something on the statue’s left eye. Holding her breath, she straightened, reaching up her hand slowly.

The statue’s left eye was different from the right, she could see. Where the pupil of the eye should be, a small, narrow little orifice had been carved.

Moving very slowly, very carefully, Hermione worked her fingers into the chink in the stone, her breath catching as her fingers brushed against something cool and hard and most definitely not made of stone.

She flattened her fingers on top of it and then dragged it out until she could close her fingers around it.

She felt a surge of elation but refrained from reacting. Not now, not while she was perched so precariously God-only-knew how many feet above the stone floor of the Chamber.

She kept her fist closed tightly around the small metal object as she called down to Harry, “I got it! You can get me down now.”

Harry sucked in his breath, pushing aside his rising excitement to focus on bringing Hermione back down.

“Mobilicorpus,” he murmured again, moving his wand slowly down this time, keeping his gaze still fixed on Hermione as he lowered her to the ground.

The moment her feet touched the ground, Hermione whirled and threw herself at him in a hug that knocked him back a step.

“Oh Harry, we found it! We did it!”

He returned her hug, feeling himself laugh, partly from shared excitement and partly from amusement at her exuberance.

It was a moment before she let go of him and held out her closed fist between them.

Their heads bent over her hand as she uncurled her fingers revealing the second horcrux.

It was a key.

They both caught their breath. This was it, they knew it. It was a small key, dull and tarnished from age. The top part of the key had been intricately shaped and in the metal-work, they could discern the letter R.

And they both knew they were thinking the same thing. R for Ravenclaw.

Their eyes met and they exchanged smiles. They had done it; they had found the next horcrux.

~*~

To be continued...

A/N 2: About the basilisk's shed skin still being pretty much intact, I'm fully aware that a normal snakeskin would likely not exist anymore after more than 4 years but I figured that the basilisk is no ordinary snake and its skin is much tougher than any normal snakes would be and so would still exist. The little tidbit about it being able to withstand Stunning Spells (like dragon hide) is from the HP Lexicon and is speculation but it made sense to me so I used it. Beyond that, any other quibbles with the basilisk's remains as compared to what a normal snake's might be, I can only say that I was too much of a snake-phobic to look up any more information on snake remains and decided that the basilisk is just special- so whatever I said, goes. ;-)

Also, the next chapter is pretty much done already so it will not be 5 months before I update this again. ;-)

Disclaimer: See Part 1.

Author’s Note: As a sort-of (belated) birthday post for a certain Ron Weasley’s birthday—this chapter that has some Ron-the-best-friend goodness (as well as some H/Hr.) Enjoy!

From My Soul

Part 7

“We did it,” Hermione breathed, still studying the key in her hand.

“No, you did it,” Harry corrected, giving her a quick one-armed hug. And then he did something he had never done before and kissed her on the cheek. “Thank you,” he said sincerely.

She caught her breath and stared at him, feeling herself blush from the surprise and the startling warmth of his lips on her cheek, a warmth she could still feel lingering.

He averted his eyes to look back at the key in her hand, reaching to take it, rubbing the key against his shirt in a mostly futile attempt to clean it from the dirt and grime of decades, and then slipping it into his pocket.

“Come on, we should get back to Ron,” he began, striving to sound indifferent. He didn’t know what had possessed him to kiss her but he had simply felt so—grateful—to have her with him, for her cleverness which had gotten them this far, to finding the second horcrux so soon and relatively painlessly and he had given in to his impulse and kissed her… But what made him suddenly so self-conscious wasn’t just that he had, rather uncharacteristically, initiated some physical contact or even that, after all, he had never kissed Hermione before, but his own reaction to it. He could still feel the softness of her cheek against his lips; he had been able to catch her scent too, a slight pleasant fragrance, a mix of strawberries and some floral scent he couldn’t identify, other than to know that he liked it. Liked it amazingly.

Once he reached that point in this thoughts, he mentally back-tracked. He had no business liking what Hermione smelled like, no business thinking about what Hermione smelled like, period.

They left the Chamber in silence, Hermione thinking how different it was from when they had walked into it just a little while ago. They had walked in holding hands and now, they were leaving it with a distance of a few feet between their bodies and an even greater distance between their minds. She could feel that Harry had retreated, again, into himself, after that all-too-brief moment of openness.

She stifled a sigh, glancing at him as he walked quickly down the tunnel, and then mentally shook herself.

She shouldn’t be spending so much time thinking about Harry and her feelings for him. They had two horcruxes now but still no idea as to how to go about destroying them and even less of an idea as to where to begin searching for the other horcruxes.

So, somehow, they were back to the beginning—or worse, because they really were going in blind now. Figuring out that RAB was Regulus Black and that the locket was in Grimmauld Place had been a beginning. Finding the key in the Chamber had been another step forward—and now they had nothing more to go on.

They still had Hufflepuff’s cup to find—wherever it was, to say nothing of another horcrux which might be Nagini but might not be. And she had exhausted the library of Grimmauld Place still with no clue as to how a horcrux might be destroyed. And destroyed without dying somehow in the process. She shuddered at the memory of Dumbledore’s deadened hand—and Dumbledore had been, well, Dumbledore. Had been so powerful and so knowledgeable. If destroying the horcrux had nearly killed Dumbledore, what might it do to them?

It didn’t bear thinking about.

Harry was waiting for her where the tunnel had caved in and offered her his hand to help her climb through the rubble.

She thanked him with a quick smile which he returned, and she suddenly felt immeasurably better.

“Harry,” she began once they were on the other side, “I think you should tell Professor McGonagall about the horcruxes.”

He turned to look at her. “Dumbledore didn’t and he made me promise I wouldn’t tell anyone but you and Ron.”

“I know but, Harry, Dumbledore’s gone and I think he would agree you should tell Professor McGonagall. She’s the one with access to all of Dumbledore’s books in his office that probably would be more useful than anything we can find in the Hogwarts library or anywhere else. Plus, I’m sure that once Professor Dumbledore’s portrait wakes up, she’ll ask him and he’ll tell her. She can help us, Harry, and we need help.”

She paused and then added softly, “You should trust her, you know. You need to trust somebody.”

He sighed. “If I don’t agree, you’ll just keep at me until I do, won’t you?” he asked rather ruefully.

She colored. “I don’t want to nag. You can tell me to shut up if I bother you.”

“I would but you don’t bother me,” he interrupted. “And anyway, you’re right.”

She smiled. “I don’t bother you?”

“No.” He paused and then added, “I’ll tell McGonagall when we get back up to the castle.”

“Okay.”

“And Hermione, I trust you.”

She blinked. “I trust you too but why are you telling me this now?”

“Before, you said I need to trust somebody. I wanted you to know I trust you and I trust Ron. And so did Dumbledore.”

Her smile was soft. “Thanks.”

They reached the rope and Hermione sent up her Patronus to alert Ron to start pulling them up.

She turned to Harry to find he had already performed the Lightening Charm on himself and then she felt him perform it on her and she smiled at how he had anticipated her.

He clutched the rope and quirked a half-smile. “Now you get to act like you love me and hold on really tight.”

Hermione flushed as she moved to hold on to the rope with one hand and put her other arm around Harry’s shoulders, as he put his free arm around her waist, her grip tightening almost convulsively as she felt the rope begin to be pulled upward and their feet slowly felt the floor of the tunnel.

She hid her face in Harry’s shoulder to conceal the blush she couldn’t help as well as the flare of pleasure at having Harry’s arm around her like this, pressed so tightly against him. Her heart was beginning to clatter. She thought of Harry’s words, Now you get to act like you love me, and all she could think at that moment was, I don’t need to act. I do love you…

Ron had never in his life been so glad to see a Patronus than he was to see the white form of Hermione’s Patronus come out of the pipe. He knew it hadn’t actually been that long since Harry and Hermione had gone down to the Chamber but it felt like it had been hours as he waited, with unconcealed impatience, uncomfortable to be alone in the girls’ bathroom, uncomfortable to be alone with Moaning Myrtle of all people.

And then he saw the otter. “Thank Merlin,” he breathed, surprising himself at the measure of relief he felt. He’d been telling himself that there was no cause to worry, that the basilisk was long dead and there couldn’t be anything else living down there but he hadn’t been able to keep from wondering. It was the Chamber of Secrets that had been built by a bloke as twisted and mental as Slytherin and used by the even more twisted and mental You-Know-Who; there was no knowing what else might still be lurking down there.

But now he could see that they were, apparently, fine and could perform his part in this whole hunt. He began pulling on the rope, smiling slightly when the rope came easily with only a light weight, as if of some relatively small rock tied to the end. Good, Hermione hadn’t forgotten to perform the Lightening Charm. He pulled slowly, methodically, remembering all too well how many twists and turns the pipe had. He didn’t want to pull Harry and Hermione up covered with bruises as he had no wish to be on the receiving end of Hermione’s annoyance. To say nothing of the fact that, after all, Harry had quite enough troubles on his mind; he didn’t need to be bruised and battered by his own best friend in the process.

It was a few minutes before he saw the tops of Harry’s and Hermione’s heads, frowning slightly at how close they were. He had forgotten that they would need to hold on to each other to be pulled up together and felt a queer sensation, like his stomach had twisted, at the sight of Harry and Hermione clinging together.

It didn’t mean anything; it was only because they had to, he assured himself, trying to ignore the odd feeling. Besides, he and Hermione were just friends now; he didn’t fancy her like that anymore. It was fine…

Harry looked up and met Ron’s eyes as he pulled them up the rest of the way. “We found it,” he told Ron with a grin.

“What was it?” Ron asked, returning Harry’s grin as Harry let go of Hermione and stood up.

Harry opened his mouth but was momentarily distracted by the sight of the sink coming back up, once more blocking the entrance to the Chamber. Hermione had stood up also, brushing futilely at her clothes which were grimy from sliding down the pipe.

“Hermione found it,” Harry began, his attention returning to Ron, as he put his hand into his pocket and pulled out the key, showing it to Ron.

Ron bent over the small key, his expression a combination of fascination and apprehension. “I’m assuming this is what once belonged to Ravenclaw. What d’you suppose it unlocks?”

“I have no idea,” Harry admitted. “I don’t really care, though. This must be it, the next horcrux.”

“Where was it?” Ron asked, frowning slightly as he tried to picture the Chamber from what Harry had told him about it.

“It was in the statue of Salazar Slytherin,” Hermione answered. “Voldemort carved a little hole in the left eye of the statue and stuck the key inside it.” She ignored Ron’s flinch at her saying Voldemort’s name.

“The left eye? I wonder why he chose the left one,” Ron murmured idly, more to himself than anyone else.

“Sinister,” Hermione said.

Harry and Ron both stared at her. “What?” Harry asked.

“What are you talking about?” Ron asked, his tone suggesting he thought she was mental.

“Why Voldemort chose the left eye. I think we can be sure it was deliberate; we know he put a lot of thought into the horcruxes and where he hid them. It’s because it was sinister.”

Ron frowned. “Okay, now you’re talking in riddles. We know You-Know-Who is sinister; what does that have to do with anything?”

Hermione let out a breath in mild irritation. “No, sinister—it means left in Latin. It’s how it came to mean evil in our time; it’s from the Latin word, left.” She pointed to her right eye. “This is ‘dexter’ in Latin; this,” she continued, pointing to her left eye, “is ‘sinister.’ Voldemort chose the left eye. He had sinister intent and so he hid a horcrux in the sinister eye of Slytherin.”

“You’re brilliant,” Harry breathed.

Hermione smiled at Harry.

“I actually think it’s sort of amusing, in an ironic way, that he hid it where he did.”

“And there is something so very scary about you saying that,” Ron interjected.

“I think I have to agree with Ron on this,” Harry added.

Hermione let out a huff of exasperation. “I didn’t say I think he was right to create a horcrux or anything. I’m just saying the play on words is rather amusing. Not that Voldemort or the horcruxes are amusing.”

Harry couldn’t help a smile. Hermione was so—cute—when she was annoyed.

Ron gaped at Harry this time, his jaw dropping slightly. “What did you just say?”

Hermione too stared at Harry, her cheeks flushing. “I- what?”

Harry looked from Ron to Hermione and realized he’d said that Hermione was cute out-loud. Oh bugger. Sodding bloody hell.

He glanced frantically around, looking for the hole in the ground that must have just opened up so he could leap into it and never come out again—or for the pipe leading to the Chamber to have opened up again—but the sink remained in place and there was no hole in the bathroom floor. Bugger bugger bugger.

He hadn’t just said that. He could not have just said that aloud.

Only—he had.

“Er- I didn’t mean that,” he said hastily. “I meant- um- I meant…”

“Give it up, Harry,” Ron advised, his lips twitching, despite his shock, at Harry’s stuttering. “I think you’ve made what you meant pretty clear in what you said.”

Harry decided he could probably light a fire with how hot his face felt. If Ron and Hermione were together—were they together? They didn’t act like it; Ron didn’t treat Hermione any differently, and Hermione had just said that things were “strange” between them, whatever that meant… And Ron didn’t look like he was going to hex Harry for having more-than-friendly thoughts about his girlfriend and that was something, right?

“Can we- uh- get out of the girls’ bathroom now?” Ron finally asked, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

Harry tried to smile but could only manage a twitch of his lips. “Oh right, yeah.”

“And I don’t know about you two but I’m starved. I’m going to head down to the kitchens, see if the house elves can rustle up some lunch,” Ron declared.

Harry suddenly realized it was past lunch-time and they hadn’t eaten. He was actually hungry too; he just hadn’t thought about it while down in the Chamber of Secrets. “I’ll come with you.”

Hermione set off in a different direction, calling over her shoulder, “Get some food for me. I’m going to go to the library and I’ll meet you guys outside of the Headmaster’s office, okay?”

“Okay,” Harry answered.

“Why’re we going to see McGonagall?” Ron asked, turning to frown slightly at Harry.

“To tell her about the horcruxes and see if she can help us.” He hesitated and then asked, “You’re not—mad—about what I said to Hermione, are you?”

“No, I’m not mad. Surprised—and I think you might be as mental as she can be—but I’m not mad. Hermione and I—well, it never exactly happened; it was practically over before anything had begun.”

“Oh.”

“So you- er- fancy Hermione now?”

Harry blinked, his steps slowing slightly. “I- um- I don’t know.”

“You really think she’s cute when she’s brassed off about something?”

Harry thought about the way Hermione’s cheeks colored when she was annoyed, the way her eyes positively sparked. “Yeah.”

Ron shook his head and sighed as if his opinion of Harry’s sanity had just gone down. “You’re mental, you are. She’s bloody frightening when she’s ticked off! And last time I checked, being frightening and being cute aren’t the same thing. If they were, I’d think Aragog and his kids were cute.” Ron paused and then shuddered exaggeratedly. “You’re mental,” he said again.

Harry’s lips quirked into a smile almost in spite of himself. “Yeah, maybe. Everyone thought I might be in 5^th year, maybe it’s finally coming true.”

“Don’t be an arse. The only people who really thought you were barmy in 5^th year were people like Umbridge, the Toad.”

Harry’s left hand instinctively and automatically brushed the scars on the back of his right hand at the mention of Umbridge’s name.

Ron didn’t notice, had changed the subject now. “I wonder what the house elves do when we’re not around. They only have the professors to feed; that can’t be fun for them having so much less work to do.”

And Harry surprised himself by thinking, house elves deserve to have some time off, though.

He didn’t have much time to wonder at this thought as they had reached the picture of the fruit bowl and Ron had reached out and tickled the pear.

The kitchens were much less busy than they normally were but before Harry had done more than digest that fact, he was distracted by a small blur that launched itself at him with a squeal.

“Harry Potter, sir!”

Harry freed himself from Dobby who was hugging his leg and smiled. “Hello, Dobby.”

“But what is Harry Potter doing at Hogwarts now?” Dobby asked.

“I came back to finish something Professor Dumbledore told me to do,” Harry explained, truthfully enough.

Dobby’s expression immediately sobered at the mention of Dumbledore. “Dobby is missing the Headmaster very much, Harry Potter, sir. The Headmistress is nice but she is not the Headmaster.”

Harry noted that Ron had, in the meantime, asked the other house elves for food and was currently being bombarded with enough food to feed an army and was sitting down and happily beginning to eat. “Oh, is McGonagall still paying you like Dumbledore did?” he asked.

Dobby nodded. “Oh yes, sir. She is. Dobby’s life has not changed much because of the Headmaster being gone. I is still working.”

“What about Kreacher?” He supposed he should find out what his most unwanted legacy from Sirius was doing.

Dobby’s expression became as close to a threatening frown as it was possible for Dobby’s expression to get. He jerked his head over to a corner of the kitchen. Harry glanced over to see the ragged form of Kreacher bent over a small table. “He is there. He works but is not at all friendly and only mutters to himself and says bad, terrible things about Harry Potter and his Wheezy and Miss Her-my-nee.”

“But he hasn’t tried to, you know, do anything bad to the food or anything, right?” Harry asked.

Dobby looked shocked at the question. “Oh no, Harry Potter, sir. He cannot. He would like to but as long as he is belonging to Harry Potter, he cannot do anything bad without having to punish himself. Harry Potter told him to work here so he work here but he cannot be leaving or doing anything to harm his master.” Dobby paused. “Dobby is watching Kreacher to make sure too.”

Harry smiled. “Thanks, Dobby. Can I have a sandwich to take up for Hermione?”

“Of course, Harry Potter, sir!” And before Harry had time to do much more than blink a few times, Dobby was back with enough sandwiches of every conceivable variety that, if Harry had actually taken them, Hermione would have had enough to last her for a month.

Harry took two sandwiches, one for himself and one for Hermione, and turned to Ron, who was cheerfully munching away with several house elves standing around ready to give him anything more he asked for.

“Ron, I’m going to go up and talk to McGonagall,” Harry said, raising his voice slightly to get Ron’s attention.

Ron looked up distractedly, his mouth full, and nodded, waving one hand in a gesture that Harry correctly interpreted to mean, “I’ll meet you there later.”

With a grin for Ron’s appetite and a last smile and goodbye for Dobby, Harry left the kitchens.

Disclaimer: See Part 1.

Author’s Note: Brace yourself for the chapter where absolutely nothing happens. There’s maybe a teeny little bit of plot development but not much of that.

From My Soul

Part 8

Harry’s steps slowed the closer he got to the gargoyle guarding the Headmaster’s office. (He could not think of it as the Headmistress’s office yet.)

Every step seemed to bring memories of Dumbledore from the past 6 years rushing into his head from the first time he’d seen Dumbledore and Dumbledore’s characteristic opening “speech” of “Nitwit, blubber, oddment, tweak” to the last time of watching in helpless horror as Dumbledore’s body fell off the tower…

Dumbledore, the one person whom Harry had thought he could count on to help him defeat Voldemort, to tell him what he needed to know—as he had always, somehow, told Harry what he needed to know to defeat Voldemort before…

He was gone now—and standing outside the office which had used to be his, Harry felt a familiar wave of self-doubt wash over him.

How could he do this?

He knew what he needed to do—find the rest of the horcruxes, destroy the horcruxes and then kill Voldemort. But he still didn’t know how he was supposed to do it.

He didn’t know where the other horcruxes were, didn’t know how to destroy the horcruxes… Dumbledore had nearly died from destroying the Marvolo ring—then how could he, Harry, possibly hope to even survive destroying four horcruxes? Especially as he didn’t have the slightest clue how to go about doing so.

He allowed himself to slide to the floor by the gargoyle, staring blindly down at the stone floor. Could he do this? Could he keep his promise to Dumbledore, to Sirius, to his parents? He had to; he knew that—but how?

~*~

Hermione paused on her way towards McGonagall’s office, seeing Harry sitting on the floor by the gargoyle. It looked as if he had simply let his legs give way and fallen to the ground rather than consciously decided to sit down and something about his posture, the slump of his shoulders, told her even at this distance that he was being racked with renewed fears and doubts and despair.

She sighed, her heart aching at the sight of him. She wished she could do more to help him, wished she could wave her wand and somehow solve all his problems like one of the fairy godmothers in the fairy tales her grandmother had used to read to her so many years ago… She wished she knew how they were going to destroy the horcruxes and defeat Voldemort, wished she could promise that they would succeed…

But she couldn’t.

And what hurt, what she really hated, was the uncertainty of it and her lack of confidence. She didn’t know how much she could help him; she didn’t know whether she’d somehow find a book that told them all they needed to know to destroy a horcrux (she rather doubted it given the extreme darkness of the magic they were dealing with and the complete lack of information she’d been able to find in the Hogwarts library). She didn’t know anything more about Voldemort’s life than what Harry did so she didn’t know where they should even start looking for Hufflepuff’s cup and the other horcrux. She just didn’t know—and what was worse, she had no idea where she should even begin to look for what she needed to know or even whether she’d be able to find the information she needed.

This was completely new—and a place where, perhaps, not even books could help them.

She sternly clamped down on her own doubts and fears. She didn’t have time for this now. Right now, she needed to help Harry—and she would…

~*~

“Harry.”

Harry started and looked up at the sound of Hermione’s voice. “Oh- er- hi. I was expecting you’d be a lot longer than this.”

She sat down beside him, reaching for one of the sandwiches.

“Did you find that you’ve already read all the books in the library so you didn’t need to stay?” he teased, trying to act normal and not let her see his doubts.

She rolled her eyes slightly but couldn’t keep from smiling. “Actually, no. I’d been hoping that because it’s vacation and because I was supposed to be Head Girl, Madam Pince might be more lenient about the rules and let me into the Restricted Section. But she didn’t and I knew there’d be nothing useful in the rest of the library because I already looked last year and there wasn’t anything about horcruxes anywhere.”

Harry stifled a smile. Hermione’s tone and look implied that she almost took it as a personal affront that the Hogwarts library had so far proved useless. And, oddly enough, felt his mood lightening, as he did so.

It was just so—normal—for Hermione to be talking about the library as if it were her personal place. Normal and somehow comforting, even if the news wasn’t good.

And he found, too, rather to his surprise as he’d never felt this way before, that it was actually rather- hard- to feel quite so down and hopeless when he was with Hermione, realizing yet again that at least he didn’t have to figure it all out alone. He had Hermione to help him, the cleverest witch of their year. She had always managed to help him before, somehow, and he found that he couldn’t help but believe that she would help him again this year.

He didn’t have Dumbledore to tell him what he needed to know—but he did have Hermione. And Ron. And other people to help him.

Feeling oddly, almost irrationally, comforted, he began to eat the sandwich he’d brought for himself, letting himself relax.

“How was Dobby?” Hermione asked, aware that Harry had relaxed beside her, the tension leaving him along with the shadows in his expression. She felt herself relax as well, a level of peace returning to her. She didn’t know exactly what had calmed him down and brought him out of his despondence but she was glad of it and could only hope that she could comfort him always.

“He’s fine.” He glanced at her, smiling slightly. “He told me something you’d be glad to know, that McGonagall is still paying him like Dumbledore did.”

“And Kreacher?”

Harry sobered. “Still there, still mental. Still hates me. I didn’t talk to him but Dobby told me.”

“Oh, okay.”

“You didn’t have to wait for me before you went in to talk to Professor McGonagall, you know,” she told him.

“Actually, yes, I did. I don’t know the new password, remember?”

“Oh but McGonagall didn’t change the password yet. It’s still the old one.”

Harry’s expression abruptly seemed to close. “Oh,” was all he said.

“She told me in my letter,” Hermione explained, her tone soft, sympathetic, as she put a hand on his arm. “She said as Head Girl I would have the right to know and that she hadn’t changed it yet.”

Harry blinked, looked away, and then took a deep breath, mentally steeling himself. “Okay, then, let’s go.”

He stood up, giving Hermione a hand to help her up.

“Hey, wait up!”

Ron hurried up to them, a half-eaten chocolate éclair in one hand and what looked to be a bag full of more food in the other.

“You think you have enough food there?” Harry asked with a grin.

Ron reddened slightly as he hurriedly finished up the éclair. “The house-elves insisted and I just couldn’t disappoint them. Besides, I figure we could use it.”

Hermione smiled even as she shook her head. “Of course. I suppose we should just be thankful you didn’t bring more than one bag of food.”

“Hey, I’m a growing boy,” Ron protested. “I need sustenance.”

Harry and Hermione both laughed.

“If you grow much more, you’ll be too tall to fit inside the door of Grimmauld Place,” Harry teased.

“I’ll duck,” Ron grinned. “So, are we going in?”

“Yes,” Harry answered even as Hermione spoke the password. “Sugar Quills,” she said clearly.

Harry couldn’t help but smile at Dumbledore’s use of candy names for his password, though his amusement was tempered, as it always was at the thought of Dumbledore, with grief.

The gargoyle leaped aside and they stepped onto the staircase.

They sat side by side facing what was now the Headmistress’s desk, Harry sitting in the center.

He swallowed as he glanced at Dumbledore’s still-sleeping portrait and for a moment thought that he would give almost anything just to see Dumbledore’s eyes twinkling over some little joke.

McGonagall looked from Ron to Harry. “Mr. Weasley, Mr. Potter, it is good to see you both looking so well. Miss Granger has already told me some of your plans and while I won’t say I entirely approve, I do understand.”

Ron nodded, looking thankful not to be scolded.

Harry swallowed, keeping his gaze steadily averted from Fawkes’s empty perch, and began. “Professor, I- er- Hermione convinced me that I need to tell you exactly what we’re doing. I wasn’t going to because Professor Dumbledore made me promise not to tell anyone but Ron and Hermione but Hermione said—and I agree—that you need to be told now.”

He stopped, looking down at his shoes, wondering exactly where to begin.

“I understand,” McGonagall spoke in an unusually gentle tone. “You might begin by telling me where you and Professor Dumbledore went on that last night.”

Harry looked up, meeting McGonagall’s gaze, oddly more confident from the bluntness of her question and the directness of her gaze. “We went to find one of Voldemort’s horcruxes,” he stated simply.

McGonagall’s expression seemed to flatten in shock and for the first time in his memory, her jaw dropped open slightly. “Voldemort made a horcrux…” she repeated more to herself than to them, visibly trying to regain her composure. “I suppose I should not be surprised. It does sound like him—and he was certainly clever enough and powerful enough to learn how to create one,” she managed to say in something approaching her usual manner. She paused. “Horcruxes? He made more than one?”

Harry nodded. “He made six.”

At any other time, Harry might have been amused at the shock on McGonagall’s face and the way her jaw dropped again. “Six?” her voice rose slightly.

If he had ever had any doubt about just how low Voldemort had fallen, just how dark the magic used to create a horcrux was, it would have been forever put to rest at the horror in McGonagall’s expression and her tone.

“Then- did you and Professor Dumbledore find a horcrux that night?” McGonagall asked, something of her usual crispness returning to her tone although she still looked rather shaken.

“No, we didn’t. Someone—we think it was Sirius’s brother, Regulus—had already stolen the horcrux and put a fake one in its place with a note to Voldemort saying he’d figured it out and he planned to destroy the real horcrux and bring Voldemort that much closer to being mortal again.”

“Regulus Black,” McGonagall repeated. “Yes- I suppose- I can believe that too. He- he was never as- bad- as some of the others were and he did, for all his being in Slytherin, retain some measure of hero worship for his brother. I remember I was disappointed to find he had become a Death Eater.” She spoke quietly, slowly, as if thinking aloud more than actually talking to the three of them. For a moment, she stared down at the desk, thinking—but then she seemed to blink and looked up, once more the Professor.

“But then what about the real horcrux?”

Harry glanced at Ron and then at Hermione as if seeking their permission, which he received in a small nod from Ron and a look from Hermione. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the locket and the key which he and Hermione had just found and placed them on the desk.

“The locket is the real horcrux that Regulus Black stole and hid in Grimmauld Place. We just found the key in the Chamber of Secrets.”

“You went down to the Chamber of Secrets? How did you know a horcrux would be there?”

“Hermione figured it out,” Harry said with a slight smile at Hermione. “Professor Dumbledore told us that Voldemort would hide the horcruxes in places that had some special meaning to him and Hermione reasoned that Hogwarts obviously meant something to Tom Riddle and within Hogwarts, there was no place more precious to him than the Chamber of Secrets.”

McGonagall nodded, looking at Hermione approvingly. “Very good, Miss Granger,” she said in much the same tone as she would have used to award Gryffindor 20 points.

Hermione flushed slightly and smiled.

“That’s actually where we thought you could help us, Professor,” Harry began. “Can you think of any other places where Voldemort might hide a horcrux?”

McGonagall paused, frowning slightly. “I cannot think of one immediately but I will go through the records of Tom Riddle’s life as far as we know it. I know Professor Dumbledore kept an eye on Tom Riddle after he left Hogwarts and may have written something down. But that’s two horcruxes. What about the other four?”

“Tom Riddle’s diary was one, Professor Dumbledore said, and I destroyed that in 2^nd year. The ring, the Gaunt ring, was the one Professor Dumbledore wore on his hand after he destroyed it. Professor Dumbledore was almost sure that Hufflepuff’s cup is another one and lastly, Nagini, Voldemort’s snake.”

“And the key was once Rowena Ravenclaw’s,” McGonagall finished. “There are legends, tales, of a key which Rowena Ravenclaw always wore on a chain around her neck in life, although stories differ as to what the key was supposed to unlock. Some said it was a magical key that could unlock anything; some said it was meant to unlock a special box which held something very precious or very dangerous; others even said the key didn’t unlock anything but was merely symbolic of knowledge which Rowena Ravenclaw had always said was the ‘key’ to achieving anything. This must be that key.”

“Of course,” Hermione spoke up, addressing herself more than anyone else in the room. “I hadn’t stopped to think about it but I remember reading about it.”

“Hufflepuff’s cup and Nagini…” Professor McGonagall frowned. “Somehow I must say I doubt that Nagini would have been made into a horcrux. It is a very tricky business to put a portion of a soul into a living thing and Nagini is, moreover, a normal snake and so can be killed. It would seem much safer especially in wanting to protect the pieces of his soul to live forever as he did, to ensure that all the horcruxes were inanimate objects which could be hid in safe places.”

“We’ll have to worry about that when we come to it,” Harry said rather grimly. A vague thought, a suspicion, or the beginnings of one was beginning to tickle at the back of his mind but retreated when he attempted to draw it out. “Professor, I wonder- do you know how to destroy a horcrux? We’ve tried using every spell we can think of on the locket and it hasn’t done anything.”

“Of course it hasn’t. Destroying a horcrux requires a level of magical ability that none of you would learn at Hogwarts, even after you had passed your N.E.W.T’s,” McGonagall answered crisply, once more herself. “In fact, I’m amazed that the basilisk venom was enough to destroy the diary.”

Harry waited, holding his breath, for McGonagall to say something more as she frowned absently in the direction of the bookshelves. Maybe it wouldn’t be so hard after all…

“I do not know how a horcrux might be destroyed,” McGonagall finally said and Harry slumped. “Horcruxes are a highly taboo subject, one which very few wizards are even aware of the existence of, let alone knowing about creating or destroying one.”

“I couldn’t find anything in the library about it,” Hermione offered.

“I should think not. The subject has been banned completely at Hogwarts for time out of mind.” McGonagall sounded shocked at the very idea of there being any information about horcruxes anywhere in the school library.

“But we need to know! It’s what I need to do! Can you tell us anything?” Harry’s voice rose in frustration at McGonagall’s utter lack of helpfulness, uncaring that he was in her office and that she was, despite his decision not to return, technically still his professor and one which he had always respected. He felt Hermione put a hand on top of his, putting a gentle pressure on it, calming him down wordlessly, and he turned to look at her.

Getting angry isn’t going to help. You know Professor McGonagall will do all she can, Hermione’s look told him.

Sorry, he apologized silently and saw the understanding in her eyes.

She kept her hand on top of his, a gentle, unobtrusive reminder, and he suddenly felt a flare of affection for her—and the way she had of disarming him— which helped, more than just about anything else, to calm him down.

“Sorry,” he mumbled to McGonagall. “But it is what I need to do this year instead of going to school, you know. I need to finish what Professor Dumbledore started and destroy the rest of the horcruxes and then kill Voldemort.”

“Yes I know. There are a number of books in this office, the Headmaster’s private collection, and I will go through them all looking for any information that might be helpful. Also, when Professor Dumbledore’s portrait awakens, he should be able to tell us more about how he destroyed the ring. Until then, I can only suggest you all return to Grimmauld Place where you should be relatively safe, for now, and practice dueling and other things while learning more Defense Against the Dark Arts.” She paused, pulling out a piece of parchment and writing something on it. “Oh and Miss Granger, I give you permission to go into the Restricted Section of the library and take out any book in it and the rest of the library which you might find useful. I trust I need not tell you to be careful with the books.” She handed the parchment to Hermione.

Hermione flushed and beamed. “Oh thank you, Professor!”

Harry stifled a smile. Only Hermione would sound so excited and grateful at such a favor. She sounded rather as any other girl might sound if they’d been given a year’s free supply of any gowns of their choice from the most expensive wizarding clothing store in Britain. Harry mentally wrinkled his nose at the thought. Yes, Hermione was definitely better than any other girl.

“I will let you know when Professor Dumbledore’s portrait awakes.”

Harry nodded as they all stood up. “Thank you, Professor.”

“And Mr. Potter--” he looked back at McGonagall—“good luck.”

He managed a smile, thinking with some surprise that he might actually rather miss having McGonagall for a professor. “Thank you.”

“Oh and Mr. Weasley…”

Ron started at his name, looking back at McGonagall as if expecting her to take off points from Gryffindor.

“I will be writing to your parents to let them know that I have seen you and I find your loyalty to your friends commendable.”

Ron’s ears—and the rest of his face—reddened. “I- er- thank you, Professor.”

Professor McGonagall watched the three young people go, an unusually soft expression in her eyes if anyone had been there to see it. Those three, such loyal friends—she had always had a soft spot for them, entirely apart from her soft spot for Harry himself, admiring the strength of their friendship. It was the sort of bond she had not seen since—since the friendship of James Potter, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin and Peter Pettigrew. And she could not help but think that it would be those bonds of friendship which would help Harry more than almost anything else in the coming months.

She glanced at the still-sleeping portrait of Dumbledore and spoke aloud to it, as she had developed a habit of doing. “Albus, when you awaken, I have some things to say. Taking a 16 year old boy, Harry Potter or not, along with you to find a horcrux? Had you gone senile, Albus? What were you thinking?”

She heard the creaky voice of old Headmaster Dippet respond. “I must say, Minerva, addressing Albus like that will not make him awaken any sooner. If anything he is likely to sleep as long as possible if only to avoid the confrontation. I certainly would.”

“Oh if I know him, he’ll be quite able and eager to defend himself,” McGonagall assured Dippet with another half-baleful look at the sleeping Dumbledore.

Dippet chuckled softly. “Yes, you might be right.”

McGonagall permitted herself a thin-lipped, rather grim smile before she began searching through the bookshelves for any book which might contain information on horcruxes.

Disclaimer: See Part 1.

Author’s Note: Thank you, everyone, for reading and reviewing this story so far. I appreciate every single review—even if I don’t get to reply to all of them.

And now, the chapter where some actual plot begins to happen.

From My Soul

Part 9

The next few weeks settled into a sort of quiet routine.

Hermione spent most of the days curled up over the books which she had gotten from the Restricted Section and she had made two trips back to Hogwarts to return a few books and take out more coming back from each trip with so many books Ron had asked her after the last trip whether she’d left any books in the library at all.

Harry and Ron spent the days practicing dueling and generally practicing magic. Harry had improved by leaps and bounds with his use of non-verbal spells and Ron had even managed to best Harry in a duel once. (Ron had been grinning and rather unmercifully triumphant for hours until Harry calmly proceeded to use the Levicorpus spell on him, silently, catching Ron by surprise. At which point Ron had stopped being quite so cocky although he had then challenged Harry to a game of wizarding chess and won easily which had somewhat soothed his ruffled ego.)

Morning was the time Hermione liked best in their day. Mornings when she had quiet breakfasts with Harry since Ron liked to take advantage of not having classes and not having his mother around to wake him up by sleeping in. Mornings when Harry would sometimes stumble into the kitchen in his pyjamas, sleep-flushed and still slightly bleary-eyed behind his glasses. Mornings when she could tell just by looking at him whether or not he’d had nightmares during the night and when she could try to comfort him. Mornings when he would greet her with the little smile she loved because it was the one he generally reserved for her. Mornings when she could talk or not talk as she pleased and didn’t need to worry about what Ron might say.

Mornings when it was just her and Harry and she could forget about the rest of the world for those few minutes…

Harry and Ron, both as disguised as Hermione could make them with several layers of Appearance-Altering Charms (and both having been made to promise several times over not to do anything stupid or rash no matter what happened and under no circumstances to venture into Knockturn Alley), had gone into Diagon Alley and wandered around, spent several hours in the Leaky Cauldron hoping for some news that may not have made it into the Daily Prophet. They had been there, again in disguise, the last day before Hogwarts opened, and even seen Mrs. Weasley and Ginny from across Diagon Alley, shopping for Ginny’s school supplies. Neither had gone up to speak with them, however, in order to preserve their disguises and Harry, for one, had been glad for the excuse. He did not want to talk to Ginny again, not after the last time he’d seen her at the Burrow the morning after Bill and Fleur’s wedding.

They had wondered, feared, that Voldemort might take advantage of the few days before Hogwarts opened to stage an attack on Diagon Alley, days when he knew there would be more children around than usual—but oddly, thankfully, the days passed without incident.

September 1 and the new school year began.

Harry spent the day glancing at Hermione as if for signs that she regretted her decision not to return, as if she regretted resigning her Head Girl-ship. He couldn’t see any, though, although she was the one to mention it that morning over breakfast, calmly and with no other intonations that he could detect in her tone.

The very quiet-ness of it, the routine which they had established, had just begun to lull them into a sort of tranquility—interspersed with moments of frustration at still not being able to find any more information on destroying the horcrux or where Hufflepuff’s cup might be—when the deceptive peace exploded in their faces.

The day began normally. Ron was still sleeping, Hermione sipping her morning tea with Harry drinking pumpkin juice, not talking but enjoying the quiet camaraderie.

And then the Daily Prophet arrived, being dropped, as it usually was, into the chimney for the kitchen fireplace and shooting out with magical precision to land on the table.

Harry picked it up, scanning it, as he went to refill his glass when he saw the article.

Ministry of Magic Employee Forced to Kill His Wife With Son Watching

Last night, three Death Eaters broke into the house of Ministry of Magic employee, Philip Musgrave, placed him under the Imperius Curse and then forced him to kill his Muggle-born wife, while their 8 year old son watched. Mr. Musgrave was murdered immediately after he had been forced to strangle his wife. Their son, David, was left alive and found babbling and traumatized by Ministry officials.

Unfortunately, while the terrorized ramblings of young David Musgrave revealed to the Ministry what had occurred, his information could not help identify the Death Eaters as they were all masked and hooded.

Mr. Musgrave, who finished Hogwarts in 1980, worked in the Ministry’s Department of Magical Catastrophes as an Obliviator and was thought to have a bright future in the Ministry. His wife, Lucy, who was Muggle-born, finished Hogwarts in the same year as Mr. Musgrave and married him the following year.

This latest attack is the most brutal and marks a cold-blooded protest against the marriage of pure-bloods with Muggle-borns…

The article continued but Harry didn’t read it, couldn’t read anymore, shock, horror and fury welling up inside him until he wasn’t aware of anything else. There seemed to be a sort of buzzing in his ears, a shade over his eyes.

He was very vaguely aware that Hermione had gotten up and was saying his name, asking what was wrong, in a tone of growing concern.

He clenched one fist around the Daily Prophet, hearing it crumple and then tear as if from very far away and then he found he simply had to move, to stand up, to walk around, do something in a futile attempt to calm himself.

He made it all the way out into the front hall before something inside him snapped. He could picture a little boy having to watch as his father killed his mother before his eyes and then was murdered. He could see the flash of green light and the man dropping down beside the body of the wife he had been forced to murder.

This was the sort of sick atrocity which Voldemort and his followers were capable of, gloried in—and he was still nowhere closer to knowing how to destroy the remaining horcruxes than he had been weeks ago.

“Damn it!” His voice had risen to a shout of mingled fury and a sick revulsion at the brutality of it and without even meaning to but somehow needing to release the tidal wave of anger he could feel growing inside him, he blindly hurled the forgotten glass in his hand.

And then it all seemed to happen at once.

The glass smashed into the curtain-covered portrait of Mrs. Black. The curtain flew open and the Spello-tape which had been covering her mouth was torn off, perhaps by the impact of the glass hitting it.

Hermione, who had followed him out, pale from having read the same article from the ripped Daily Prophet which he’d dropped, cried out in surprise at his outburst, drawing Mrs. Black’s attention.

Ron stumbled out of his door still in his pyjamas, wand in hand, as if he feared they were under attack.

“Filth! Half-breeds! How dare you set foot inside this house and contaminate it, you low, unworthy little fiends!” Mrs. Black was shrieking at the top of her lungs. She turned her wild-eyed glare on Hermione. “Worthless Mud-blood whore! Living with two boys like the disgraceful piece of tra--”

“Shut up!” Harry’s roar drowned out both Ron’s cry of indignation and Hermione’s gasp and so surprised Mrs. Black with the sheer volume of it that she did, for a moment, stop her screaming.

“Shut your bloody mouth, you evil woman! Hermione’s worth more than one million of you; you’re not fit to touch her shoe!” Harry’s voice rose on every word, filled with so much fury he couldn’t see straight and felt rather dizzy.

He felt a surge of rage, power seeming to bubble up from some hitherto-unknown place deep inside him. His horror over what had happened to the Musgraves mingling with, swallowed by his even greater wrath at Mrs. Black’s mad shrieking. That she—that anyone—would even dare to think such things about Hermione, call her Mudblood as if she was something less than them, say such things about her… That people would hurt her, kill her, because she hadn’t been born to magical parents…

He could hardly breathe, couldn’t think except for the violence rising inside him. He just needed to hurt her, the evil, foul-mouthed old hag, make it so she could never say something about Hermione again…

With no clear thought or plan, he found himself raising his hand in a slashing motion almost as if he wanted to slap the old woman, feeling an odd surge of something go through him, shaking him.

For a split second, nothing seemed to have happened but then the portrait of Mrs. Black, frame and all, cracked, split straight across, slicing Mrs. Black at a diagonal across her chest and her neck, cutting off her last shriek and killing the portrait instantly.

And then, both pieces of the portrait fell from the wall to the floor with a resounding crash, achieving what none of them had ever been able to do before, even with all their efforts.

He lowered his hand, his fist clenching, a muscle working in his jaw, his heart pounding as if he had just run a marathon, staring at the destruction he had wrought.

Oh God…

Shocked silence ensued.

To be finally broken by Ron. “That was bloody brilliant!” Ron breathed.

“Ron!” Hermione shot him a look of irritation.

“That was the best piece of silent magic you’ve done!” Ron continued, ignoring Hermione as if she hadn’t spoken.

“That wasn’t silent magic,” Hermione corrected him quietly, staring at Harry who hadn’t moved and was still looking at the pieces of Mrs. Black’s portrait. “That was wandless magic.”

“Wandless—you mean he lost control like when he blew up his aunt?”

“No,” Harry finally spoke up, his voice sounding odd and speaking slowly as if he were still trying to wrap his own mind around it. “This was different. I- I meant to do it, wanted to do it and somehow, I did it.”

There was another silence.

Harry broke it when he said still in the same odd, detached tone, “My wand is in the kitchen. I don’t—I just…”

Hermione pulled herself together, going back into the kitchen to get her own wand and clearing up the mess from the broken portrait with a few quick flicks of her wand, before she went over to Harry who still hadn’t moved.

“Harry,” she said quietly.

He blinked, the strange expression in his eyes leaving as he finally looked at her. “I’m sorry,” he blurted out, “for what that hag said.”

Hermione flushed slightly, color returning to her face over-riding her lingering pallor. “It doesn’t matter. It’s only words, the lies of a crazy old woman.”

“It does matter. You shouldn’t have to hear—you don’t deserve to be called names.”

“It’s okay, Harry. She didn’t hurt me.” She paused and then added softly, “But thank you for defending me.”

His expression softened a little, his features no longer so stiff and oddly life-less.

She put a hand on his arm and he followed her back into the kitchen, sitting down with a sigh.

Ron joined them a minute later, having changed out of his pyjamas and into jeans and a t-shirt.

“What happened there, Harry?” he asked as he sat down, for once not attacking his breakfast as he usually did.

“I- I don’t really know. I was just so- angry- and I wanted to do something, stop her ranting and somehow I felt I could do it. It wasn’t even thinking about it; I wasn’t thinking; I just did it—and it worked.”

“But wandless magic—Harry, that’s…”

“I know.”

“What spell did you use? We tried so much and nothing worked.”

“I used Snape’s Sectumsempra curse,” Harry answered flatly, his voice hard when he pronounced Snape’s name, a shadow crossing his face.

Ron nodded but didn’t say anything. The mention of Snape—and the glancing reference to the Half-Blood Prince’s book which had caused so many problems last year—sobering him and effectively quenching his curiosity to find out any more.

“I’m going to go see what I can find out about wandless magic,” Hermione said. “Harry, you- you look kind of tired. You might want to rest for a little while.” She spoke gently, concern in her eyes.

“Yeah, I think I will,” Harry responded, standing up and picking up his wand from where it was on the table, pausing for a moment to stare strangely at his wand before he seemed to mentally shake himself.

“What do you reckon just happened?” Ron finally asked after Harry left.

“I’m not sure but I think we’ve just found out at least part of the power Harry has.”

“Do you think he’s going to be able to just do wandless magic all the time now?”

“No,” Hermione said slowly, frowning at her empty mug. “I think it worked now because of the strength of his emotions, even if he managed to control it. I don’t—I need to do more research.”

“What happened to set him off?”

“Read the Daily Prophet,” she told him as she too left the kitchen.

~*~

Neither Hermione nor Ron saw Harry for the rest of the day.

He had retreated to one of the unused rooms upstairs and didn’t come down for lunch or dinner either.

Hermione sighed and hesitated before knocking on the door.

“Come in, Hermione.”

She opened the door with one hand, balancing the plate of food she had brought up for him on the other.

“I thought you’d be hungry,” she said by way of greeting as she sat down beside him.

He was sitting on the floor, his back against the wall. The room looked as if a whirlwind had ripped through it; there were scattered pieces of torn paper over the floor and even a broken chair. She frowned to herself. Had Harry done that?

“How did you know it was me?”

He paused in his desultory picking at the food, blinking. “I- er- don’t know; I just did.”

She studied him in silence.

He looked his usual self again; the odd look and expression he had had that morning had disappeared.

“Are you okay?” she finally asked softly.

He looked at her for a moment, thoughtfully, and then blurted out, “I don’t think Nagini’s the last horcrux.”

She blinked at this seeming non-sequitur. “What?”

“I don’t think it’s Nagini,” he repeated.

“Then what is it?” she asked hesitantly, something about his expression giving her pause, making her think she wasn’t going to like his answer.

She was right. She didn’t.

“I think it’s me.”

She caught her breath at his blunt statement. “Harry, you- it--” she faltered, not sure what she could say, how to respond. All she knew was the immediate, instinctive rush of denial she felt. No, it can’t be. She knew she didn’t know that much about horcruxes, didn’t understand much about them but somehow she could not believe that Harry had a piece of Voldemort’s scar inside him.

“It’s me—or my scar, but me. I- I don’t think he meant to do it; it may have been an accidental sort of thing, a mistake, an unintended consequence from that night he killed my parents and tried to kill me the first time. I think he was planning to use my death to make that last one but that didn’t work and instead of killing me, my mother’s sacrifice somehow turned it around and made me one.”

She flinched in spite of her resolution not to react, at the bitterness in his voice. “Harry, I- how can you know that?”

He pushed himself to his feet, pacing the room restlessly. “I don’t know it—not for sure. It’s just—it makes sense, don’t you see? It’s not like there’s some ‘Ten ways to know you’re a horcrux’ or ‘Ten ways to know if you’ve got a piece of Voldemort’s soul in you’ list out there for me to check the symptoms!” His voice had risen with every word as she stood up as well.

She had thought Harry was himself again, but she’d been wrong. He wasn’t… And suddenly she was terribly unsure of herself, unsure of what to say, how to react to Harry’s new belief. She only knew she could not believe it was true.

“Symptoms of what?”

They both started and turned to stare at Ron standing in the doorway. And Hermione realized she’d left the door ajar when she’d entered. Not that it mattered. Ron needed to be here for this too, was just as much a part of it as she was.

“Symptoms of being a horcrux,” Harry answered.

Ron visibly swallowed. “You—you think you’re—you’ve got a bit of You-Know-Who’s soul in you?” The horror in his expression and his tone was unmistakable and Harry’s expression hardened slightly.

“What other reason is there? I’m a Parselmouth; Voldemort and I can get into each other’s heads; I have all this extra power I shouldn’t have if I were normal. And Snape said Voldemort wants me alive. All this just adds up to one thing: I’m the last horcrux.”

Silence greeted Harry’s conclusion as Ron stared at Harry with shock, doubt, and apprehension chasing their way across his face.

“I think you’re wrong.” Hermione faced Harry bravely, refusing to let herself react to the anger in his expression.

“You’re making too much of this, Harry. It’s—it’s not always about you.” She nearly stopped there at the blast of hurt anger from the look Harry gave her but she went on, though her voice trembled slightly in spite of herself. “I don’t believe it. I can’t believe it. I- it just doesn’t make sense! Harry, why would Voldemort have tried to kill you so many times if you’ve got part of his soul inside him that he wants to protect?”

“He didn’t mean to turn me into a horcrux; it was an accident! He only just figured it out—and that’s why Snape said at the end of last year that Voldemort wanted me alive.”

“It couldn’t just be because Voldemort hates you so much he wants the privilege of killing you himself?”

She winced inwardly at how harsh that question had sounded and heard Ron suck in his breath sharply.

Harry had gone white—although she wasn’t sure whether it was from hurt or anger.

And even though she almost hated herself for saying something she knew would hurt him, she had to. Anything was better than having Harry think he was the last horcrux and would need to die to finally defeat Voldemort for good. She refused to believe that Harry’s death would be necessary. “Think about it; from the moment Voldemort found out about you, he’s been obsessed with getting to you. He wants to kill you and he’s been waiting to do it for years now; why would he pass on that pleasure to one of his minions? He wants to prove the Prophecy wrong and the best way to do that is to end it by killing you himself, turn the Prophecy on its head. It’s not that he wants you alive because you’ve got a piece of his soul in you; he wants you alive so he can kill you himself! It’ll be his ultimate triumph.”

Another silence fell, Ron staring at her as if she’d grown a second head and Harry looking anywhere but at her.

She watched Harry, holding her breath, hoping he would understand, hoping he would accept her point and hoping, so much, that he wouldn’t be angry at her for saying what she had.

He finally looked at her and she caught her breath at the look in his eyes. He wasn’t angry at her; he did understand…

“You really think so? You really think I’m not a horcrux?” There was tremulous hope in his tone and in his eyes.

“Yes,” she answered simply. She managed a faltering smile, joking feebly, “So don’t get too excited about getting to off yourself for the common good.”

Harry gave her the ghost of a smile.

Ron laughed out-loud, lightening the atmosphere in the room immeasurably. “Geez, Hermione,” he told her with a grin, “if that’s the sort of nice thing you say to your best friend, remind me never to make an enemy of you.”

They all chuckled.

She glanced at Harry, their eyes meeting and in his eyes, she saw a silent thank you.

She smiled at him and knew that things were going to be okay between them.

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.

Author’s Notes: Sorry for how long it’s taken to update this. RL got in the way a bit and then my muses stopped cooperating. Finals are coming so I can’t promise when the next chapter will be out, unfortunately.

This is the most H/Hr-heavy and least plot-heavy of all the chapters so far, I think.

And happy Easter!

From My Soul

Part 10

The dream slipped into her consciousness with all the insidiousness of a thief in the night.

It was dark and she had to find Harry. Where was Harry? He was gone and she couldn’t find him. He had gone into the Forbidden Forest to talk to the Centaurs but there was this crushing feeling in her chest, a sense of urgency and foreboding she couldn’t explain urging her on to find him. She had to find Harry…

Where was he?

“Harry,” she called out his name in something between a gasp and a sob, not daring to raise her voice too loud for fear of being heard by something else.

And then she saw a dark robed figure moving—it almost looked as if it were floating—swiftly away from her, deeper into the Forest, heard a chilling laugh and she could swear she saw a glimpse of red eyes…

And a voice that seemed to come from all around her, every different direction, the same cold, strangely hissing, voice, mocking her, “You foolish little Mudblood. Did you honestly think you could keep him from me? Did you honestly think he could survive against me? Fool… He can’t survive; no one can win…”

She moved on and came to a little clearing among the trees—and in the center, there was a dark shape lying on the ground.

And she screamed.

“Harry!” Her scream was cut off as if it had been guillotined as she fell to her knees beside him, her hands trembling so hard she could barely control them as she turned him over to see his blank, staring, sightless eyes.

Again she heard that chilling laugh—though whether it was real or just in the blank horror of her imagination she didn’t know.

Harry was dead.

She clutched his still body with her hands, brushing her lips against his cold ones and then burying her face in his chest as sobs ripped their way through her chest. “No, no, no, no, no… Harry… No…” The words were a litany of shock and pain and denial, that issued from her throat in something between a whimper and a gasping moan. “No…”

~*~

Harry couldn’t sleep that night.

He wasn’t exactly sure why, except that his mind seemed to be an odd restless jumble of thoughts, most of them centering around the horcruxes though some of them were centered around Hermione.

Hermione whom he’d glimpsed that morning coming out of the bathroom with her face freshly washed and lightly flushed and he’d simply stopped and stared at her for a moment, his mind blanking on everything except one random thought: she’s the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. The thought had brought him up sharply. Since when was Hermione the prettiest girl he’d ever seen? Sure, he didn’t think she was ugly and he’d realized he thought she was cute when she got angry about things with the way her cheeks flushed and her eyes flashed (he still squirmed when he remembered having blurted that realization out-loud to both Ron and Hermione)—but the prettiest girl he’d ever seen? He thought of Cho—and Ginny—and even Fleur with her part-Veela beauty… And he’d been amazed to realize that somehow, some time (he didn’t know when this had happened or why), it had become true: he did think of Hermione as the prettiest girl… She was—just something about her made her prettier. He didn’t know what it was; maybe it was how expressive her face was, how he could almost always read her mood and her thoughts in her eyes and her expression; maybe it was in how her eyes shone when she talked about something interesting she’d read about or learned; maybe it was even in that little frown she got between her eyebrows when she was concentrating intensely or confused… It was just something about her…

He had spent the day trying not to be randomly distracted by looking at Hermione—when had she become so distracting? Certainly she was more interesting to him than the book on Common Curses and How to Fight Them which she had told him he should read.

He couldn’t sleep.

He turned over and opened his eyes, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the odd creaks the house always seemed to make at night, trying to let the normality of it calm him into drowsiness when the silence was broken by a muffled scream.

Hermione.

He bolted upright, grabbing his wand, and running out the door in a rush—panic beginning to edge into his mind at the thought of how Death Eaters had managed to break into the house so silently.

He threw open the door of her room and then skidded to a stop, his heart trying to calm down from its frantic beating. It wasn’t an attack; Hermione was having a nightmare.

He knew a fleeting moment of relief that was swiftly overtaken by worry.

Hermione was clutching at her sheets, crying, small whimpers coming from her in which he could just make out the word, “No,” repeated over and over again.

He flinched, feeling an almost physical pain at the abject, heart-wrenching sorrow he heard in her voice, moving the books off the chair she kept by her bedside to sit in it.

He opened his mouth to wake her up but his breath caught the next moment at the next word she said. “Harry… no…”

Oh God… He had never heard anything in his life as painful as Hermione’s voice in that moment.

“Hermione.” His voice was slightly hoarse from his own suppressed emotion on seeing and hearing her cry, as he put a tentative hand on her shoulder. “Hermione, wake up. Hermione, it’s okay. It was a nightmare.”

She jerked awake with a gasp, her eyes opening and finding his, widening with a fleeting moment of disorientation followed by realization.

And then before he could blink or move or think to do anything, she scooted up and nearly flung herself at him, her arms going around his neck until he nearly fell forward on top of her and ended up in an awkward half-sitting, half-reclining position half-off the chair he’d been sitting on.

But he ignored the discomfort and awkwardness of his position for the moment, his mind preoccupied with comforting Hermione who was almost babbling into his t-shirt. “You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay…”

He shifted slightly so he could put his own arm around her, his hand rather awkwardly rubbing her back in what he hoped was a soothing motion. “Sshh, Hermione, it’s okay. I’m fine. It was only a nightmare and everything’s okay,” he murmured, not even conscious of what exactly he was saying but letting whatever came to his mind slip out, knowing only that somehow, he needed to comfort Hermione.

At the moment, he didn’t stop to question the very intensity of his reaction to seeing Hermione crying; he didn’t stop to wonder why he felt every one of her tears as if he were crying them instead.

He just knew he needed to make her feel better. And so he held her, his hand making soothing motions on her back, as he listened to her sobs quiet and felt her breathing slow.

It was a few minutes before she seemed to come to some consciousness of their position and moved to sit up, sniffing and swiping at the remaining tears on her face, a sudden flush coloring her cheeks. “Oh Harry, I…”

He sat up as well, his arms falling from around her. “It’s okay,” he interrupted her before she could apologize as he sensed she was going to. “Are you alright?” he asked quietly and then, on an impulse he couldn’t deny (and had no idea where it had come from) he moved his hand up to brush some of her hair away from her face, his fingers brushing her cheek in what was almost a caress.

She tried to smile but couldn’t quite manage it. “It was a nightmare. I--” she faltered and then looked up at him, finishing so softly he could barely hear her, “I dreamed you were dead.”

His breath seemed to catch in his chest. “Was- was this the first time you dreamed that?” he found himself asking, although he wasn’t even sure what prompted the question.

She shook her head. “No—but it was worse this time. Somehow. It- it was just worse…” She shuddered a little at the memory.

“It’s okay,” he reassured her again softly, his hand touching her arm. “I’m okay; it was a dream.” He wished he could tell her that nothing bad was going to happen to him but the lie stuck in his throat. And for a moment, he wished with a desperation he’d never felt at the thought before, that he could know that he would survive the final battle. Somehow, when he’d thought of the final battle and the possibility that he might die (neither can live while the other survives…), he had only thought of his probable death with a vague dread. He didn’t want to die—but now, in the face of Hermione’s tears at the very thought of him dying, he knew it for sure, felt it, this burning need to survive, to live—not for his sake, but for hers…

“You should go back to sleep. Everything’s fine,” he said, his gaze focusing on the shadows under her eyes and for the first time he wondered if those shadows were because of her nightmares—because of her nightmares about him.

She hesitated and then asked, her eyes not quite meeting his, “Will you- can you- stay here with me, for a while?”

He nodded. “I’ll stay.”

The ghost of a smile touched her lips, her amazingly soft-looking, appealing lips—and for an insane moment, he could only stare, fixating on her mouth as one thought—completely unexpected and very disturbing—hung in his mind: what would happen if we kissed?

The next moment, he blinked as she lay back down in her bed and he sat back in the chair, thrown by the utter madness of his reaction to her. It was madness. She had just had what sounded like a terrible nightmare—and he was thinking about kissing her. Kissing her!

He almost flinched when she reached out her hand to grasp one of his hands, holding it by her face on her pillow.

“Thanks,” she said softly.

He shrugged and tried to smile. “It’s no problem.”

It was a little while before her breathing slowed and became deep and regular and he knew she’d fallen asleep. She still kept hold of his hand and when he tentatively tried to free it, her hand automatically tightened its grasp, preventing him from leaving. Not that he really minded.

He settled back down into the chair, studying her sleeping face—and trying not to focus on her lips. He wasn’t sure exactly where this sudden fixation on Hermione’s mouth had come from but it had, inexplicably, become incredibly hard to look at anything else when he looked at her—and even harder to stop himself from thinking things he really should not be thinking.

This was Hermione, after all—and even if he’d realized over the past few weeks just how pretty he thought she was and how much he cared about her, he still wasn’t completely comfortable with the idea of wanting to kiss her. And he didn’t know if she’d even want him to kiss her.

His gaze focused on Hermione’s lips again, inevitably. What would you do if I kissed you?, he couldn’t help wondering.

He wanted to kiss Hermione. He did fancy Hermione.

How did she feel about him? He didn’t know, couldn’t ask.

She had cried on dreaming he was dead… She cared about him—so much, he knew that, but it could just be because they were friends. She’d always cared about him as a friend; he thought of the first time she’d hugged him in their first year, remembered how it had seemed as if she just couldn’t let him go into danger without letting him know she cared.

His gaze settled on her sleeping face, wondering if she knew how much he appreciated all her loyalty and her friendship over the past six years and more. Every year, it seemed, she’d shown him just how good a friend she was, how much she cared about him—every year, she had helped him so much, saved his life even, more than any other person had. And she cried for him…

Idly he wondered if anyone had ever cried for him before, if anyone had cared so much about him that they had cried…

Her grip had loosened on his hand in sleep and, very gently, he slipped his hand out of hers, pausing to brush his fingers against her hair (it was very soft, he noticed) and then her cheek, very lightly so as not to disturb her.

“Sleep well, Hermione,” he whispered and then left quietly to go back to his room.

~*~

Harry was already awake and in the front room when she walked in the next morning. His eyes narrowed slightly on her face before he asked, softly, “How are you? Did you sleep okay?”

She flushed a little at the thought of how she’d cried on him and clutched him in the middle of the night. “I’m fine,” she assured him. “Did you manage to sleep?”

He nodded, handing her a mug of steaming tea, and she smiled at how he knew, now, that she liked to begin her mornings with a cup of tea.

Peace, quiet and comfortable, settled in the front room as she sipped her tea and he drank his pumpkin juice and nibbled at a piece of toast.

The silence lasted until Ron stumbled in a little while later, yawning. “Morning,” he mumbled as he poured himself some pumpkin juice and put the remaining four slices of toast onto a plate.

Just then the Daily Prophet arrived landing, as usual, on the table.

Harry grimaced a little, almost afraid to look at it, but then a picture of Rufus Scrimgeour, looking rather grim, drew his attention and he pulled the paper closer to read the article.

Minister of Magic Rufus Scrimgeour announced that the Aurors had been given added authority and discretion in charging and detaining suspects of Death Eater activities. People can now be indefinitely locked up, without trial, on one Auror’s charge of probable cause of suspecting said person to be at all connected to He-Who-Must-Not- Be-Named and his activities.

Minister Scrimgeour assured the public that the Aurors are working non-stop to ensure the continued safety of the public and urged everyone not to panic. This latest announcement of expanding the authority of the Aurors has been predicted for some time and is almost certainly being enacted now in response to the tragic attack on Philip Musgrave and his family a few days ago…

Harry shoved the paper away from him in disgust. “Right, suspicious folks like Stan Shunpike,” he snorted. “Bloody stupid Ministry,” he muttered under his breath as he left the front room in irritation.

Ron watched as Hermione half-rose and then visibly stopped herself as they both heard the sound of Harry’s door closing with unnecessary force—watched and saw the look on her face as she stared after Harry. Saw and understood, confirming what he’d suspected for weeks now.

Hermione didn’t just care about Harry as a friend; she loved him. He had always somehow sensed that the feeling was building—before because he’d been quick to jealousy in noting just how central Harry was to Hermione’s life. But it had usually been possible to dismiss it mostly as Harry being Hermione’s best friend, along with him. Only lately, in the past few weeks- even months- if he was honest with himself, it had gotten deeper than that. Because Harry had changed; it was as if Dumbledore’s death (and seeing it happen) had been the final thing to make Harry go from being a boy to being, well, not. Harry had gotten- older, was the only word Ron could think of to describe it. And as he’d gotten older, Hermione’s feelings had deepened, responding, Ron sometimes thought, to the added intensity in Harry. He stifled a sigh, thinking that sometimes it felt as if he were the younger one tagging along with two people who were older than he was—rather like Ginny had been when she had tried to join the three of them before, or when she’d been tagging along with Ron and Fred and George way back when they’d been very young. Oh he tried—and he knew he’d gotten better, much better, at least, with dueling and such—but there were things he couldn’t quite understand. Like when Harry went into one of his ‘alone’ moods, holing himself up. Ron never knew what to do or how to respond to that; he’d been too used to growing up with people constantly around; being alone just wasn’t something he knew how to deal with. Hermione could—and did, like when she’d been the one to bring Harry out of his room over Christmas hols in 5^th year. Plus, there were times when Harry was in one of his intense moods when he just couldn’t help but remember having grown up hearing about the Boy Who Lived—the little baby who’d managed to defeat the Dark Lord and all the subsequent imaginings of boys of the sort of power that would take. He’d gotten over the whole Harry-hero thing long ago—but it crept out in some moments, rare as they had become. Hermione- at least as far as Ron could tell- never had that problem; Harry was just Harry to her, as he always had been.

She sighed to herself as she frowned over the Daily Prophet.

“How long has it been?” Ron asked abruptly and Hermione started, looking up at him in some confusion.

“How long has what been?”

“How long since you- you cared about Harry so much?” he clarified, somehow not able to bring himself to say the word, love, though it was what he meant.

“Oh, Ron…” Hermione faltered, her voice trailing off, looking stricken.

“No, don’t,” Ron told her, trying but not quite managing a smile. “I know how you feel; reckon I’ve known it for weeks now. I- it’s okay, you know; I understand. And- and I think it- it’s right.” He paused, gathering his thoughts, and then continued on, an uncharacteristically serious expression on his face, as he spoke more to his plate than to her, struggling to put into words the sort of thoughts he hardly ever voiced, preferring to leave them unsaid when he thought them at all. “I- I always kind of thought you and Harry would… You’ve always cared about him so much, worried about him so much. I don’t think I really expected, hoped, that we would last—not with Harry around. And I think—I’m okay with that now. I’ve thought about it a lot and the thing is- Harry needs you.” He glanced up at her, one hand moving in a rather awkward gesture. “He needs someone to really be there for him—to care for him. And no one else could do that—not really. Ginny- I know she thought she could and I think she wanted to—but she doesn’t really know, she doesn’t get it. She doesn’t really understand him. You do—you know what you’re getting into; you’ve always been there for him. I’ll help him too, y’know, as much as I can—but he needs you. And I- I’m even- glad- to know he has you.” He stopped, out of words and suddenly feeling all the awkwardness at having said so much on something so personal. He kept his eyes on his plate, not looking at her, since he had the terrible fear that she might cry or something, in that way girls had.

And then he heard her chair scrape back and before he could blink, he found that she’d thrown her arms around his neck in an awkward hug, considering that he was still sitting at the table.

“Oh Ron!” she said and then kissed his cheek quickly, making him blush up to his ears in embarrassment.

She released him and sat back down and it was a few seconds before he looked up at her.

She met his eyes with a small smile. “You’re my best friend, you know that, right?”

“Yeah. You’re mine too,” he told her, and then managed a slight smirk. “Just- don’t do that too often, will you? Save the hugs and stuff for Harry.”

She laughed a little and flushed as she said, “I will.”

Now his smirk was real and not at all forced. “I’m sure you will—and you’ll enjoy it a lot more too.”

She blushed and crumpling up her napkin into a ball, tossed it at him. “Prat,” she said, though her tone was mild.

“Know-it-all,” he shot back.

“Git.”

“Hey, I’m not the one with plans to snog my best friend.”

She blushed again. “You’re going to enjoy this, aren’t you?”

He gave her a look that suggested she’d just asked a completely ridiculous question—which, she supposed, she had.

And not for the first time, Hermione thought how- glad- she was to have Ron for a friend, her best friend. He was so- easy to be with, so uncomplicated. And while something in her mind and heart responded to Harry, felt for Harry, at a level completely beyond her experience, and she knew that, when it came down to it, Harry was the most important person in her world—it was good to have Ron as her friend. Ron could make her laugh (and irritate her at the same time); she could generally understand him, if not relate to him. It had been what made her wonder if she might fancy Ron, before she’d realized that Ron was best when they were just friends; friendship was comfortable, right, with him.

With Harry, especially these days, it always felt as if their old friendship was hovering on the edge of becoming something more—because there was more in their relationship, maybe always had been more. To say nothing of the not-quite-friendly way she would react to the sight of Harry sometimes, the not-friendly feelings that would rise up inside her… And while she was still comfortable in Harry’s company, it was—nice—to be with Ron knowing that their friendship, at least, would never change.

Disclaimer: See Part 1.

Author’s Note: I’m sorry for how long this chapter has taken to post but RL and then other things got in the way. At any rate, here it is and I don’t think it will take as long before the next part is posted as I have a pretty good idea where I’m going with it.

I must acknowledge being very indebted to the brilliant Lynney’s 7^th year fic, “Magic Never Dies” for the ideas in much of this chapter—as I do agree with her.

A mostly plot-set-up chapter (in which I also indulge the history geek in me.)

Enjoy!

From My Soul

Part 11

Harry scowled blackly at the wall as he closed the door behind him with a slam. Idiot Ministry- making laws that ended in people like Stan Shunpike being accused and arrested while people like Lucius Malfoy and Antonin Dolohov and Bellatrix Lestrange roamed free because the Ministry was too cowardly to actually deal with the real Death Eaters.

And then he saw something that made all his anger vanish instantly, like a fire doused by cold water.

It was Fawkes, perched on the little table he used as a nightstand. And he knew what it meant.

Oh no…

He shook his head back and forth in automatic denial even as Fawkes tilted his head to one side and simply looked at Harry—and Harry could swear the damn bird was somehow talking to him. You know why I’m here and now that I am, I’m not going anywhere.

Harry’s frown deepened. He was losing his mind if he was imagining a bird—even if it was a phoenix—talking. And the denial- the refusal- stayed.

“Fawkes, don’t take this the wrong way but—sod off.”

Fawkes opened his beak to let out a single note of phoenix song that seemed to linger in the air long after the sound had died out—and for the first time, the sound of the phoenix song wasn’t enough to banish Harry’s doubts.

“I can’t, Fawkes. Don’t you understand? I can’t. I’m not him; I can never be him. He’s gone…”

Harry’s voice cracked on the last word. Something about having to say that just got to him—and he stumbled over to his bed, sliding down to sit on the floor, leaning against the side of his bed, and buried his face in his arms. Dumbledore was gone—and no one could bring him back or replace him… Certainly not Harry. Dumbledore had been the only wizard Voldemort feared; Harry was—just a boy.

“I can’t do it. I can’t… He’s gone…” he mumbled, the words forming a litany in his thoughts—and he fought the tightness in his chest and the pricking of tears behind his eyes.

“Go away, Fawkes,” he said louder. “Just leave. Please? I- I can’t do what you want.”

There was no response, no sound at all in the room except for his breathing.

Until he heard a knock on the door, followed by Hermione’s voice. “Harry? Can I come in?”

“Yes,” he raised his voice slightly so she could hear it and finally opened his eyes, wishing rather than expecting Fawkes to be gone.

He heard Hermione’s small intake of breath. “Oh…”

He looked up at her, not bothering to try to hide the bleakness he felt. He didn’t say anything to explain, knew he didn’t need to, that she could read his expression as she always had been able to.

She moved over to sit next to him. “I knew it,” she breathed softly. “I knew he would pick you…”

Harry stared at her. “But I can’t do it! I’m not Dumbledore; I can’t be him; I don’t know the slightest thing about what the Order really does.” He paused, added in a softer tone, “I can’t lead anyone when I don’t know what I’m doing myself.”

“You don’t have to lead the Order, not really.”

“But--”

“Harry, listen to me. The Order doesn’t need you to really lead it; it needs you to be the figurehead, the symbol. It’s what you are, you know, what you’ve always been to the wizarding world since you were a baby—the symbol of the resistance movement against Voldemort. Fawkes came to you so everyone will know the Order—and the resistance—is still on. But you don’t need to be the one giving orders; you can delegate that to someone else you trust. You just need to be there.”

Her tone softened from her coolly-logical one to one more gentle, understanding. “You can do this, Harry. Dumbledore believed in you, as does Fawkes. And so do I.”

He gave her the ghost of a smile but didn’t respond, his still-sad gaze on the phoenix.

“And those three votes of confidence are worth a lot, if I do say so myself,” she said, trying to inject a lighter note into the atmosphere, trying to ease the pain in Harry’s gaze in the only way she could at the moment.

It worked.

He looked up at her, the beginnings of a smile just touching his eyes. “They are worth a lot,” he told her, only half-humorously.

She smiled quickly before returning to the matter at hand. “Who do you want to choose to lead, Harry?”

He barely needed a moment to think. “Prof—that is, Remus.”

She nodded, having expected he would say that. Entirely aside from Professor Lupin’s experience in the Order, she knew Harry trusted him as much as he trusted any adult—as he always had ever since their 3^rd year— and felt a sort of instinctive bond with him, just from knowing how close Professor Lupin had been to Harry’s parents and Sirius.

She turned to Fawkes who looked back at her. “Fawkes, how did Dumbledore call together the Order in the past?”

Fawkes bobbed his head as if to nod and then plucked out one of his tail feathers while a blank piece of parchment somehow materialized in front of him. The feather began to write on the parchment in a thin, old-fashioned script: Directions to Re-form the Order of the Phoenix.

Hermione watched in some awe, rapidly revising everything she had ever read about all the magical abilities of the phoenix to include the fact that it could also make a very effective messenger of sorts, at least when it chose to be. (She knew that the phoenix was almost notoriously choosy when it came to choosing masters—rather like wands, the phoenix chose his master; a wizard never chose a phoenix, which was why they were never sold commercially as familiars. And once a phoenix had chosen a master, there was nothing the wizard could do to avoid it. Of course few wizards would want to avoid a phoenix as a familiar as their known powers were immense and the full extent of their powers not yet known as new ones seemed to crop up to suit necessity. Besides which, once they had chosen a master, phoenixes were incredibly loyal, the most loyal of familiars—flying into the flames at Dumbledore’s funeral had been a commonplace sign of devotion among phoenixes.)

Harry watched, feeling the constriction in his chest tighten even further rather than lessen, as the feather ceased its writing.

He hesitated to pick up the parchment as the enormity of the task facing him seemed to come down on top of him—and turned instead, instinctively, to Hermione for some reassurance.

“D’you really think I can do this?” he asked in a tormented whisper.

Hermione met his troubled gaze directly. “Yes, I do,” she answered simply. She wondered how she could ever have thought she might care more about Ron than she did about Harry. Seeing Harry now, when he looked so- lost- with so much pain in his eyes at the memory of Dumbledore, she was overwhelmed with a flood of so much sympathy and tenderness, it was almost a physical sensation in her chest. And she knew she could—and she would—do anything to help Harry, to make him feel better, to make him smile again…

For a moment, her gaze lowered to focus on his lips as an almost-random thought flitted through her mind: what would happen if we kissed?

But she dismissed the thought—she couldn’t and wouldn’t start anything with Harry now when there were other, more important things to take care of. Later…

She just bent forward and kissed his cheek quickly. “I’ve always believed in you,” she told him quietly.

He gave her the ghost of a smile before he pulled the parchment towards him to read it.

1. The Leader decides the time and place for the next meeting.

2. The Inner Circle- consisting of the most experienced, most trusted, members of the Order, as decided by the Leader- shall be informed first by Fawkes.

3. The Inner Circle may choose to meet first, privately, before the general meeting of the other Order members.

4. All other former members will be informed of the next meeting by Fawkes and will indicate to a designated member of the Inner Circle whether or not they will attend the meeting.

5. All former members will be given the choice whether or not to rejoin the Order at the first meeting at which point they will be sworn to secrecy once again, while those who do not rejoin the Order, will have their memories altered for the safety of the rest.

“That seems simple enough,” Hermione said. “For the Inner Circle, then, obviously Remus—who else do you think?”

“You and Ron, for one thing; Professor McGonagall, Mr. Weasley, Hagrid, and Moody.”

He fell silent and she sensed his sudden tension as he looked up at her, the bleakness in his eyes back.

“What about Snape? It says all former members…”

She stifled a sigh. She had known the problem of Snape would come up when it was time for the Order to reform; she had been trying, at various times, in the past months to try to come to terms with what Snape had done over the years but she hadn’t yet come to any conclusion. Was Snape really the traitor he certainly seemed to be? Dumbledore had trusted him—and yet, Snape had killed Dumbledore…

“Let’s go talk to Ron,” she said instead. “He’s the master at Chess so he might have some strategies to suggest. And we can talk about Snape with him too.”

~~~

“I have an idea. Let’s tell the git we’re meeting in some nice deserted place and when he shows up, we hex his bollocks off and throw him into Azkaban or some place—and then Apparate the hell out of there before V-You-Know-Who and his henchmen come by to kill us all since Snape will have told them where we were meeting.”

“Ron!” Hermione exclaimed reprovingly.

“What? You can’t tell me you think we can trust him after he killed Dumbledore!”

“But- Dumbledore trusted him…” Hermione put in doubtfully.

Ron snorted. “Yeah and look how much good that did him. It got him very dead. I say we learn from Dumbledore’s mistakes and just decide to curse Snape on sight if we ever set eyes on the greasy-haired traitor.”

“But… what if Snape really isn’t the traitor to the Order we think he is? Dumbledore trusted him and I just can’t believe that Dumbledore was wrong about him for so long. Dumbledore wasn’t blind or an idiot but he trusted Snape, just like he trusted Sirius and Arabella Figg and Hagrid and Remus, when no one else would.” She spoke slowly, thinking hard and trying to force herself to play Devil’s Advocate and look past her own dislike of Professor Snape.

“Face it, Hermione. Dumbledore made a mistake in trusting Snape and the mistake cost him his life. Whatever you say, you can’t get past the fact that Snape killed Dumbledore and that’s not exactly something someone loyal to the Order would do.”

“What if—isn’t it possible that Dumbledore wanted Snape to kill him?” Hermione suggested, now speculating aloud.

Ron made a sarcastic sound. “What- that Dumbledore said, ‘please kill me’ and Snape obeyed because of his loyalty to Dumbledore? That’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard.” He turned to Harry who hadn’t contributed to the conversation, looking as if he wished he were almost anywhere else but there, where he was having to relive one of the worst nights of his life. “Harry, you were there. What do you think?”

“Put aside what you feel about Snape,” Hermione added.

Harry frowned, glowering at the floor for a long moment, before he sighed heavily and looked up, admitting with palpable reluctance, “Dumbledore just said, ‘please’… But he could have freed me from the spell to let me move—and he did look at Snape for a long time as if he were begging--” Harry paused and then added, his frown darkening, “But the look on Snape’s face when he killed Dumbledore—it was hatred.”

“See! Snape hated Dumbledore and he killed him too. He’s evil. There’s nothing more to say.”

“I don’t think it’s that simple, Ron. Think about it,” Hermione began, her gaze fixed absently on her hands as she thought aloud. “Dumbledore might have known he was dying already from that potion he drank in the caves; he prevented Harry from doing anything to save him or show himself so Harry wouldn’t be hurt or captured. Dumbledore used Legilimency to get into Snape’s mind and told him that he was dying and asked Snape to kill him since he was dying anyway and it would be the one thing that would ensure that Snape remained one of Voldemort’s most-trusted Death Eaters, which would make him an even more valuable spy for the Order.”

“That’s nice and convoluted—but what about the look of hatred on Snape’s face?” Ron asked skeptically.

Hermione paused, glanced at Harry whose entire stance spoke of grief as he kept his gaze fixed on the ground, hesitated and then answered bravely. “It could have been hatred at having to kill someone whom he respected, in order to protect and help Harry, who he hated. He would have been going against his every inclination to help someone he hated so much, for the better good.”

Harry stiffened visibly, finally lifting his head to look up at her with a pained expression.

She flinched inwardly at his look, hating that she’d had to hurt Harry to make a point—but somehow, every logical feeling and instinct in her was telling her that Dumbledore couldn’t have been so wrong about Snape and there was something about Dumbledore’s death that wasn’t obvious. After all, they had thought Snape had been the obvious villain in their first year, only to be completely mistaken about that. If she had learned anything in her years in the magical world, it was that things- and people- weren’t always what they seemed—and Snape had always been the most central example of that principle.

Ron was gaping at her—as if she had said that she thought Voldemort was really a good person. But all he said, after a moment of stunned disbelief, was, “You really are mental.”

She turned to Harry, mentally pleading that he understand. “Harry, think about it—entirely aside from how you feel about Snape. I’m not saying this because I personally like Snape or even trust him myself—but I just can’t think that Dumbledore was so wrong. And if Snape still is loyal to the Order—then we can’t afford not to include him because his role as a spy on the Death Eaters is too vital. He could help us!”

“But if he is a traitor to the Order…” he trailed off, not needing to complete the sentence. They all knew what would happen in that case.

She met his eyes. “I think it’s a risk we have to take.”

Harry was silent for a long moment, conflicting expressions passing over his face as he thought it over. “Okay, we’ll keep Snape in for now,” he finally said. He paused, adding rather grimly, “But if he turns out to be a traitor, I’m going to kill him myself.”

Ron let out a short sigh. “If you say so, Harry, it’s your call.”

Hermione relaxed slightly now that the most difficult question was out of the way. “When do you want the first meeting to be, Harry?”

He hesitated for a moment and then said, “I- I’m not sure—but let’s make it a few weeks from now on the hope that we’ll get to talk to Professor Dumbledore’s portrait first. I think—I hope—he’ll wake up soon; it’s been months. Professor Dumbledore will be able to tell us more, especially about Snape, and maybe give us some advice on what the Order can do.” He glanced at Fawkes, who was perched on the back of the empty chair, as he waited for them to finish their discussion. “It’s okay that we wait before calling the first meeting, right, Fawkes?” he asked.

Fawkes tilted his head to one side, which Harry decided to interpret as an affirmative response.

“So we’ll wait, then,” Ron said.

~*~*~

Their lunch was interrupted by a tapping sound at the window. It was an owl. Harry leaped up, opening the window to let it in.

The owl dropped a letter sealed with the Hogwarts seal onto the table and then flew back out again.

“It must be from McGonagall. Professor Dumbledore’s portrait must have awoken,” Harry said and opened the envelope eagerly.

The note was very brief and to the point.

The portrait has awoken.

I will expect to see you in my office at 11 am on the last Saturday of the month. The password will be A_ _ e _ _ a T _ _ s_ _ _l.

They all bent over it, frowning.

Ron made a sound of disgust. “Oh great. Now she’s sending us riddles because having pieces of You-know-who’s soul to find isn’t enough of a challenge.”

Just as he finished speaking, another owl flew in the still-open window, deposited another envelope on the table and flew out with the same speed as the first owl had.

The next note contained only 3 words: Hogwarts, a History.

“She’s gotten as barmy as Dumbledore was,” Ron grumbled.

Hermione frowned over the two notes and then made a small sound of comprehension. “Ooh.”

Ron glanced at Harry who shrugged and turned to Hermione. “What is it?”

Hermione looked up with a smile tinged with triumph. “The password is Alberta Tutskill.”

“Al- who? And why couldn’t she just write that?”

Hermione rolled her eyes briefly. “Don’t be daft, Ron. She did it for security reasons in case the owls were intercepted. Voldemort knows we’re not at Hogwarts by now and he’ll probably figure that Professor McGonagall will be keeping in contact with us.”

“Who’s Alberta Tutskill?” Harry asked curiously.

“Oh, honestly, aren’t you two ever going to read Hogwarts, a History for yourselves?” But there was no irritation in her tone, even a little half-affectionate exasperation at this oft-repeated question. “Alberta Tutskill was the first Headmistress of Hogwarts after Helga Hufflepuff and Rowena Ravenclaw.” Hermione paused, thinking and then added, “She was Headmistress sometime in the 1300’s, I think, more than 300 years after Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw died. It took the wizarding world that long to get over the idea that a woman shouldn’t be the Head of Hogwarts.” Hermione’s tone indicated her wealth of scorn for those medieval wizards.

Ron gaped at her. “You remember all that?”

Harry and Hermione both ignored him, Harry frowning slightly, as he tried to remember the portraits in Dumbledore’s office. “How many Headmistresses has Hogwarts had?”

Hermione grimaced slightly. “Four, other than the Founders. Professor McGonagall will be the 5^th one. After Alberta Tutskill, it wasn’t until 1558 that there was another Headmistress, oddly enough.”

“Why odd?”

Hermione looked at Harry but he looked genuinely interested and so she answered, “That was the same year that Elizabeth I became Queen in the Muggle World and Scotland had a reigning queen and a female regent at the time. It’s fascinating, sometimes, how wizarding history echoed Muggle history.”

Harry smiled slightly, thinking that he really loved the way Hermione’s eyes lit up when she talked about something she was interested in.

“Did you eat that book so you’d remember everything in it?” Ron asked.

Hermione looked torn between amusement and annoyance. “Did I- what?”

“Seriously, how d’you remember all that?”

Hermione shrugged a little. “I don’t know. I just do.”

“And thank Merlin you do. Otherwise we’d probably never have figured out what the password for McGonagall’s office will be,” Harry interjected.

Hermione smiled slightly down at the floor, her cheeks slightly pink with pleasure.

Harry spared himself a fleeting smile but then frowned.

Reforming the Order—without Dumbledore. He didn’t want this, had never wanted it, he thought rebelliously.

He hoped desperately that Dumbledore’s portrait would provide all the answers they needed…

To be continued…

Disclaimer: See Part 1.

Author’s Note: I seem to be apologizing for how long it takes me to write these chapters every time I post. Honestly, I do write these chapters as fast as I can but the muses and RL don’t always cooperate. In an attempt to atone for how long it’s been though, this chapter is extra-long and very plot-heavy. I hope it’s worth the wait! And as always, thanks for reading and reviewing.

From My Soul

Part 12

They had nearly reached the gates of Hogwarts when Harry tensed, hand grabbing his wand as he turned—and dove to one side taking Hermione and Ron with him, the jet of green light passing harmlessly over their heads.

He rolled back up into a crouch in one motion, firing off a Stupefy as he did so and knew a moment of satisfaction when one of the four black-robed figures dropped to the ground.

He ducked another curse and then heard Hermione cry out and looked to see a long, thin gash across her leg, the red blood staining her jeans. Oh God…

He threw up a quick Shield and grabbed Ron’s arm. “Take Hermione and go!”

“But--” Ron and Hermione both began and he cut them off sharply.

“Go!”

Something in his tone at least convinced Ron who took hold of Hermione’s arm, helping her up. When Hermione looked as if she was going to protest again, Harry added grimly, “They won’t kill me. Now go!”

And then, driven by some strange compulsion, as if something else were directing his actions, he raised his wand-less hand in a quick wave in their direction, feeling a surge of magic go through him as he had when he’d destroyed Mrs. Black’s portrait, and sensed—or somehow knew—that there was now a protective shield around Hermione and Ron.

He didn’t have time to grasp this, only turned back to fire off an Expelliarmus, a Leg-locker Curse, and a Levicorpus in rapid-fire succession. The Expelliarmus missed but one figure was turned upside-down with a yell and hung there. The distraction provided as the other two turned to stare allowed him to Stun one.

He ducked a jet of red light, yelled a “Protego!” which deflected the “Crucio!” which he just registered, threw up another Shield and then ran, trying to keep as low to the ground as possible, weaving back and forth to avoid further curses. He kept his wand pointed behind him, attempting to keep up a steady stream of non-verbal “Stupefy” curses though he never stopped to look where the spells were hitting or if they were hitting anything at all.

He reached the gate of Hogwarts just as Hagrid and Fang ran past him with McGonagall not far behind and knew that Ron and Hermione must have reached the castle and alerted them.

He heard McGonagall cry out, “Protego” and then “Stupefy” and then Fang barking and growling and finally looked back.

The last Death Eater had been Stunned by what looked like a blow from Hagrid, McGonagall had conjured up ropes and was now taking off the hood to reveal—Harry stiffened, sucking in his breath—Draco Malfoy.

He hesitated but McGonagall looked back and ordered, “To the Infirmary with you and then wait in my office.”

He obeyed, suddenly realizing now that the rush of adrenaline had subsided that whatever strange new spell or power he had used to shield Hermione and Ron had drained him. He had to force himself to move to the Hospital Wing avoiding the stares and gawks of the few students around.

“Harry!” Hermione cried out sharply on seeing him and only Madam Pomfrey physically restraining her kept her from getting up to go to him.

Hermione was lying on a bed, a somewhat glittering sort of ointment on her leg where it had been cut and even as he watched, the gash healed.

“Now, you’re to stay still for another few minutes at least, understood?” Madam Pomfrey said firmly, and Hermione nodded resignedly.

Madam Pomfrey then bustled over to where Harry had half-collapsed into a chair and gave him a Potion to drink.

“Are you okay?”

Harry smiled slightly at how all three of them blurted the question out almost in unison, him addressing Hermione, Ron and Hermione addressing him. “Fine,” he said. “Hermione?”

She smiled slightly, relief clear in her expression. “Oh thank goodness,” she responded, answering his question only with a wave of her hand as if it had been nothing at all.

“What happened to the Death Eaters?” Ron asked.

Harry sobered, standing as he felt a fresh surge of anger. “One was Malfoy,” he spat the name out grimly.

Ron gaped. “Ferret-face?”

“None other. Professor McGonagall and Hagrid got him. Not sure about the others…” he trailed off, frowning as something occurred to him. “It was too easy.” He nodded slowly. “I think Crabbe and Goyle were the other two. I’m not sure about the last one.” He paused. “It looks like Voldemort sent low-level flunkies out this time. He didn’t plan to kill us—it was a warning.”

“A warning?”

“Yes. If he’d been serious, he’d have sent Bellatrix Lestrange or someone like that. Not Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle with someone else.”

“Harry’s right,” Hermione told Ron. “It was too easy.”

Ron opened his mouth to say something but Harry interjected, “We need to go to McGonagall’s office,” and moved to help Hermione up, although she insisted she could walk just fine.

He ignored her and kept a hand on her arm as they walked through the hallways and up the stairs until they reached the stone griffin guarding the entrance.

“Alberta Tutskill,” Harry said firmly and the griffin leaped aside, revealing the spiral stone staircase.

“Well, here goes,” Ron commented as the stairs slowly lifted them up to the office.

It was quiet inside the office, the portraits dozing as usual. Professor McGonagall had, Harry noticed, changed very little except that there were a few more books scattered on the desk than there had been before.

He hesitated and then made his way over to where Dumbledore’s portrait was slumbering, as Ron and Hermione followed him. “Professor Dumbledore? Professor, are you awake?” Harry asked cautiously.

The portrait stirred and then opened his eyes, before Dumbledore smiled gently. “Ah, yes, hello, Harry. Mr. Weasley. Miss Granger. It is good to see you three again. I trust you’ve all been well in my absence.”

Ron looked rather startled at Dumbledore’s completely casual manner but Hermione smiled. “Hi, Professor Dumbledore.”

“Not even a word of hello, Harry?” Dumbledore sounded half-reproachful, although there was a slight twinkle in his eyes. “I must say, I was expecting you would be more welcoming.”

Harry swallowed back the little lump that had appeared in his throat at seeing that Dumbledore’s portrait was really just like Dumbledore had been in life. “I’m sorry, sir. I just- I’m glad you’re awake,” he said fervently.

And even though he supposed he should wait until Professor McGonagall returned, he found himself blurting out all that he wanted to talk to Dumbledore about in one rush, hardly pausing to take a breath in between. “Fawkes came to me to lead the Order. But I don’t know what to do. We- we found the real horcrux, the locket, and then Hermione found the other horcrux, a key from Ravenclaw, in the Chamber of Secrets but we still can’t figure out how to destroy them. And- and Voldemort sent some henchmen to warn us when we got here.” He paused and then opened his mouth to confess to having destroyed the portrait of Mrs. Black when Dumbledore held up a hand.

“Yes, yes, Harry, I realize you are worried and I am sorry. There is much I have to tell you. I am sure we should wait until Professor McGonagall returns, however, as otherwise I am quite sure she will be annoyed and I, for one, would prefer to not be on the receiving end of one of her stern lectures again,” he added with a slight twinkle in his eyes.

“I see you are not entirely lacking in sense, Albus.”

Harry, Ron and Hermione all started and turned around at McGonagall’s tart statement, not having heard her enter.

She studied them quickly. “I am glad to see you are all okay after that little ambush.”

“Where’s Malfoy now?” Ron blurted out what Harry had just been about to ask.

McGonagall’s expression became grimmer. “Mr. Malfoy has been restrained and is now being guarded by Fang. I will be questioning him later.”

“Mr. Malfoy is here?” Dumbledore’s portrait asked.

McGonagall nodded. “He, along with Mr. Crabbe, Mr. Goyle and Miss Bulstrode, formed the little welcoming committee which Voldemort sent for Mr. Potter and his friends. I suspected he would have intercepted the owls which I sent.

Dumbledore frowned slightly. “I see. Well, I am glad to see you all made it safely here.”

“Professor,” Harry started, “I- er- earlier when we were ambushed and then a couple weeks ago, I- I did wandless magic.”

“Wandless magic?” McGonagall repeated.

Harry noticed that Dumbledore’s portrait did not look particularly surprised to hear about this. “Professor, can you- can you tell me more about it? Why am I suddenly able to do wandless magic?”

The portrait sighed a little, closing his eyes briefly, before he opened them to focus on Harry. “A few very powerful witches and wizards become capable of limited types of wandless magic when they reach the later years of schooling and have learned more control over their skills with their wands. It is something like the wand-less bursts of magic exhibited by young magical children. Most witches and wizards lose it and become dependent on their wands but for a few, they retain it. Would I be right, Harry, in guessing that for you, both instances when you performed wandless magic were in times of high emotion and stress?”

“Yes. Just now- when I thought Ron and Hermione might be hurt—and then before…” Harry hesitated and then continued half-sheepishly, “I- erm- I destroyed Mrs. Black’s portrait when she insulted Hermione.”

“Walburga Black’s portrait?” McGonagall spoke up and Harry could swear he heard a smile in her tone and heard her mutter, “Good riddance to that old cow,” under her breath and he bit his lip to keep from laughing.

Glancing at Hermione, he saw the glint of amusement in her eyes and knew she had heard McGonagall as well.

Dumbledore’s portrait too appeared to be hiding a smile. “Ah yes, Mrs. Black. I-er- was acquainted with her when she was alive; in fact I taught her and I must say she seemed to grow steadily more disagreeable after she got married. Well, I do not believe she will be much missed,” he said serenely.

Harry, Ron and Hermione grinned fleetingly before Harry sobered again.

“And- um- Professor, I thought—it made me wonder—is it possible that I… that I’m one of the horcruxes? Could Voldemort have accidentally turned me into one when he… when he killed my parents?”

He heard McGonagall’s slight intake of breath at the mention of the horcruxes but ignored it, keeping his attention focused on the portrait.

Dumbledore looked solemn. “You a horcrux, Harry? Why would you think that?”

“I just… the wandless magic and my being a Parselmouth and- and Snape said that Voldemort didn’t want to kill me at the end of last year and because I can get into Voldemort’s head and I was able to destroy the diary without it hurting me…” Harry trailed off, wondering why, somehow, listing the reasons he could think of made them sound rather inadequate.

“Impossible,” McGonagall was heard to mutter.

“Yes, impossible,” Dumbledore confirmed. “Harry, I promise you that there is no way you could be the last horcrux. A horcrux, you will remember, is an object in which a portion of a person’s soul is stored—that object cannot possess a soul of its own. If it were even attempted, the soul which is whole and therefore stronger would merely expel the portion of a soul which would then seek out either the rest of the original soul if it is close enough or it would merely be lost. No, Harry, you could not be a horcrux.”

“Not- not even my scar or something?”

“Your scar? Harry, no. Do not impute to your scar some special powers or properties which you do not also possess; your scar is not some separate object. It is a mark on your body, admittedly a mark that is quite remarkable in its own way. But it can, in no way, constitute a separate entity which is capable of holding a piece of anyone else’s soul. You may be certain of that.”

“I thought so,” Hermione broke the rather heavy silence to say, softly. “I couldn’t believe it was possible…”

Dumbledore’s portrait smiled at Hermione. “And you were, as usual, Miss Granger, correct.”

Hermione turned to smile at Harry, her hand reaching out to rest on his arm for a moment. “See, Harry, you’re not a horcrux. You won’t have to somehow destroy yourself to defeat Voldemort.”

He managed a slight smile. “I should have known better than to disagree with you.”

“A Know-it-all, what did I tell you? Right annoying, if you ask me,” Ron muttered but his tone was more teasing than not and Hermione just rolled her eyes at him.

“I- Professor, there’s something else about the wandless magic. Just now, in the ambush, I used it to put up some sort of protective shield—but it wasn’t the Shielding Spell we learned. It was something different… more powerful… and even though I know I never learned it, at that moment, I somehow… knew it—and I used it without thinking.”

Ron spoke up. “Whatever you did, it managed to deflect or almost absorb, it seemed, the curses that got shot at us, including one Cruciatus.”

The portrait looked interested and actually sat up a little in his chair. “Well, that is intriguing…” and then said nothing more, looking thoughtfully down towards the lower corner of the frame.

McGonagall let out an impatient sort of noise. “Well, then, Albus? What is this new protective spell?”

The portrait Dumbledore started a little. “Ah, right, of course. Harry, I believe you have just come across the last great secret of the magic which protected you from Voldemort when you were a baby. It is called Soul Protection; there are no known incantations for it. It is not a spell or a charm which can be controlled and used at will; it is something deeper than that, something which gets to the true heart of magic. It can be produced only in extreme circumstances when a person or persons who are particularly dear to the caster are threatened or in some sort of serious danger. As it is, only a few wizards, the most powerful witches and wizards are even capable of summoning it. The closest to an explanation of the phenomenon which I can give is that it is some sort of magical manifestation of a person’s deepest, strongest protective instincts towards those most precious to him. It is said to come only from the most secret and unknown reaches of a person’s soul.” The portrait stopped, pausing to study Harry, Ron and Hermione with solemn eyes in which there wasn’t even the hint of its customary twinkle. “There has been no evidence that it is capable of withstanding the Killing Curse. However, I have long suspected, Harry, that part of the reason you are here today is due to this very spell.”

“My mum…” Harry murmured.

“Yes, Harry, your mother. I believe that she, in her last moment of willing sacrifice for your sake, called forth Soul Protection which lingered even after her death and thus enabled you to survive.”

There was a silence during which Harry remembered hearing his mother’s voice, pleading for his life with Voldemort.

And now he had channeled some of that same power, that was almost an instinctive, subconscious knowledge, to protect Ron and Hermione. He remembered seeing that Hermione was bleeding, remembered feeling a surge of desperate determination that Ron and Hermione would not be hurt- or worse- because of him, remembered knowing- somehow- that he would do anything to protect them, that nothing could happen to either of them.

“I once told you,” Dumbledore continued quietly, “that it was your mother’s sacrifice that allowed you to survive. It was true but only to an extent. People had died in an attempt to save their loved ones before; none had ever survived because of it. With you, Harry, I believe it was the Soul Protection combined with the power that was already in you that enabled you to survive.”

“But what is that power?” Harry asked almost desperately.

“I have already told you, Harry. It is your power to love. You have a great capacity to love, Harry, it is what fuels most of your actions. Your love, your kind heart, your emotions. There are very few eleven-year-old boys who would have remembered a girl who wasn’t even a friend of yours at the time, crying in the loo and that she would not know of a troll in the castle and gone to save her.”

“You know about that?” Harry blurted out, interrupting Dumbledore.

The portrait smiled a little, looking to Hermione and then at Ron and then back at Harry. “Very little occurs in this castle regarding the students and their welfare which I am not aware of, Harry. I also know that there are very few boys who would willingly face a basilisk for another person’s sake, just as there are few who would have prevented Peter Pettigrew from being killed and few people who could have shown the courage you did in the graveyard after the Third Task.”

By now, Harry could feel his ears burning at Dumbledore’s words. “I didn’t- that was- I didn’t think, really, just did it. It’s silly, really. That’s not power; it’s me being a bit of an idiot,” he protested a little weakly.

“That, dear boy, is what makes you extraordinary. It never occurs to you to do anything different; the less courageous path, that is less protective of others, never even occurs to you as an option. And that, after the way your aunt and uncle brought you up, is truly a remarkable gift. You care about people, Harry, care about them deeply—and that ability to love is your gift and your power. It is also, Harry, the one thing which Voldemort knows nothing of and one thing that he consistently under-estimates and scoffs at.”

“He will have power the Dark Lord knows not…” Hermione breathed softly, quoting the words of the Prophecy.

Dumbledore looked at Hermione, nodding. “Yes, Miss Granger. That is it exactly.” He returned his gaze to Harry, who was staring down at the floor between his feet, the flush on his cheeks revealing his discomfort at these kind words. “I told you before, Mr. Potter, when I first told you about the Prophecy that it was that power which had made you go to the Department of Mysteries, because you feared for Sirius’s safety. It was your heart that saved you that night—and it is your heart that will, I think, be your greatest strength. Remember that, Mr. Potter.” His tone was gentle, filled with compassion and affection and wisdom, and Harry suddenly remembered what Dumbledore had confessed that terrible night, about how he’d cared too much about Harry. And Harry was touched in a way he hadn’t been at that night; he’d been too full of grief and anger to care, then. But now, he was no longer angry; now he could admit that it was something to have someone as wise and as powerful as Dumbledore care about him so much, protect him as Dumbledore had…

The room was quiet for a few moments, as each of them were occupied with their own thoughts.

Ron was the first one to break the silence. “That’s all great, Professor, and we can nominate Harry to become Saint Harry when this is all over but what does it mean? Harry can’t exactly just walk up to V-You-Know-Who and snog him to have this love of his conquer all.”

Harry choked on air and shot a glance of pure horror tinged with some reluctant amusement at Ron. “Don’t ever say anything like that again!”

Hermione choked back a horrified laugh at the ridiculous (and absolutely revolting) mental images conjured up by Ron’s pithy words. Professor McGonagall coughed and Hermione could have sworn she saw a smile tugging at the corners of McGonagall’s lips before she hastily composed herself.

Dumbledore chuckled softly. “Thank you, Mr. Weasley, for bringing us back to the matter at hand. Yes, it is true that love, in and of itself, will serve no real practical purpose. What must be done is to channel that greatness of heart into magic. Now, you found the true locket?” On that last question, his tone shifted from his customary half-whimsical warmth to the more coolly-businesslike tone as he became the man who had founded and led the Order of the Phoenix for years.

“Yes, sir, it was in Grimmauld Place,” Ron answered since Harry seemed still to be recovering from Ron’s last quip.

“Good, good. I rather suspected that RAB might be Regulus Black; he was always one of the weaker Death Eaters, if I may say. Not quite as committed as, say, Lucius Malfoy or the Lestranges. And the other horcrux?”

“Hermione found that, sir,” Harry answered, flashing the ghost of a grateful smile at Hermione. “She figured that it’d be in the Chamber of Secrets and it was—in that statue of Slytherin at the front of it.”

“Ah, yes, indeed. Very good, Miss Granger,” Dumbledore beamed approvingly at Hermione who colored. “I always knew you would be a great help to Mr. Potter.”

She smiled slightly. “I hope so, Professor.”

Harry made a quick, almost instinctive movement, his hand brushing Hermione’s and giving it a fleeting pressure. You already are, the gesture assured her, and I won’t forget it.

“Professor,” Harry spoke up, returning his mind to the more urgent problem, “how are we supposed to destroy the other horcruxes? How- how did you destroy the ring?”

Dumbledore’s expression grew grave. “I am afraid, Harry, that I cannot tell you that. Suffice to say that it was a combination of some of the oldest, strongest magic I know and to this day, I am not entirely certain which spell or which combination of spells finally managed to destroy it. The effort it took—and the violent reaction of the horcrux itself, nearly killed me and if it hadn’t been for the timely and skillful intervention of Professor Snape, I doubt I would have survived. No, Harry, I cannot tell you how I destroyed the ring. There are other ways; you will need to find those other ways.”

“How was I able to destroy the diary without being hurt or killed?” Harry’s question was quiet.

The portrait was silent for a moment, studying Harry, and then the figure sighed. “I believe, Harry, it has something to do with those powers of his which Voldemort inadvertently gave you when he tried to kill you that long-ago night, the Parseltongue and that connection of sorts through your scar. I believe he also gave you something of himself--”

He was interrupted by Harry’s sharp intake of breath. “You mean—you mean I’m—I’m like him? I have a part of him inside me?” The words were strangled and barely audible.

“No,” Dumbledore assured Harry firmly and swiftly. “That is not what I meant. I meant that in giving you some of his powers, he also gave you the power to destroy a horcrux with part of his soul in it without being severely injured or killed. In a sense, by choosing to try to kill you, he gave you the power which would allow you to be the only one who can defeat him.”

Harry relaxed slightly but still looked unhappy.

Hermione watched him in silent sympathy and moved the conversation on by asking the other question that most needed to be answered. “What should we do about the Order, Professor? And-” she hesitated, glancing at Ron and Harry, before she finished, “about Professor Snape?”

Behind her, she was conscious of McGonagall shifting involuntarily and glanced at her to see an odd expression fleetingly cross the Headmistress’s face, a mixture of grief and anger and resignation. She returned her gaze to Dumbledore as he sighed.

“I am so very sorry, Harry. It appears I managed to make a muddle of things and there are few things I regret more than what happened that night.”

He fell silent and McGonagall spoke up, her tone curt and impatient. “Yes, yes, Albus, so you’ve said but regrets will solve nothing. Why don’t you tell Mr. Potter and his friends what you already explained to me?”

Hermione glanced over at McGonagall again, rather surprised at the terseness of her voice but then she could have sworn she caught a flicker of emotion in McGonagall’s eyes, an odd quiver passing over her face before she managed to resume her usual, rather brisk façade. And she understood, suddenly feeling a wave of affection for her old professor, whom she’d always respected for her sense of fairness as well as for her teaching. McGonagall wasn’t really irritated with Professor Dumbledore and Hermione knew, or could guess at, the depth of loyalty and respect existing between them given their long years of working together and of friendship. But McGonagall being who she was, could not openly admit to her feelings, could only mask them beneath her usual tart manner. How angry, then, must McGonagall have been, at Snape for having (apparently) deceived them all so much and betrayed Dumbledore’s trust too…

Dumbledore sighed again and then looked up. “Severus Snape did not betray the Order. He killed me because it was what I asked him, told him to do.”

The words fell into the silence heavily, seeming to linger in the atmosphere.

And then, after a few moments, Ron turned to Hermione and spoke in a tone of somewhat-exaggerated irritation.

“Bloody hell, Hermione, why are you always right?!”

~TBC (obviously)

Disclaimer: See Part 1.

Author’s Note: I’m going to try my damnedest to have this fic finished by July 21 but I can’t promise anything! My first attempt at trying to write canon!Draco—I dislike the twit but it does seem like, after HBP, JKR is trying to redeem him so… And I apparently enjoy poking holes at H/G too much to not do it again. Enjoy!

From My Soul

Part 13

The Trio filed out of the stone staircase in a subdued silence.

The past minutes in McGonagall’s office had not been pleasant, to say the least, had been worst for Harry because he’d been forced, through Dumbledore’s words, to relive that awful night in the caves and then on the tower.

And yet despite it all, Hermione was conscious of a warmth lingering in her heart, a sense of hope, of happiness even, which she would never have expected even an hour ago.

Dumbledore had begun, after the few beats of silence following Ron’s question and the bark of startled laughter which it had elicited from Harry and, surprisingly, Professor McGonagall as well (although she had sobered and looked even grimmer than usual, after her lapse) with another sigh and an apology to Harry for making him having to again witness the death of someone he knew and, dared he say, cared about.

Harry had dropped his eyes and visibly flinched at the words.

“Harry, I am more sorry than I can say, to know you must have spent these past few months wondering if there were anything you could have done to save me,” Dumbledore had said gently. “There wasn’t. I already knew, then, that I was dying. That potion which I drank in the caves had begun its work.”

And that was when it had happened. Harry had reached out blindly, instinctively, for some comfort and his hand had found Hermione’s, had held on to it in a grip so tight as to be almost painful, for the rest of Dumbledore’s words.

“The potion was one to dissolve a person’s internal organs. I would have died a painful death within 24 hours of drinking it. You must not blame yourself, Harry. I knew what I was doing and I was perfectly prepared to take the risk. I told Professor Snape this, using my not-inconsiderable skill at Legilimency and I asked him, ordered him in fact, to spare me. I had not planned for that to happen but I immediately understood that fate had given us this opportunity to ensure that Snape remained a trusted Death Eater. Having been known to have killed me would earn him Voldemort’s gratitude, in as much as Tom is capable of such a feeling. It would make him a much more useful spy for our cause. I must add that Severus was extremely reluctant to carry out my orders but I insisted.” Dumbledore finally looked up at Harry. “My only regret, my dear boy, is that I had no opportunity to tell you as well so you would not grieve so. For all my good intentions, I once again ended up causing you much pain and for that, I am more sorry than I can say. However, you can be certain that Severus Snape is still as loyal a servant of the Order as he ever was.”

Harry had been pale and Hermione, at least, had seen the tell-tale tears in his eyes, but he had swallowed hard and managed to speak in something approaching his usual tone. “I understand, Professor, but- but, well, will he still be willing to work for me? Snape doesn’t like me very much and…” (at this point, Ron snorted softly at Harry’s understatement) Harry had ignored him and continued, “and Fawkes came to me. I don’t- I don’t know if Snape would still be willing to spy on my behalf.”

Dumbledore sighed. “I’ve been concerned with Severus’s attitude towards you but, rest assured, Harry, he will do what he must, for the sake of the Order and for our cause.”

“He didn’t before, when he was supposed to teach Harry Occlumency,” Ron muttered.

“Severus will do what he must, what he is told. If necessary, Professor McGonagall will make sure of it,” the portrait reiterated firmly

They had all turned to look at Professor McGonagall and she had nodded, only once, but her expression was such that no one could doubt that she could, and would, make Snape listen.

“You may depend on it,” was all that she said but it had conveyed enough authority as to make further words unnecessary. And Harry had reflected that if he were asked to put odds on either McGonagall or Snape in a battle of wills, he’d probably put his money on McGonagall; she didn’t flaunt it but he suspected (and even knew it, to a certain extent, from how she’d dealt with Umbridge) that she had a core of steel, in a sense, that would make her a formidable opponent.

After that, they had only had time to hastily decide the date of the Order meeting (opting out of the meeting of the Inner Circle before-hand as it would be difficult and risky to have all of them meet) for the weekend after the next one, at Hogwarts in the Great Hall. McGonagall had opined (and Dumbledore had agreed) that for the time being, Harry, Ron and Hermione should continue to stay at Grimmauld Place which should be placed under the protection of a Secret Keeper again and only revealed to members of the Inner Circle.

“Harry,” Dumbledore had added at the last moment before they left, “I must remind you to be very careful and take no unnecessary risks. You are the main weapon the Order possesses and the only hope for us all. Your life must be protected at all costs until the end. Do you understand, Harry?”

Harry had flushed and studied the floor between his feet at the reminder of his previous history of rule-breaking and running into danger which had been clear in Dumbledore’s tone and expression, before he’d looked up and met the old Headmaster’s eyes. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. Go on, then. I am tired now,” Dumbledore had dismissed them with a faint smile and a wave of one hand before the portrait had settled back to return to sleep.

They walked down the corridor in silence for a few moments before Ron finally said, “You know, I guess Old Umbridge was right about one thing at least. Dumbledore was planning a secret weapon to use—and that’s you, Harry.”

Hermione threw Ron an amused glance and a smile while Harry grimaced a little.

“If I’m a secret weapon, then I’m the worst-kept secret in the history of Hogwarts,” he retorted mildly.

Ron grinned. “I think I’m going to start calling you Saint Weapon, how does that sound?”

“You know, sometimes I wonder why I don’t hate you,” Harry shot back with mock irritation.

Ron gave him a look of exaggerated shock. “Oh but you have a heart of love; you’re not capable of hate, oh saintly one!”

“I’m thinking of making an exception for you,” Harry snorted.

Ron pretended to bow. “I am so honored, oh saintly one!”

He grinned at Harry and Harry gave in to the smile tugging at his lips and laughed. Hermione smiled, although she shook her head in mock disapproval of Ron’s silliness.

And suddenly Harry was filled with a wave of affection and gratitude for both of them. They were here, laughing and teasing him, reminding him that life wasn’t all about death and danger, even the middle of a war, unmindful of the danger they were in or that they were giving up their 7^th year at Hogwarts.

“I’m glad you both are here,” he blurted out.

They both paused and looked at him.

“Where else would we be?” Ron asked, his tone lightly dismissive but it was belied by the expression that crossed his face momentarily as he met Harry’s eyes.

“I just--” Harry faltered, floundering around mentally for what to say and finally settled for, “thanks. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Hermione smiled softly at him, looking rather as if she wanted to hug him but had refrained. (He wished she hadn’t, he found himself thinking.)

Ron, characteristically, shrugged off anything approaching sentimentality, with a light quip, “Oh, you’d go barking mad, I expect. You really are a lucky bloke to have us.”

Harry laughed softly. “So I am,” he murmured, knowing only Hermione heard him as evidenced by her quick glance and pleased flush.

They rounded a corner and Harry’s momentary light-heartedness ended as abruptly as if it had been guillotined.

It was Ginny.

Looking just as startled to see them as they were to see her—although Harry thought afterwards, they shouldn’t have been so surprised, given that they’d known Ginny was returning to Hogwarts. He should have almost expected it—but then he’d hardly spared a thought for Ginny in the past few weeks.

Ron was the first one to recover. “Hullo, Gin,” he greeted her with enviable ease.

“Hi, Ginny,” Hermione said, a little more quietly.

“Hello, Ginny,” Harry finally forced out, amazed at how normal he sounded.

“What are you doing here?” Ginny blurted out.

“We came to meet with Professor McGonagall,” Harry explained hurriedly. He wasn’t sure why he didn’t also mention talking to Dumbledore’s portrait but somehow he didn’t.

“Oh.”

There was a beat of silence and then Ron asked, “How are Mum and Dad and everyone?”

“Fine. Mum’s been worried about you—about all three of you, really. Bill and Phlegm are living in a flat in London but they come for dinner every weekend, Mum writes…”

“Her name’s Fleur.” The words startled Harry nearly as much as they surprised everyone else. He hadn’t meant to say them; they’d simply slipped out of his mouth. When Ginny had referred to Fleur with that disagreeable nickname, despite the fact that Bill and Fleur had been married for two months now and despite the fact that Fleur had proven her mettle when Bill had been wounded so terribly at the battle at Hogwarts three months ago, he’d felt a sudden flare of irritation and wondered just why Ginny persisted in disliking Fleur so much. Hermione had been initially skeptical of Fleur as well but Hermione had long since realized her mistake and understood Fleur’s worth. She’d even hugged Fleur at the wedding and wished her happy with palpable and touching sincerity. Ginny, on the other hand…

He sensed Hermione’s and Ron’s surprised glance at him and saw Ginny’s expression flatten a little in shock.

“It- it’s only a joke,” Ginny faltered rather defensively.

“It isn’t funny,” he pointed out, but then softened at the sight of Ginny’s stricken expression. He hadn’t meant to hurt her. “Never mind, Ginny,” he said, his tone gentler. “Tell your Mum and Dad that we’re fine and safe and we’ll see them soon.”

She nodded. “Okay.”

“We need to go. Bye, Ginny.”

“Bye, Gin,” Ron echoed, giving Ginny a quick, awkward sort of half-hug.

They had only walked on another few steps before they were stopped. “Harry!” Ginny’s cry sounded overly loud in the quiet of the corridor.

Harry turned, stepping back a few steps and narrowing the distance between him and her.

She closed the distance between them in a few, half-running steps and threw her arms around him.

He stiffened, standing stock-still, one hand awkwardly patting her back but otherwise making no move to return her hug.

She looked up at him, trying to smile. “Don’t be mad at me,” she pleaded. “I miss you and I get so scared and worried sometimes about everything.”

“I’m not mad,” he assured her, uncomfortably wondering what Hermione thought of this and wishing he could move away from Ginny.

His eyes met hers and he realized her intention a split second before she raised herself up on her toes to kiss him and he only just had time to turn his head so her lips brushed his cheek rather than his mouth. “Don’t, Ginny,” he said, his tone a little more curt than he intended out of embarrassment (and some irritation) that she’d tried to kiss him while Hermione and Ron were watching.

She stepped back from him (finally), a wounded look in her eyes.

“I can’t,” he said, consciously softening his tone. He might not fancy her anymore but he didn’t want to hurt her. He didn’t add that he didn’t want to kiss her or be kissed by her anymore, didn’t want to be with her anymore and could only hope that she understood.

Although he wondered just how well she had understood his breaking-up with her in the first place, at Dumbledore’s funeral, if she was so quick to ignore it the moment he actually talked to her again. He’d spent most of Bill and Fleur’s wedding trying to pretend she wasn’t there and other than their brief confrontation that morning of leaving the Burrow, this was the first time they’d talked, really, since the day of Dumbledore’s funeral.

“Bye, Ginny,” he said quietly and turned back to face Ron, who looked uncomfortable, and Hermione, who steadfastly avoided his gaze, he noticed with a brief pang.

And he realized that he really was over Ginny. Whatever he had once felt for Ginny was completely gone now; there was only a lingering affection from having known her for so long and from her being Ron’s sister and a Weasley but there was no added feeling there, no more affection for her than he felt for Mrs. Weasley. He had thought he might love Ginny; she had seemed so perfect, so pretty… But whatever he’d felt for Ginny, he realized, hadn’t been real. He remembered it as he might remember a dream; those weeks when he’d been with her seemed like a dream to him now, a dream of being carefree and happy—but it was a false dream. It had been an attempt at being a normal boy, with no thoughts of dangers or worries about Voldemort—but it wasn’t real. It could never be real.

He glanced at Hermione again, thinking of her loyalty and her friendship, how she’d never been afraid to tell him when he was being reckless or foolish and how she was helping him now. She’d been with him for everything—saving Sirius in their 3^rd year, with the Triwizard Tournament tasks, in the Ministry of Magic… Unlike Ginny, a small voice in his mind inserted. And it was true.

What he’d once felt for Ginny hadn’t been real but whatever-it-was that he felt for Hermione, was…

He cared about her for her friendship and her devotion, for her cleverness and her courage—but he also cared about her when she was arguing with him, when she was being the voice of his conscience, irritating at times and persistent but also right… What he felt for Hermione had nothing—well, okay, not much—to do with how she looked when she smiled or how the shape of her lips could distract him; it was just her, all of her—and it was real in a way none of his fancies for any other girl had been.

Hermione could almost have found it funny, how quickly she had gone from feeling happy (happy to see Harry’s smile, touched at his implicit thanks, and so hopeful and glad that he’d reached out for her, held on to her hand for comfort) to this. Seeing Ginny—and, more importantly, seeing how Ginny had looked at Harry and hugged him—had roused all her insecurities, all her doubts and questions rising up in her mind. Seeing Ginny had been a stark reminder of just what she had been to Harry, how much he’d fancied her. She still remembered all too well how Harry had looked at Ginny, how he’d watched her when he thought he was unobserved. And as had become usual when she was with Ginny, she suddenly felt very plain and very boring, very- unfeminine. Ginny was so vividly pretty and so confident in her prettiness now that she’d outgrown her shy phase; Ginny had no qualms about openly hugging Harry and showing her feelings. Seeing Ginny hug Harry was also unpleasantly familiar—she knew what Ginny and Harry looked like together; she’d watched them hug and kiss…

She had begun to hope, dream, that Harry might see her as more than just a friend. He’d been more than usually sweet, it seemed, more than usually affectionate—but after all, it might just be Harry… It might just be the circumstances of enforced and prolonged closeness; it might not mean much.

Hermione suppressed a sigh and glanced at Harry, who was gazing thoughtfully at the stone floor as they walked up towards one of the tower rooms where McGonagall had told them Malfoy was being kept since Hagrid had needed Fang to help in his duties.

McGonagall’s interview with Malfoy was surprisingly short. She’d expected that McGonagall would interrogate Malfoy about what he might know about Voldemort’s plans, after she got through demanding what the plan for the ambush on them had been. She’d expected that the interview would last some time while McGonagall utilized all her trademark skills guaranteed to reduce almost anyone, especially someone as cowardly as Malfoy really was, to a sniveling prisoner.

Instead, McGonagall exited the room within ten minutes of entering it, an odd expression on her face.

They all stood up, looking curiously at her, but it was Harry who asked what they’d all been wondering.

“What did he say, Professor?”

That odd expression was still in her eyes as she looked at them and her voice sounded unlike herself, sounded stiffly disbelieving. “He said—he said that he would like to defect.”

Defect?

Hermione stared at McGonagall, for a moment convinced she must have imagined it—but no, she’d never have imagined McGonagall saying such a thing about Malfoy. Malfoy, of all people!

“Defect?” Ron blurted out. “You mean, he wants to—he wants to join our side?”

“Apparently,” McGonagall answered succinctly. “I must go speak with Professor Dumbledore about this. It’s unprecedented but I believe Mr. Malfoy is sincere.”

“Can we talk to him?” Harry asked, his voice expressing quite clearly that he had less faith than McGonagall did in Malfoy’s sincerity.

“You may, for a short while,” McGonagall consented and then added, warningly, “I trust I need not remind you all that Mr. Malfoy is still a prisoner and is not to be attacked.”

Her eye was focused pointedly at Ron and Harry, Ron turning red to his ears as he mumbled something that sounded affirmative (if grudging) while Harry flushed uncomfortably and studied his shoes, nodding.

Draco looked up as they entered.

Only Malfoy, Hermione thought sardonically, could manage to look supercilious and sneering while bound securely but not overly tightly, hands and feet, to a chair.

A smirk crossed his face. “Well, well,” he drawled, “to what do I owe the honor of a visit from the Great Potter and his two minions?” Harry visibly stiffened but didn’t say anything. Malfoy focused his eyes on Ron, who narrowed his eyes but, other than clenching his fists, showed surprising restraint, Hermione thought. “Not that it’s a surprise to see you, Weasel; you never go anywhere without your Potty friend.” And then Hermione, who flatly refused to show Malfoy any reaction whatsoever to his words. “Tell me something, Mudblood,” he said in a coolly insolent tone, “are you shagging both of them or just one?”

That did it.

Ron leaped forward with a strangled, inarticulate cry—only to be held back by Hermione, grabbing one arm—and Harry, who grabbed the other.

Ron stopped short, turning to stare incredulously at Harry’s hand gripping his arm to Harry’s face, white with fury. “Harry—what—let me go!”

Ron’s protest was automatic, instinctive, and he closed his mouth once the look on Harry’s face registered.

There was a beat of tense silence—and then they all jumped at the sound of shattering glass as the window all-but-exploded.

Ron seemed to have been frozen and Harry looked nearly so, staring blindly at the broken glass on the floor.

Hermione was the first to regain a modicum of her composure. She could see a muscle ticking in Harry’s jaw as it clenched and she blurted out the first thing that came to mind in an effort at calming Harry down. “He’s not worth it, Harry!”

Malfoy made a sound of protest or disdain but subsided when Hermione pointed her wand at him. “You—shut up!” she ordered with so much cold anger that he actually did just that.

She released her grip on Ron, sensing that he’d calmed down, his own anger almost forgotten in light of Harry’s loss of control over his magic, and took a gentle hold on Harry’s arm instead. Her voice when she spoke was much softer, amazingly soft, given how forceful she had sounded a moment ago. “Harry, it’s okay. It doesn’t matter. He’s not worth getting upset over or angry at. He’s just a sniveling, cowardly ferret.”

And somehow that word broke through whatever trance Harry had fallen into and he blinked, meeting Hermione’s eyes.

Hermione released a breath she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding, relaxing imperceptibly. Harry, her Harry, the Harry she knew (and loved, a small voice in her mind inserted) so well, was back.

“He- he insulted you,” Harry said rather lamely.

“I don’t care what he thinks. We already knew he was a foul-mouthed, evil-minded git; there’s nothing new about that.”

The ghost of a smile touched his lips and lightened his eyes. “You’re right.”

Harry’s gaze shifted to Malfoy, chilling until it should have turned anything to ice. Typically, Draco only sneered.

Quietly, unobtrusively, Hermione fixed the window with a wave of her wand at the broken glass before turning back to face the room.

“McGonagall said you want to defect,” Harry finally said flatly.

Ron snorted. “Yeah, because attacking us is a really great way to show us you want to be on our side.”

“Don’t be stupid, Weasel, if you can help it,” Malfoy clipped. “I did that because he ordered me to and it was necessary. But you’ll notice none of you are dead.”

“Are we supposed to thank you for that?” Harry demanded.

“It was only supposed to be a warning, anyway,” Hermione interrupted.

Draco spared her a brief glance. “Very good, Granger. I see you figured that out.” His tone was mocking. Hermione’s hands clenched into fists, her grip tightening on her wand. (Really, she found herself thinking in some detached, sardonic corner of her mind, Malfoy would look worlds better with a nose-bleed and perhaps a black eye or two.) She hauled her mind back to the point, noticing peripherally that Harry’s grip on his wand was so tight that his knuckles were white.

“Why do you want to defect?” Harry finally asked what they’d all been wondering, his tone not so much curious as it was resigned.

“Don’t flatter yourself it’s because I like any of you. But I hate them more. The Dark Lord, my father, all of them. And if being against them means joining you, then that’s just the way it is.”

Ron let out a huff, glaring at Malfoy. “We don’t want you to like us, ferret-face.”

“The feeling’s entirely mutual, Weasel. You can’t imagine I’d give myself up if I had any other choice, do you?” Malfoy drawled.

“Give yourself—” Ron began incredulously.

“Of course, give myself up.” Draco snapped. “You think there’s a chance in Hell that I’d be sitting in this chair right now when Crabbe and Goyle got away if I didn’t intend for this to happen?”

“He has a point,” Hermione admitted reluctantly.

Ron turned to stare at her as if she’d just admitted to thinking Voldemort wasn’t really that bad and even Harry was staring at her as if she’d just grown a second head. She flushed. “Well, he does!” she said defensively.

There was a moment of silence and then Harry’s expression softened ever so slightly. “How can you always be so fair-minded?” His tone was an odd mixture of admiration and irritation and affection.

Her eyes smiled at him before his gaze returned to Malfoy, the glacial expression back as he did so.

“Okay, then,” Harry said dismissively. “You say you want to defect; Professor McGonagall seems to believe you though I can’t imagine why. But if it turns out you’re lying—if you ever do anything to betray us-- ”

“It’ll be the last thing I do, yeah, I get it,” Malfoy interrupted.

Harry glared and looked, for a long moment, as if he seriously wanted to hex Malfoy, before he turned with a huff and walked out.

Hermione spared Malfoy one last cold glance before following Harry while Ron muttered somewhat under his breath but too loud for him not to have intended it to be heard, “Bloody git,” before he too walked out, closing the door behind him none too gently.

Hermione stifled a smile. Ron, after all, would always be Ron.

And just because Malfoy had defected didn’t mean they’d need to see him or talk to him at all, which was just fine with her.

~To be continued…

Disclaimer: Still don’t own HP, still not making any money from this.

Author’s Note: This chapter represents my first real attempt at writing Snape; I only hope I kept him somewhat close to what he’s like in canon. This chapter is also where I pay homage to the Marauders and to Remus, who, I think, has been rather cheated in the past few books (of course, basically every character was cheated in some way in that mess of a book known as HBP.)

From My Soul

Part 14

Harry had sent his Patronus to Remus since he was now rather leery of owls because of how easily they could be intercepted and Remus appeared promptly once it was dark, guessing accurately, as Harry had expected, that Harry would be at Grimmauld Place.

“I need you to do something for me,” Harry blurted out flatly.

Remus nodded. “Of course. You know I’ll do anything I can.”

Remus looked tired, even haggard, and Harry frowned slightly, mentally calculated, and then realized that the full moon was approaching in four days.

He glanced at Hermione and met her quick glance and knew that she’d had the same thought when he saw the quiet concern in her gaze.

“Fawkes came to me to lead the Order,” he finally said.

Remus’s otherwise-composed expression faltered for a moment as a look of stark, poignant grief flickered across his face. But it was a momentary lapse and then Remus responded, with assumed calm, “I rather thought he would.”

“And that’s why I wanted to talk to you. I don’t know how to lead the Order; I want you to do it for me.”

Shock flared in Remus’s eyes. “Me?”

Now that it was out, Harry felt more comfortable. “Yes, you. You’re the adult I trust the most.”

“Thank you,” Remus said quietly. “I’m not sure I’m qualified; I certainly can’t replace Dumbledore…”

“No one can replace him. Trust is the most important criteria right now, Professor,” Hermione ventured. “And we all agree that we trust you most.”

Remus glanced at Hermione with a faint smile. “Thank you for the vote of confidence.” He paused and added, his gaze moving from Hermione to Harry and then to Ron, “I think it’s time you all call me Remus. I haven’t been your Professor for years now.”

Remus shifted his gaze back to Harry, meeting Harry’s eyes directly. “If you’re sure about this, then I’ll do my best.”

“Thanks.”

Harry paused, wondering how to ask this one last thing and wondering, too, at how history was repeating itself, somehow—although he couldn’t help the thought that his history would have been very different if history really were repeating itself accurately.

“There’s one more thing.”

Remus managed a slight smile. “Asking me to lead the Order wasn’t enough?”

It was said jokingly but Harry shifted in his chair uncomfortably anyway, suddenly very aware of how much responsibility he was putting on Remus’s shoulders and felt the first flicker of some doubt—this was, after all, the man who wasn’t human on at least one night a month. But there was no one else.

There was no one else—and even if there had been, he knew, he would not have asked it of anyone else. No, it needed to be Remus.

“We’re going to be staying here, using this as our main headquarters again.”

Slowly, Remus straightened in his chair, an arrested expression on his face.

And Harry knew that Remus knew what was coming but he asked it anyway. “We need you to perform the Fidelius Charm and be our Secret Keeper.”

For a fleeting moment, Remus was transported back in time to a similar scene nearly twenty years ago, a scene he had not actually witnessed but had pictured many, many times over the years, with regret and with grief and with anger and always that same painful knowledge that he should have been there. He could see it all almost exactly as it must have happened. He knew how Sirius’s eyes must have gleamed with that hint of triumph, that same gleam he always got when he’d plotted some new prank for the Marauders, the same thrill of excitement, as he had heard another young man with messy black hair and round glasses say those words.

That light in Sirius’s eyes when he had some new scheme in mind. “No, I won’t be the Secret Keeper.”

And James’s look of surprise. “You won’t?”

“I’ve got it all planned out. Everyone will expect it to be me, you know that. It’s the predictable, natural thing, right?”

James had probably nodded, cautiously. James had learned to be a little wary of Sirius’s schemes after the fateful one involving Snape in their 6^th year; it had shocked him into realizing the dangers inherent in Sirius’s madcap escapades, sobered him into realizing the very real consequences of what began as thoughtless pranks. (And Remus had thought, many times, that Sirius’s last, worst prank had had one very unthought-of consequence that wasn’t bad—because it had sobered James which, in turn, had helped Lily to change her mind about James—and after all, that had been the beginning of it all. Ironic, he supposed, that Sirius’s thoughtlessness could have had so many far-reaching effects. Snape’s undying hatred of James, which he’d passed on—in typical Snape fashion—to Harry; James and Lily’s eventual marriage and then Harry’s birth… So many consequences, spreading like ever-widening ripples from one carelessly-tossed stone into the water…)

And then Sirius would have explained it all, his brilliant, clever, risky plan.

Remus could picture so clearly the looks James and Sirius must have exchanged when they decided on Peter to be the Secret Keeper—little Peter, always following them, with his hero-worship of James—never quite as talented, always a little slower than they were, the last person anyone would pick to be the Secret Keeper and therefore the perfect choice. And he could picture, too, their looks as they silently, tacitly, agreed not to tell him. Even now—years after the fact and long after it had ceased to matter—the thought could make him flinch, just a little. He could picture the looks, the reluctant hint of doubt, the wondering, if he, their old friend, could betray them—not wanting to believe it, refusing to really think it--and yet… The seed of doubt had been planted and had taken root, as doubt always did.

And so the decision had been made. Peter would be the Secret Keeper.

They had gambled with their trust and their lives—and they had lost. And as always, when he thought of it, Remus understood with a strange surge of pity and regret and poignant grief, just how Sirius could have stood there in that street and laughed so wildly before he’d been arrested and thrown into Azkaban. It was the same reaction he would have had—that choice between crazy laughter and equally wild tears, that moment of stark disbelief at something so fiendishly horrible happening (James and Lily dead! And it’s my fault! I was too clever, too clever and now they’re dead and I’m done for!). There would have been, quite literally, nothing else to do but laugh—madly, at the terrible irony of it all.

It had all started then and it had come full circle now when James’s son, who had Lily’s eyes, could look at him and ask him to perform the Fidelius Charm and be the Secret Keeper.

Remus looked at Harry, seeing not Harry as he was but seeing James instead, and had to speak through the sudden tightness in his throat. “I’ll do it.” The words were quiet but spoken with all the intensity of a vow. Yes, he would do it. He hadn’t been able to do anything to save James or Lily, but he could do this for their son. This and more—anything he could do—to help Harry in his most important task.

The details—the members of the Inner Circle who could be told (McGonagall, Mr. Weasley, Hagrid and Moody and maybe more, if deemed necessary in an emergency, to be told at his discretion)—were settled quickly and the Fidelius Charm performed.

One soul, one secret—to be kept there until the Secret Keeper revealed the secret or until the death of the Secret Keeper.

Grimmauld Place was safe and the next part of their war could begin.

~*~

Harry looked around at the Great Hall which was noisy with more than 20 people talking quietly amongst themselves and realized just why it was that Fawkes was put in charge of informing all former members of the Order to the meeting. Fawkes (along with Dumbledore) had probably been the only one who knew of all the members of the Order. He saw several familiar faces, it is true, but there were at least a dozen others whom he had never met.

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had, predictably, arrived early so they could spend some time with Ginny and see the three of them. Indeed, Mrs. Weasley had basically mauled all three of them with motherly concern, to the point that Ron had blushed crimson and not-quite-gently escaped her questions with a “Gerroff, Mum! We’re fine!” (Clearly the Weasleys had heard of the little ambush set up by Voldemort when they’d come to Hogwarts a few weeks ago and the news had set all of Mrs. Weasley’s maternal fears on the rampage.)

Really, Harry found himself thinking as he looked around, any meeting of the full Order was also going to be, inevitably, a pseudo-family reunion for the Weasleys. They were all members, after all, with the obvious exceptions of Percy and Ginny (and he knew, from Ron’s information, that Ginny was positively spitting mad at her parents’ strictly forbidding her to get involved with the Order other than through the additional DADA classes offered for 6^th and 7^th years, in addition to the NEWT-level DADA classes, these additional classes being taught by a rotating number of professors, from Mad-Eye Moody to Remus to McGonagall herself among others.) Bill and Fleur were there, sitting with Charlie. Fred and George were there, sitting a little apart from the others and in a spot where they could occupy themselves with making faces at Snape (and Harry could only wonder what mischief the two were planning for Snape, judging from the wicked expressions on their faces). They had grinned when they’d arrived, coming immediately over to greet Harry with an enthusiasm they didn’t even show for Ron, and matching conspiratorial grins as they informed him that they “were developing some plans of their own”. Harry was left to wonder since Fred and George both refused to say anymore.

He met Remus’ eyes and Remus nodded and stood up but before he could actually say anything, everyone’s attention was caught by Fawkes who suddenly appeared and flew gracefully across the Hall to land gently on Harry’s arm. Fawkes let out a few notes of phoenix song that almost seemed to echo in the now-completely-silent Great Hall, filling each of them with a renewed sense of purpose and hope.

It almost seemed, Harry thought, as if Fawkes had now given them permission to begin this next meeting of the Order named after him.

Harry reached up with one hand to lightly stroke Fawkes’s back and then, as they all watched, Fawkes turned to where Remus was standing, watching Fawkes, and nodded. It almost looked like a king giving a subject permission to speak.

Remus cleared his throat. “Er, right. Thank you, Fawkes,” he began a little uncertainly but then, he continued with growing confidence. “Now I know most of you know exactly why we are here but in case anyone does not, let me begin by saying that the Order has never been tied to the life of only one person, although it is true that Dumbledore was its original Founder and remained its head even in its second formation. However, he would be the first person to say that the Order must go on without him. As you’ve just seen, Fawkes has chosen Harry Potter to be the next leader. In turn, Harry has chosen me to be his deputy, in a sense, and delegated his role to me. I do not pretend to being able to replace Dumbledore but I will attempt to follow his example.” He paused, waiting to see if there would be some response.

There wasn’t.

Harry wasn’t sure exactly how much Fawkes had revealed or how he had told the rest of the Order members to assemble but he’d realized when everyone was coming in that most people had been rather expecting Fawkes to choose him. It was a stunning thought and one he’d never have expected. Only now was he beginning to realize just what it meant to be the Boy Who Lived—that title he’d never sought and still disliked rather intensely. He might not care for it, might not think in those terms but everyone else did. No one—and they all had more experience in the Order than he did—but no one, it seemed, was surprised or even concerned at the leadership of the Order of the Phoenix being entrusted to a 17-year-old boy. Hermione had been more right than he would ever have expected when she said that he was needed to be a symbol, a figurehead, for people to turn to. She had, as usual, been absolutely right—and true to her word, no one had shown either surprise or dismay on seeing him sitting at the front of the room. (That is, except Snape, whose expression was as determinedly disagreeable as always, but Harry chose to ignore him other than a brief exchange of coldly warring glances when Snape had arrived.)

There had only been a rather loud murmur of reaction, with some minor explosions, when Snape had entered, his black robes billowing out behind him much as they always had, looking like some sort of ominous bat with ill intent. Harry suspected that the only two things that had kept several people from outright protesting or even attacking Snape right then had been Snape’s more-than-usually grim countenance and, more importantly, the fact that neither he nor Remus nor Professor McGonagall had shown the least bit of surprise or dismay at Snape’s arrival. Apparently, if they—and Harry rather thought, in spite of himself, that what he really meant was that if he—was willing to accept Snape back into the Order, then everyone else would follow their judgment.

Harry shifted rather uncomfortably in his seat, wishing people wouldn’t stare at him so much. He hated being in the spotlight like this but, he supposed, he had better just resign himself to it.

He caught Remus’s eye as Remus addressed him directly, “Harry, I know you, Ron and Hermione have already decided on your own path. I won’t ask what it is but only if there’s any way the Order can help.”

That they had their own plans had been all they’d told Remus in that meeting when they’d asked him to lead the Order. Remus had, after a moment’s pause, not pushed them further, and his very lack of curiosity had made Harry doubt his decision. He trusted Remus—why not tell him? And yet he’d remained silent.

Harry swallowed, glancing fleetingly at McGonagall who showed no reaction and then at Ron and Hermione, who both looked anxious. He remembered, though, Dumbledore’s promising him to secrecy and thought of how Dumbledore had gone so far as to keep all the different members of the Order to himself, for the most part. He trusted Remus—but everyone else…

He met Remus’ eyes directly. “I’m sorry, Remus, but I don’t think the Order can help me.”

Snape made a disagreeable noise. “Still as self-centered and foolishly arrogant as ever, Potter,” he sneered.

Harry shot to his feet so fast his chair fell over, his fist clenched around his wand, his arm trembling with the control it took not to hex Snape and his bloody big nose into the next century.

He opened his mouth to retort but before he could, others jumped in.

“And you’re the paragon of selflessness,” Ron shot back sarcastically, shooting a glare at Snape.

“Ron!” Mrs. Weasley rebuked automatically (and significantly more mildly than usual), as she was glowering at Snape as well.

“That’s enough, Severus!” Professor McGonagall’s coldly furious tone cut through the room with the force of a whiplash and silenced everyone in the room.

Harry sat down slowly, trying not to make a noise as he righted his chair. Black anger was still clouding his mind, the fury at Snape for killing Dumbledore which he’d never really released bubbling up inside him, and he sat bolt upright, every muscle locked to keep from moving—or to keep his magic from slipping beyond his control. Then he felt a hand move to rest over his fist, giving it a gentle, sympathetic pressure, calming and soothing him by slow degrees. Once he was more relaxed, the hand left, leaving his hand feeling oddly bereft. He didn’t glance over—and he could sense that she didn’t either—their gazes and their attention firmly fixed on McGonagall and Snape, but he tucked the memory of her calming touch into a corner of his mind, to take out and consider later, perhaps, as further evidence of how much he needed her and how attuned to him she was.

“Severus, I know you have never entirely approved of Harry,” McGonagall was saying, her tone crisp and glacially precise.

Ron snorted softly, irrepressibly, at this diplomatic understatement of the actual relationship between Harry and Snape from the beginning but subsided under McGonagall’s quick, reproving glance.

McGonagall continued. “But, while we have agreed—some of us less willingly than others—that you should remain in the Order and as a spy—I will insist that you refrain from making any of your usual insulting and unjustified comments to Harry or to his friends.” She paused and then muttered under her breath—although it was still audible to nearly everyone given how quiet the room had gotten. “They are behaving in a more adult manner than you are.”

Ron choked and began coughing as McGonagall fixed a glare on Snape as if he were a first-year who had committed an offense worth subtracting 200 points for. “Is that understood?”

For a moment, a fleeting look as if Snape was thinking words that were unutterable in public and could only be written in asterisks crossed his face, before he gave in and nodded once, shortly, looking, if that were possible, even more disagreeable than before.

McGonagall turned back to Remus. “Go on.”

Ron surreptitiously passed a note to Harry and Hermione that said, Remind me never to make fun of McGonagall again. The three of them exchanged fleeting looks of amused agreement before turning their attention to Remus.

Remus cleared his throat a little, steadfastly refusing to look at either Harry or Snape lest his unholy amusement show—and had the sudden thought, James and Sirius would have loved this. He had a fleeting memory of one particular time McGonagall had been scolding James and Sirius for some prank and Sirius had, in his inimitable way, gone down on his knees in front of her and begun to serenade her, his expression so comically exaggerated to look like love-sickness that even McGonagall had had to crack a brief smile before resuming her scolding. He could almost imagine Sirius once again wanting to serenade McGonagall, half-seriously too, for her defense of Harry and blistering set-down of Snape—and had to clear his throat again to hide his reaction. “Yes, well, er—Harry, obviously it’s your choice who you tell and none of us has any doubts that whatever you’re doing will help our cause.” Remus glanced pointedly at Snape as he emphasized the word, none.

Snape looked on the verge of interjecting but McGonagall’s eye on him made him visibly refrain from reacting aloud.

“Our first order of business, I think, is to recruit more members if we’re to have any hope.” He looked at Mr. Weasley. “Arthur, can you--”

“I’ll work on it,” Mr. Weasley nodded his affirmation even before Remus finished the question.

Remus nodded. “Next, I think we must see to our defenses. First, Diagon Alley,” he looked around. “If any of you live or work nearby and would be able to see to defending it…”

Several people raised their hands and Remus nodded again.

“The Ministry is relatively well-guarded but we cannot assume its safety yet. For those of you who work at the Ministry, keep up your guard.” Several other people nodded in turn.

“Finally, I think, Hogsmeade and the area around Hogwarts. The school has its own defenses, I know,” he said, turning to McGonagall.

“Yes but we cannot rely on them. I have spent these last few months since the attack rebuilding the defenses but I fear it may not be enough,” she said rather grimly.

For a fleeting moment, Hermione couldn’t help but think that Professor McGonagall looked aged, somehow. She knew that McGonagall was not young, even by wizard’s standards, although she was not very old either, but at that moment, she looked very old and very weary. For almost the first time, Hermione was conscious of feeling a pang of pity mingled in with the respect she’d always felt for her Professor. It could not be easy trying to fill the shoes of Headmaster Dumbledore, whom almost everyone acknowledged to have been one of Hogwarts’s greatest Headmasters and at such a time as this. It could not be easy to know that the safety of the school and all its students rested on her shoulders. But weary as McGonagall suddenly looked, Hermione was conscious that she felt no doubts in McGonagall’s capability to lead and protect Hogwarts effectively. She did not have Dumbledore’s wisdom or his power but she had her own version of strength and intelligence, her own courage—and Hermione, at least, didn’t doubt McGonagall for a moment.

It was comforting, this confidence in McGonagall.

Lately, confidence in anything had seemed so rare. Hermione, who had always received her reassurance and the knowledge she wanted to give her confidence, had found that none of the books she looked through had the information she needed about where the other horcruxes might be or how to destroy them either. She’d come to realize that all they needed to find out wasn’t in any books—at least not that she could find—and the thought made her nervous, unsettled her as almost nothing else could.

She doubted her ability to help Harry in this quest, doubted the Order’s ability to function effectively without Dumbledore, doubted the significance of the warmth she thought she saw in Harry’s eyes and his smile when he looked at her… Doubted almost everything.

And Hermione didn’t like to doubt or to feel uncertain and ignorant.

So the realization that she felt confidence in McGonagall was a welcome one.

Automatically, her gaze sought Harry as he sat beside her, his gaze wandering over the members of the Order with a slight frown and she wondered what he was thinking. He shifted, his gaze landing on her, their eyes meeting, and his slight frown disappeared as he gave her a quick, barely perceptible smile before turning his attention back to Remus.

Hermione was conscious of warmth blossoming in her heart as she too turned back to Remus, reminded of one other thing she had complete confidence in: Harry. She believed in Harry.

And she knew, too, that he believed in her; it was clear in his eyes just now when he looked at her.

She returned her gaze and her complete attention to Remus to find that the moment she, Harry and Ron had all been rather tensely waiting for, had arrived.

“Severus, what can you tell us of Voldemort’s plans?”

“Would you like a calendar, perhaps, of his planned attacks along with a detailed list of instructions?” Snape inquired with whip-like sarcasm.

Remus visibly stiffened, his eyes flashing. For a fleeting moment, Harry was reminded of that moment when Remus had burst into the Shrieking Shack and confronted Sirius. Remus, too, was a powerful wizard. The Order was in good hands.

“That won’t be necessary,” Remus answered, the words clipped, the tone sardonically polite. “Do you know where he plans to attack next?”

Snape was silent for a while, so long that Harry sensed even Hermione get restless and shift in her seat and he forgot himself and demanded, “Well? Do you?”

Snape sneered. “Fools, the lot of you. What, do you expect that the Dark Lord trusts me—or anyone—with his plans? That he invites us in to his presence and then informs us of his thoughts? The Dark Lord has no friends, no confidantes; he has only servants, lackeys, slaves if you like. He does not share his plans; he gives orders. Orders which we receive when he deems necessary and not before.” Snape’s voice was harsh, appearing supremely indifferent to the disgusted looks his little lecture received and the mistrustful glares.

“In other words, you’re no bloody use at all,” Ron spoke up. “Good then. We can do the rest of the world a favor and get rid of you.”

“Ron!” Hermione hissed at him sharply but her voice was drowned out by Remus’s.

“The moment you find anything out about a possible attack or anything else which might be useful, you are to tell me or Minerva, if at all possible,” Remus ordered curtly.

Snape opened his mouth- no doubt to protest- but Remus cut him off. “That’s enough!” he said sharply.

Remus glanced around the room, his expression and his tone becoming more businesslike. “I believe that is all. You will be informed when the next Meeting will be or if any of you are needed. Thank you all for coming and stay safe.”

Snape was, predictably, the first person to leave the Great Hall, almost out the doors before Remus had stopped speaking.

No one was sorry to see him leave.

Hermione stayed where she was, watching, idle and alone for the moment, since Ron had been captured by his parents and Harry was standing in front of the doors, having a few words with everyone who’d come before they left.

It was, she knew, one thing that Remus had insisted on and she’d agreed with him, persuading Harry to go along with it, even though Harry had been reluctant to seem like he was putting himself forward.

Watching, she was suddenly struck with something she’d never really had the opportunity to see before, maybe could not have seen before now—the respect that almost everyone showed Harry (the exception being those who knew him, like the Weasleys and Professor Flitwick). It didn’t matter that he was younger than everyone else; he was, still, the Boy Who Lived and the boy, therefore, whom everyone said had been fighting Voldemort since before he could hold a wand.

For the first time, she saw Harry as the rest of the world probably saw him: the young hero who, in spite of his youth and his rather slight build, still managed to exude a hint of power, an impression made greater by the tinge of aloofness in his manner. Harry was, of course, always polite and friendly but, as she knew, he had many levels of trust which he reserved for different people—and for the most part, all the members of the Order were still on the lower levels. For just a moment, she felt as if she were looking at a stranger, a distant figure who was only a name, and felt an odd chill, not quite loneliness or isolation or apprehension but something more vague that was almost but not quite a combination of all three.

But then she saw a slight change in his expression, one which would have been imperceptible to anyone who didn’t know him as well as she did, the hint of nervousness and uncertainty which she could see in his stance and in the faint frown which lingered on his face in spite of his rather forced smile.

She saw him glance at her, his eyes meeting hers for little more than the space of a heartbeat, before he turned back to Hestia Jones, who was talking to him now.

And he was just her Harry again, her best friend and maybe- possibly- more than that…

To be continued…

Disclaimer: See Part 1.

Author’s Note: In which Harry finally gets a wake-up call…

From My Soul

Part 15

Harry couldn’t breathe.

His breath, the proper functioning of his lungs, seemed to have been suspended through the crushing pressure in his chest. A hard knot of dread had taken up residence in it from the moment the door bell had rung, the moment he’d seen the grave faces of Remus Lupin and Mr. Weasley.

He supposed he should have expected it. It had been too peaceful these last couple weeks since the meeting of the Order. They had returned to Grimmauld Place and spent their time going through the books Hermione had brought back from Hogwarts and practicing dueling. He should have expected it—but he hadn’t and even if he had, nothing could have prepared him for this.

The knot in his chest grew, expanded, during Remus’ quiet and brief explanation. “Hermione, it’s your parents. They’re in St. Mungo’s in a special ward. They’re unconscious, comatose, right now after being attacked by Death Eaters.”

The knot leaped to his throat, nearly strangling him as he saw Hermione’s face drain of all color leaving it gray and heard the choked cry she gave. He just managed to make it to her side when she swayed slightly—but she recovered, pulling herself together in a minute and twitching her arm free.

“I’m here to take you to St. Mungo’s,” Mr. Weasley said, his voice gentle.

Hermione nodded woodenly. “I- I’ll go get some things together.” Her voice sounded hollow, as if it didn’t really belong to her.

Harry flinched, reaching out one hand automatically. “Can I--” he began but she cut him off with a shake of her head as she left.

“How bad is it?” Ron ventured nervously into the heavy silence.

Remus sighed. “We don’t know for sure.”

“They’re still alive,” Mr. Weasley added with a wan attempt at encouragement. “It’s rare that Death Eaters leave anyone alive and while there’s life…” he trailed off, looking uncomfortable.

Hermione reappeared with one small bag. She was still very pale but composed enough—too composed. Harry felt a pang of concern wrench his gut; he knew her too well to think that her composure was a good thing. She was keeping it inside, had closed herself off. There was a palpable, if invisible, wall which she’d put up around herself—to keep herself calm or to keep others out, Harry wasn’t sure which and didn’t like either option.

Ron started forward, giving Hermione an awkward sort-of half-hug with one arm, while Harry hesitated. He wanted to say something, wanted to do something, but had no idea what to say or do. His worry and his concern and his instinctive, gut reaction to seeing Hermione in so much pain were all welling up inside him, strangling him and cutting off any rational thoughts he might have had. Finally, he settled for putting a hand on her arm, giving it a light squeeze.

“Hermione, I- I’m sorry,” he said in a hoarse whisper, lamely.

She didn’t react, only turned to Mr. Weasley.

Mr. Weasley gave both him and Ron a last look of sympathy and concern and then left, following behind Hermione.

The moment the door closed, Ron burst out. “Why didn’t Snape give us some warning?”

The question jolted Harry back to life. “Yeah, why didn’t we have some warning? Isn’t he supposed to be telling us of these attacks so we’re prepared at the very least?” He clung to his anger, encouraging it; it was easier to deal with than his worry over Hermione.

Remus sighed. “From what we can tell, this didn’t involve the- ah, shall we say- more senior Death Eaters, like Malfoy and the Lestranges. Fortunately for the Grangers; if it had been either of them, Hermione’s parents would be dead. This was a smaller thing, not really part of any plan, if Voldemort has one master plan.”

“Why are they alive?” Harry found himself asking, in a voice that was strangely unlike himself. “They shouldn’t be alive.”

“Harry!” Ron gasped in a tone of horror.

But Remus understood. “No, you’re right, Harry. For Muggles to survive a Death Eater attack—well, it’s unprecedented. They wouldn’t be alive but for their own good fortune. The attack happened when they were having a cup of tea after dinner and they were, naturally, tortured first.”

“The Cruciatus,” Harry murmured, still in that strange, detached voice that didn’t belong to him.

“Yes,” Remus affirmed, his tone gentle. “We cannot know for certain, of course, but we suspect that just before they were going to murder the by-now-unconscious Grangers, they were prevented by something, perhaps one of the neighbors knocking or some other fortunate circumstance. It was supposed to be a solitary attack which would not be noticed by many people, so they may have simply left, satisfied that they had done enough.”

“I still blame Snape,” Ron muttered darkly.

Remus allowed himself a wan, fleeting smile, though it faded instantly. “Feel free.”

He paused, hesitated, glancing at Ron and then back at Harry and, though he wouldn’t have thought it possible, Harry felt his insides get even colder as he sensed that there was something worse to come.

He was right.

Remus turned to Ron. “Can I have a word with Harry, Ron?”

Ron left silently, going upstairs to his room.

Remus sighed heavily, passing his hand over his face and through his graying hair in a gesture of weariness before meeting Harry’s eyes. “Harry, there’s something else you need to know. About what happened to the Grangers. The Dark Mark was left over their house but that wasn’t all. In the dining room where we found Mr. and Mrs. Granger, they had left another mark, burned onto the table, the shape of a lightning bolt.”

Harry’s hand automatically reached up to touch his scar. “It was for me,” he heard himself say, his voice sounding hollow, unnatural.

This hadn’t been a large, real attack. It had never even been intended to be one, he suddenly understood. It had been meant to be a signal, a warning. It was a warning to him—that no one he knew, no one connected to him was safe.

That the Grangers were Muggles probably only made the whole gesture even sweeter for Voldemort. A bit of Muggle-baiting as well as a warning.

Harry shivered, wondering if he might be sick, but he fought back the wave of horror he felt.

“Are you--” his voice cracked and he swallowed hard, “are you going to tell Hermione?”

“You know we have to. She deserves to know why.”

And even though he had known that was what Remus would say and though he knew he couldn’t have asked them not to tell her and he couldn’t honestly think not telling her would be right—he couldn’t help but feel a desperate wish that it could have been otherwise.

“Harry, the Grangers are going to be sent into hiding. This attack was only a threat, a warning. The Ministry has allowed it, given who they are, and the Order’s going to move them to a safe location, perhaps in Ireland or Wales, give them new names and modify the memories of their new neighbors. We’ll check on them every few weeks or so but other than that, they can’t have any contact with the wizarding world, no owls, no nothing. We’re going to allow Hermione to accompany them in these extraordinary circumstances.”

Harry couldn’t breathe, could only stare at Remus in shock, the words buzzing in his mind but not quite sinking in until that last sentence broke through the merciful incomprehension. He finally managed to force out, “I understand.”

Remus came over and put a gentle hand on Harry’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Harry, but you know we have to.”

He nodded and watched Remus walk out of the room and heard the front door close behind him as if from far away.

And then collapsed to the ground as his legs gave out.

Oh God, oh God, oh God… His thoughts were swimming, a mass of images and thoughts and fears—but amid it all, one fear stood out.

Hermione would hate him for this.

Her parents had been attacked because of him, would have their entire lives disrupted because of him. She would hate him for this…

He would hate him for this.

He did hate himself for this.

He had just lost his best friend—and it was only now that he realized just what he felt for Hermione. She wasn’t only his best friend and he didn’t just fancy her. He- he loved her.

All those times he’d thought she was pretty, all those times he’d inadvertently found himself staring at her mouth—he knew why now. It wasn’t because he fancied her. It was because he loved her.

That was what was different about his feelings for Hermione and what he’d felt for Ginny. That was why seeing Hermione cry, seeing her hurt, pained him so much, why seeing her suffering when she heard about her parents had filled him with a mad, wild impulse to pull her into his arms and hold her, as if by holding her, he could somehow take her pain into his own body. Why he’d suddenly felt a desperate wish to do something—attack whoever had done this to her parents, attack anyone who ever tried to harm Hermione or anyone she cared about in any way. His reaction had been too intense, too gut-wrenching, for it to only be friendship or a fancy. He cared about her too much—for her loyalty and her steadfast friendship, for all the times she’d helped him, saved him, even for the times she disagreed with him—because he knew that it was a sign of how much she cared.

He loved her.

And she would hate him for this, would be leaving for this.

In all his misery and guilt and fear, he somehow didn’t doubt that. Of course Hermione would go into hiding with her parents. He knew how much she loved them; they were her parents! He couldn’t blame her; he couldn’t ask her not to; he had no right to ask her not to.

She would hate him for this.

He wondered with a sick sense of hopelessness whether Voldemort had somehow intruded into his mind without him noticing it and had planned this. To weaken him by making Hermione hate him, to hurt him by making Hermione hate him.

If Voldemort had, he was succeeding terribly well.

~~

If Ron had needed proof of just how important to Harry, Hermione was, he would have gotten ample proof of it in the days after Hermione left for St. Mungo’s.

Harry tried to act normal, even tried to joke a little, but the attempt was lame and Ron could see through it easily.

Harry would be talking and then trail off or, as happened more often, Ron would be saying something but Harry would either not respond or respond at random, his gaze fixed on something, his eyes as far away as his thoughts clearly were.

If it had been any other time and if Ron hadn’t understood it, he might have been annoyed that Harry clearly cared very little about his company at the moment. But then, Ron rather suspected that at the moment, Harry cared very little about the existence of anyone and anything in the world that didn’t concern Hermione.

Harry, who’d always rather had a predilection for being solitary at times, developed a definite tendency to drifting off into reveries. Reveries during which Ron could tell, from the bleak expression on Harry’s face, that he was mentally flagellating himself for what had happened to Hermione’s parents and worrying, too, that Hermione would hate him. (Ron could have told Harry that he didn’t think anything could make her hate him but Harry wasn’t a particularly receptive listener so Ron decided to save his breath.)

Even more telling of the level of Harry’s distraction was the fact that Ron managed to beat Harry in their practice duels. Not just once, either, but several times. He disarmed Harry twice, managed to hit Harry with a silent Tarantallegra Hex which had made Harry dance for several minutes (as Ron was too busy laughing to immediately say, “Finite Incantatem” while Harry had glared) and lastly managed to Stupefy Harry.

Ron enjoyed his triumphs over Harry rather unmercifully—more than he might have at another time, except that for one thing, it provided a useful distraction for Harry in that when he was glowering at Ron’s gloating, he wasn’t brooding about Hermione and her parents and for another, because Harry was so distracted, his response to Ron’s gloating was rather less heated than it might otherwise be. So Ron was free to gloat with some impunity.

This state of affairs lasted several days until one afternoon when Harry was (again) in one of his brooding fits and Ron, who’d had a lot of time to think himself, brought up an idea he’d had that effectively distracted Harry for at least a time.

“Harry.”

No response.

“Harry?” a little louder.

Harry gave an excellent impression of a stone statue and still didn’t respond, lost in thought as he was.

“So I’ve been thinking of something Hermione said,” Ron began, his voice louder than usual and placing rather undue emphasis on Hermione’s name.

Harry blinked. “Huh- what?”

“I’ve been thinking,” Ron repeated with more patience than he would have believed he was capable of, “about something Dumbledore said and Hermione repeated.”

“What is it?”

“About how V-v—You-know-who hid the horcrux things in places that meant something to him, which was how Hermione figured out about the Chamber.”

Harry nodded slowly. “Yes?” he asked, drawing the word out to two syllables.

Ron flushed, fidgeting. “I mean, I know it’s probably a stupid idea and all. Wouldn’t really have brought it up but I was thinking and I was wondering…”

“What?”

“I thought, well, what about that house of his where he hid out for a while in 4^th year, that you dreamed about that one time?”

“Riddle House?”

“Yeah, that place. It had been his father’s, Dumbledore said, and didn’t he drag you back there, to where his father was buried nearby, that night he came back?”

Harry was silent for a while and Ron shifted rather uncomfortably. “Oh, it’s probably a stupid idea. It was just a suggestion; I don’t have any idea really. Don’t blame you if you think it’s barmy.”

“I don’t think it’s barmy,” Harry interjected. “I think it makes a lot of sense.”

“You do?” The beginnings of a grin brightened Ron’s face. “You do! I mean, er, of course, we should check it out.”

“Yes.” Harry paused. “Hey, Ron?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

“It was nothing,” Ron shrugged. “Just a thought I had.”

“Well, it’s one more useful thought than I’ve had lately, so thanks.”

Ron grinned, feeling a surge of satisfaction. Hermione wasn’t the only one to come up with good ideas, he thought happily.

~~

“Absolutely not!”

Remus’s voice was firm, unyielding, as was his expression as he faced Harry and Ron.

“But--” Harry began.

“We just want to look around!” Ron protested in the same moment.

“Out of the question,” Remus vetoed again. “I don’t think you two know what you’re asking for. This is Riddle House, one of the few places we know of that Voldemort has been using as his headquarters. To let you go wandering off there would be like sending you into a near-certain ambush to be slaughtered! It’s impossible. A ridiculous idea. Really, Harry, I’m surprised at you! What in the name of Merlin could be so important that you must go to Riddle House?”

Harry hesitated, glanced at Ron who met his eyes, and then let himself think of Hermione for a moment, before he looked back at Remus, meeting his former professor’s eyes. He supposed he’d always known he was going to have to tell Remus about the horcruxes sometime. And he did trust Remus but part of him still wanted to cling to Dumbledore’s long-ago injunction of secrecy, if only because he felt somehow safer with fewer people knowing. But this was Remus, their Secret Keeper and his parents’ friend—if he couldn’t trust Remus, then who?

“We think that Voldemort may have hidden one of his horcruxes there,” Harry stated bluntly.

“His- what? What do you know about horcruxes? How?”

“Horcruxes are objects where a Dark wizard has hidden a part of his soul,” Harry recited precisely.

“Great ghost,” Remus said faintly as he stared at Harry and Ron with something like horror in his eyes. With a wave of his wand, he summoned a chair from the corner of the room and sank down into it.

“Hadn’t you heard of them before?” Ron asked rather curiously.

“I’d heard of them, in passing, and found out, eventually, what they were but it’s a level of Dark magic that few wizards are capable of and fewer still would even dream of attempting. There’s hardly ever been a recorded instance in history of a wizard who’s made a horcrux and gotten away with it.” He paused. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that Voldemort has made a horcrux--” he stopped, stared at Harry again. “You said one of his horcruxes. He made more than one?”

“Dumbledore thinks he made six,” Ron answered for Harry.

Remus recoiled slightly. “Six?”

“One of them was the diary of Tom Riddle that I destroyed in 2^nd year. The other was Marvolo Gaunt’s ring and Dumbledore destroyed that last year. Then there’s a locket of Slytherin’s which we found here a couple months ago and Ravenclaw’s key that we found in the Chamber of Secrets. The other two are Hufflepuff’s cup and lastly, another object, possibly something of Gryffindor’s that we’re not sure of,” Harry listed quickly.

Remus nodded slowly. “And you think one of them will be in Riddle House?”

“I thought of that,” Ron interjected with a note of pride. “Dumbledore said that You-know-who would hide them in places that were significant to him, which he has so far. So I figured that Riddle House, which was where he killed his father and got his revenge, would be important to him.”

“It does make sense,” Remus nodded slowly.

“So, will you come with us when we go?” Harry asked again. “Now that you know how important it is.”

Remus shook his head. “Absolutely not.”

“But-” Harry began rather hotly.

Remus interrupted him. “I forbid it,” he said quietly.

The words were unusual enough that Harry shut his mouth and simply listened.

“I am neither your guardian nor your godfather so I have technically no authority over you, to say nothing of the fact that you are both of age. But, Harry, as your Secret Keeper and, more importantly, as a friend of your parents, I cannot let you go into such a dangerous place. We do not know where Voldemort is right now and either way, Riddle House would be much too dangerous for you. You, of all people, know how important your safety is to our cause and I trust you won’t try to jeopardize it like this.” Remus met Harry’s eyes. “I promised your parents and Sirius that I would protect you and I’d be breaking that promise if I let you and Ron go to a place like that, even if I were there with you.”

Harry deflated somewhat but retained enough spirit to say, “But we need to find the other horcruxes. It’s the only hope we have of really defeating Voldemort.”

“I understand. I will organize a group from the Order to go search, once we make sure that Voldemort is no longer using it as his headquarters.”

Harry didn’t look entirely satisfied and Remus continued on, having saved the trump card for last. “What would Hermione say if she were here?”

The mention of Hermione’s name worked its own magic, in a sense, in making Harry pause and think.

What would Hermione say, Harry wondered, for once ignoring the pang of worry and apprehension he felt at the mention of her. Even as he thought it, he heard her voice in his head, the voice of his conscience, his caution, whisper, You’re being reckless. Remus is right.

Part of him still wanted to protest, still wanted to insist that he act; it wasn’t in him to tamely hide away. But he’d learned, through bitter experience (brought sharply to the forefront of his mind after Remus’s mention of Sirius), that it wasn’t smart to ignore Hermione’s voice in his head.

“Okay, fine. We’ll stay here,” Harry relented.

Remus had to bite his lip to hide a fleeting smile at Harry’s grudging acquiescence, but as he’d expected, the mention of Hermione had convinced Harry when nothing else had. He was briefly reminded of how Lily had been able to stop James from one of his pranks with just a look in their 7^th year and afterwards (much to Sirius’s vocal disgust), and couldn’t help but wonder, fleetingly, if Harry had realized yet what he really felt for Hermione.

Well, if he hadn’t, he would soon enough, Remus expected.

“Good,” Remus nodded approvingly. “I will let you both know if and when we find anything in Riddle House. And you needn’t worry; I won’t tell the other members of the Order exactly what we’re looking for and why. It will probably be best to limit the knowledge of the horcruxes.”

Harry nodded. “Dumbledore made me promise I wouldn’t tell anyone but Ron and Hermione. I finally told Professor McGonagall about a month ago and now you.”

“That is probably for the best. Stay safe, Ron, Harry,” he said with a nod to each of them in turn and then he left.

~To be continued…

A/N 2: And that’s the last summary of the horcrux situation in this fic, I promise!

Disclaimer: See Part 1.

Author’s Note: Several of you have mentioned that this fic has too much thought and too little action, which is valid because I don’t write action-fics, hence why this is the first (and last) long, plot-full fic I’ve ever tried to write. A note on time, though, since I can see why it would get confusing and I haven’t tried to be too specific about when any of this is taking place but this fic began at the beginning of August, just after Harry’s birthday and approximately a month after the end of HBP and right now, in the fic, it is the end of November. It’s been, in the world of the fic, just under four months, which is, I think, a not-excessive amount of time to wait for H/Hr to actually happen, given all the junk from HBP that needed to be cleared up and gotten out of the way before H/Hr could happen. That said, you may rest assured, that more action and plot-like things will begin to happen very soon.

And now, before this author’s note gets longer than the chapter itself, what you’ve all been waiting for—I hope this is worth the wait!

From My Soul

Part 16

Hermione couldn’t breathe.

Suppressed sobs were building up in her chest, choking off her breath as she sat in a chair between her parents’ beds, staring at the floor with tear-filled eyes.

She could still hear Mr. Weasley’s voice, telling her what would happen to her parents—and the choice she needed to make. And though she knew what her answer would be, what she needed to do, it hurt so much.

It hurt—she’d never imagined anything could hurt this much—and it would be the hardest thing she’d ever had to do… But not for a second did she doubt her decision. There was no decision to make; it had never really been a choice. But- oh, how it hurt…

She could picture it in her mind so easily, the table at which she’d eaten so many meals in the dining room which she knew so well—and the lightning bolt shape, all too familiar to her from having seen it on Harry’s forehead for the past six years now, burned into the table in a clear warning. Her parents weren’t safe; would never be safe as long as they were known as her parents and as long as she was Harry Potter’s friend…

A shudder convulsed her and she felt another wave of nausea at the mental image and the unmistakable message it carried.

Beside her, she heard her mother give a faint moan and she bolted to her feet, bending over her mother.

“Mum?” she asked hesitantly. “Mum, can you hear me?”

Very slowly, after a few minutes that seemed like an eternity, Claire Granger’s eyes fluttered open.

Before Hermione had time to do anything but catch her breath in relief, a Healer bustled in, having been alerted to the change in Mrs. Granger’s condition by the sensors placed around the bed, and bent over Mrs. Granger while running her wand over Mrs. Granger’s body. She looked up at Hermione with a slight smile. “Your mother should be fine.”

Hermione felt her body sag in sheer relief as the Healer continued. “It will take some time for the internal damage to heal as Muggles react slower to potions than wizards do and heal slower but in time, she should be as good as new.”

Hermione smiled through tears, of relief this time. “Thank you, Healer Morgenthal.”

The Healer nodded and smiled again before leaving the room.

Hermione bent over her mother again. “Mum, did you hear that? You’re going to be fine,” she said softly.

Claire Granger opened her eyes which had drifted closed and managed a twitch of her lips. “I heard,” she murmured.

Hermione kissed her mother’s cheek gently. “I’ll stay right here, mum. Rest now.”

Claire’s fingers twitched, moved to try to grasp Hermione’s hand and Hermione curled her fingers around her mother’s as she sank back into her seat.

It wasn’t until the next day when Hermione’s father, too, was pronounced out of danger although he still hadn’t regained consciousness that Hermione explained things to her mother who was somewhat more herself now.

“Mum, I need to tell you something. I- I can’t stay here for too long, another couple days, until you and Dad are doing better. You—the Order I told you about—they’re going to arrange for you to go into hiding. Mum, you--” she stopped, hesitated (how was she supposed to tell these things to her parents?) but then continued, bravely, after a breath, “you were attacked, targeted, because of me. Voldemort, the one who killed Harry’s parents, knows I’m friends with Harry and so he went after you. You need to go into hiding so you’ll be safe.” She paused, continuing to meet her mother’s worried gaze with an effort. “But that means you won’t be able to hear from me until the war is over. I can’t contact you and you can’t contact me.”

“But Hermione, you can’t! If it’s so dangerous, you shouldn’t be out there either,” Claire burst out although her weak voice never got much louder than a whisper, and then winced and fell back on her bed, from the effort it took to speak so forcefully.

Hermione sighed, tightening her grip on her mother’s hand, willing her mother to understand. “I’m sorry, mum, but I have to. I love you and Dad but, you see, I need to help Harry. He needs me and I- I belong with him.” Hermione stopped, her eyes widening slightly at this admission even as she accepted the truth of it. “I belong with Harry, mum. I need to stay with him.”

Claire Granger was silent, studying her daughter’s face, the earnestness of her expression, the soft light in her eyes when she spoke of Harry. “I knew you loved your Harry.” And with those 6 words, Claire Granger accepted a truth she’d been denying for too long.

Her daughter, her little girl, had grown up. She had felt it more and more in the past three years since the end of Hermione’s 4^th year when Hermione had come home with a story about how Harry had nearly been killed. She had sensed it, known it, even as she tried not to accept it. It had always been Harry.

From the first, Hermione’s letters had been filled with him, her stories had been of him—even last year when there’d been a marked increase in mentions of Hermione’s other friend, Ron, and grumblings about how annoying Ron could be sometimes, it had been about Harry.

She felt a pang of loss as she tightened her grip on her daughter’s hand, wishing she could in the same way, tighten her hold on her daughter’s affections, even as she realized the futility of it.

Her Hermione, whom she’d tucked into bed, read to, cared for, encouraged, was a little girl no longer. Hermione had grown up into a strong, confident, smart and caring young woman—a woman who was ready and willing to risk her life, do whatever was necessary, for the sake of the man she loved. She realized all this in one painful, poignant moment but all she said was, “I knew you loved your Harry.”

Hermione’s expression softened. “I do,” Hermione confessed. “I do, so much—and I belong with him. You understand, don’t you, Mum?”

“Yes, I understand.” Those three words were filled with all the mingled love and pride and hopes and fears of all the mothers who had ever had to say goodbye to their children, realizing their futures were in their own hands now.

“But be careful and take good care of yourself and your Harry so we can meet him someday.”

Hermione smiled through the tears blurring her vision. “I will. I promise.”

~*~

Hermione came back early in the morning before Ron had woken up.

Harry had been drinking pumpkin juice rather listlessly, when the door bell rang and he’d nearly choked on the drink. And even though he’d spent the last nine days wishing she would come back so he would know the worst, now that she was back he found himself wishing she weren’t. He didn’t want her back if it was only to say goodbye. He didn’t know how he was going to let her go, how he was going to say goodbye to her.

The first sight of her gave him an almost-physical pain in his chest at how pale and drawn she looked, her eyes red and swollen from tears. She looked so weary with an exhaustion that seemed to come from her very soul. And yet she was very calm, composed—too calm and too composed. There was a sort of distance about her, as if she was only functioning normally by having cut herself off from her emotions.

This distance as much as his own fear prevented him from saying anything other than, “How are your parents?” with some hesitation and a pang of now-familiar guilt. They’d been hurt because of him—how could he just ask how they were? How could he dare?

“They’re doing better,” she answered briefly, a flicker of some emotion he couldn’t identify passing over her face.

Wretched with guilt and fear and anticipated hurt, he could only show some of the concern he felt by asking, lamely, “Do you want some tea?”

“No. I’m just going to go up to my room.” She didn’t look at him, spoke in as expressionless a voice as he’d ever heard from her.

His heart clenched. So she was leaving. She just needed to pack up her things. And she clearly didn’t even want to look at him. Of course she must hate him—why would she want to look at the person responsible for her parents being attacked? She would just leave.

He couldn’t blame her; he couldn’t stop her—and he’d promised himself he wouldn’t reproach her in any way. He didn’t know where he’d get the strength to say goodbye to her or how he was going to manage without her but somehow, he knew, he had to.

She had gotten up to leave the kitchen and he knew he should tell her he understood her decision, supported it even. She’d be safe and with her parents, where she belonged. She’d be safe… That was the only comforting thought and he clung to it, reminded himself of it repeatedly. She’d be safe—and he was glad of that.

He tried to say something to let her know but in the face of her weary detachment, he couldn’t find any words. And the only thing he thought to blurt out, almost desperately, was, “Can I help you pack?”

She stopped, her hand on the doorknob and for the first time since she’d returned, she looked directly at him, stared at him, confusion written all over her face. “Pack? Harry, what are you talking about?” It was evidence of just how tired she was that her voice actually sounded remarkably calm, even normal.

“Remus told me,” he explained hurriedly, the words almost tumbling out of his mouth in his anxiety to ease any guilt which she might be feeling. She had no reason to feel guilty, none. She’d already helped him so much, given up so much for him. He couldn’t blame her now. She was right to go. Even friendship—best friendship—could only go so far, ask so much—and she had already done so much, helped so much. No one could have asked for more. “About your parents going into hiding. I- I’m glad. You’ll be safe with them; you should be with your parents. I’m glad,” he told her again, as if repeating the words would somehow make them true.

Hermione stared at him, sudden comprehension dawning—followed by a surge of an emotion she could only identify as love, so strong it left her shaken and if she had ever had a moment’s doubt about the rightness of her decision, it would have been put to rest forever. And it broke through the walls she’d built to keep inside the tears she hadn’t wanted to cry in front of her parents when she’d said goodbye to them, the tears she hadn’t wanted to cry until she was alone in her room where no one could see her. The grief and the guilt were still there, but they were nudged aside momentarily in a wave of tenderness as she could imagine just what Harry had gone through thinking she was planning to leave to go into hiding with her parents.

Harry waited, almost afraid to look at her but finally he did—and the look in her eyes told him the truth and all he needed to know.

She moved closer to him, all detachment gone, until she was standing right in front of him, her eyes meeting his. “I’m not leaving,” she told him quietly, confirming aloud what her expression had already told him. “I won’t leave you.”

I’ll never leave you—the promise remained unspoken as did her new realization that here, with Harry, was where she belonged—but somehow she knew it was understood.

Relief—so potent he was nearly giddy from it—welled up inside him and, caught up in the tidal wave of emotion, he stopped thinking, stopped wondering, all his previous hesitation and doubts forgotten in that moment. And he thanked her—and told her how he felt—the only way he could think to do, or not think to do, acting on instinct and need more than on rational thought as he was—and caught her face in his hands, cupping her cheeks gently and kissed her.

Kissed her full on the mouth before he’d even realized what he was doing.

She stiffened a little in shock before her brain caught up and she realized with amazement that Harry—Harry—was kissing her as she’d dreamed he would and wanted him to for so long now…

Her lips softened, parted, as she kissed him back with more raw emotion than skill but it didn’t matter.

It didn’t matter because his lips were on hers, his tongue somewhat tentatively exploring her mouth—and any awkwardness or uncertainty faded with the sheer rightness of it.

He finally drew back, his hands still cupping her cheeks to stare at her, his eyes wide, his heart clattering in his chest at the knowledge that she had kissed him back.

They didn’t speak, didn’t say anything for a moment. He couldn’t think of anything to say; that kiss had said it all, he couldn’t help thinking, and still occupied a good portion of his brain.

But finally she smiled, ever so slightly, and brushed her lips against his again. “I’m going to go take a nap,” she breathed against his lips.

He could only nod, some part of his mind reasserting itself with the rational thought that she must not have slept much these past few days and needed the rest.

He watched her go and it was only then he recognized the sudden lightness he felt, a sort of optimism and hope he hadn’t known for what seemed like months. Hope—such a simple thing, such a little word, but so important—and he felt it now, again, because of her…

He had kissed Hermione and—he couldn’t help but smile (his first real smile in what felt like weeks)—she had kissed him back.

~

He hadn’t meant to blurt it out like that to Ron, had barely had time to even consider how he would tell Ron but he never imagined he would simply blurt it out in so many words.

But really, he thought irrationally, it was Ron’s fault for waking up earlier than he usually did, and coming downstairs to the front room, just more than an hour after Hermione had returned and gone up to her room. Ron came down, interrupting his thoughts, long, long before he had any inclination (or ability) to think about anything or anyone but Hermione and that she was back and she wasn’t leaving him and he’d kissed her— my God, he’d kissed her! He’d kissed Hermione!— and she had kissed him back…

So when Ron made his way into the room and sat down, still rather bleary-eyed with sleep, across from him and murmured, “Morning,” he had no thoughts left to answer coherently.

Which was why his response to Ron’s greeting was, “She kissed me back.”

Harry shut his mouth, feeling himself flush. Bugger. He hadn’t meant to blurt it out like that. Nice job, smart-mouth, mocked a sarcastic voice in his head that obviously retained more coherence than the part of his brain that controlled his mouth did.

“Mm,” Ron mumbled.

Harry waited. There was a beat of silence and then—

“Wait. What?”

Ah yes, there it was.

Harry waited just one more moment and then, as he’d expected, Ron’s still-sleepy mind managed to work its way through all the ramifications of what he’d said.

“Hermione’s back? How are her parents? You snogged her? When? How—I mean—not how but- er- why? And- and she kissed you back?”

“Yes, she’s back, got back about an hour or so ago. Her parents are doing better. And- er- yeah, I kissed her.”

“Just like that?”

Harry shrugged. “Sort of. I- it was the only thing I could think to do at the time,” he explained, rather lamely.

Ron paused and then asked, “And she-er- snogged you too?”

Harry shifted, looking away, feeling himself redden again. “Erm- yes.” He glanced up at Ron. “Do you- er- mind?”

Ron blinked a few times. “Mind? I…” he paused, hesitated, and then met Harry’s eyes. “No, I don’t mind. I just want to know what took you so long?”

Harry grinned slightly. “I dunno. Things just… got in the way and I wanted to be sure, you know.” He paused, shifted, and then admitted quietly, “’Cause Hermione’s different; she’s not just a snog.”

“Yeah.” For a moment, Ron was silent and then he added conversationally, “You know if you hurt her, I’ll kill you.”

Harry smiled fleetingly before sobering. “I won’t, not if I can help it,” he promised.

“So she obviously doesn’t blame you for what happened,” Ron observed.

Harry’s expression softened, suffused with something that Ron could only call tenderness. “No, she doesn’t,” he said slowly, managing to sound surprised.

“I could have told you she wouldn’t,” Ron couldn’t help but say. “But would you listen? No.”

Harry lifted one shoulder into a half-shrug. “So you were right. There, happy now?” he asked with a slight smile.

“Yes, thanks,” Ron nodded, trying to look solemnly vindicated but a grin was tugging at his lips and it won out. “You really are a stubborn git sometimes.”

“Thank you,” Harry said wryly. “You’re so flattering.”

“Well, somebody has to keep the ego of the Boy Who Lived in check or we’d all be in trouble.” Ron shot him a crooked grin.

“And you’ve very kindly volunteered for the job. You’re a positive marvel of selflessness,” Harry cracked sarcastically.

Ron assumed a virtuous expression. “I try.”

Harry snorted but couldn’t help but smile, feeling remarkably content. Hermione was back, she didn’t hate him and she wasn’t leaving, Ron didn’t mind and was teasing him as indisputable proof of it. (He had kissed her and she had kissed him back…)

It was more than an hour later when he and Ron had subsided into a comfortable silence when Hermione entered the front room.

Harry’s heart immediately took up residence in his throat.

She looked better, he immediately noted, now that she’d slept for a few hours. There were still shadows under her eyes and sadness and worry clouding her eyes but she looked better. That frightening detachment from when she’d arrived was gone and she looked much more like herself.

He and Ron had both leaped up the moment she entered.

“Hermione!” Ron burst out as he hurried over to give her a quick half-hug. “Your parents are doing okay, then?”

She managed a rather wan smile as she returned Ron’s hug. “Hi, Ron. Yes, my parents are doing better. They’re supposed to be released from St. Mungo’s tomorrow and the Healers said they’ll recover completely in a couple months. They’re still going to be a weak and prone to being exhausted quickly, until then, but they will get better.

“That’s good. I’m glad,” Ron said sincerely. He glanced back at Harry. “And maybe now that you’re back, this tiresome bloke here will be better company. Seriously, Hermione, he’s been absolutely good for nothing since you’ve been gone. Although it did mean that I beat him at dueling,” Ron added with a grin.

Hermione smiled her first real smile, her expression lightening, as she looked at Harry, the soft look in her eyes somewhat belying her teasing smile. “Oh really?” She pretended to consider. “Hmm, maybe I should have stayed away longer so you could beat him a few more times.”

Ron clutched at her arm in mock desperation. “Oh, please, no! Not even kicking his arse in duels is worth it given how impossible it was to have a decent chat with him.”

Hermione laughed softly. “Well, since you put it that way…”

Ron grinned. “Well, I’ve managed to embarrass this silly prat so my work here is done,” he announced. “I’ll leave you two to your snogging.”

Hermione blushed scarlet. “Ron!”

Ron tugged Hermione forward by her arm, propelling her towards Harry. “I know when I’m not wanted. I’ll be upstairs,” he said and left, pausing at the last moment to wiggle his eyebrows at Harry in a mock leer.

The moment the door closed behind him, a rather uncomfortable silence was left behind, rife with unspoken emotions and insecurities and sudden doubts.

Harry stared at her, trying valiantly not to focus on her lips. (He had kissed her and she had kissed him back…) “Er- do you want some juice or some tea?” he finally offered, fastening on the only thing he could think to say and taking refuge from the tension in mundane commonplaces.

She smiled a little. “Some tea, thanks.”

He busied himself with setting the water to boil with a quick flick of his wand. “Did you- er- sleep well?”

“Yes, it was good to finally get to sleep.”

He looked up at her at that confession. “You looked terrible this morning when you came back. I- I was worried about you,” he found himself admitting as he put her cup of tea in front of her.

“Oh, Harry…” she sighed.

“And—and you’re not leaving?” he blurted out as he resumed his own seat. “You’re not—” he broke off and then resumed again, keeping his eyes fixed on the table top with as much concentration as if he were reading some secrets engraved on the table. “I- I want you to stay,” he added, very softly.

I want you to stay. Only five words, none of them longer than one syllable, only five simple words but they were the most precious words she’d ever heard in her life.

Partly because they were so unusual, almost uncharacteristic, of Harry to say, because, in spite of his emotional nature, he also was hampered by the typical male reluctance to talk about his feelings. But mostly because of what she knew they meant.

I want you to stay. Those five words seeped into her mind and heart, soothing sensitivities and old aches which she hadn’t even realized she had. She knew, now, that Harry needed her, was sure of that; he needed her for her brains and for her more cautious nature in telling him when he was about to go off on one of his reckless stunts. And the knowledge that he needed her was sweet and so very dear and she loved him for it—but needing wasn’t the same as wanting.

And in some small, very secret corner of her heart, she realized she’d been wondering if Harry really wanted her around. Ron had been his most precious thing in their 4^th year and she knew all too well just what Ron meant to Harry as his first, real friend and companion, knew just what it meant to Harry to have been basically absorbed into the large and loving Weasley clan because of Ron. She knew how Harry viewed Ron but she was always, in some vague, unacknowledged, secret part of herself, uncertain of her place in Harry’s life. He needed her—but a person could need something without really wanting it and only resigning themselves to it because they needed it. A person needed vegetables to provide nutrients but didn’t necessarily want to eat them, wouldn’t seek them in preference to other foods. Was she like that to Harry, a sort-of necessary encumbrance? It was an old, old, unacknowledged vulnerability, the sort of question she hardly ever thought about and usually pushed aside in favor of more immediate, tangible concerns. She would even have asserted she didn’t wonder about it at all.

It was only at that moment of hearing his words that she knew that she had doubted, she had wondered—but no more.

Harry wanted her to stay—and that was all she would ever need to know.

She reached out with one hand to grasp his, resting on top of the table. He turned his hand over and entwined his fingers with hers. It was a small gesture but one which neither of them had ever done before and one which spoke volumes.

“I’m not leaving,” she affirmed quietly. “Don’t you know I could never really leave you?”

“Maybe you should,” he suddenly said, even though part of him was shrieking that he was being an idiot in arguing for an occurrence that he dreaded and feared with everything in him, but somehow another part of him had to say it, had to make sure. “You’d be safe with your parents. I- I could manage on my own, with Ron’s and with Remus’s and Professor McGonagall’s help. Maybe you should. Go and be safe.”

She tightened her grip on his hand. “I’m staying with you,” was all she said, quietly but with an underlying certainty in her voice.

He let out his breath in a huff. He wanted to tell her how much it meant to him that she was staying, wanted to tell her he loved her, wanted to tell her how scared he’d been that she might leave him. He wanted to tell her so much but he couldn’t find any words; his throat seemed to close up and all he could do was meet her eyes and say the only word he could think of. “Hermione…” Just her name, in a tone that was just a shade louder than a whisper and it made her name both an endearment and a prayer at the same time.

Her expression softened and the look she gave him was a promise and a caress all at once.

There was a brief silence which he broke by asking, “What do your parents think?”

For a fleeting moment, her face blanked of all expression and then she simply crumpled—that was the only word he could think of to describe it. “Oh Harry…” she half-wailed, half-sighed and then he was horrified to see the tears streak down her face.

His heart clenched in automatic response and in the space of a second, he was out of his chair and pulling her into his arms, where she went willingly, practically melting against him as she buried her face against his chest. He was only grateful for the fraction of his mind that retained enough clarity of thought to think of transfiguring one of the chairs into a sofa so he could sink down onto it, bringing Hermione with him.

And so he sat, his arms around her, holding her as she cried into his chest, her shoulders shaking with her sobs.

His heart ached with an almost physical pain, every sob making the hard hand that seemed to be squeezing his heart tighten even more. He wanted to comfort her, wished desperately that he could take her pain away; at that moment, he knew, he would very willingly have sold his soul to the devil, to Voldemort himself, if it would have done anything to ease Hermione’s grief but no such devil with a deal appeared and so he could only hold her, hating himself and hating this destiny of his that seemed to ensure that all those he loved had to suffer with a virulence that nearly strangled him.

It was a few minutes—that felt like hours—before her sobs calmed somewhat, enough so he could understand the muffled words mixed in with her sobs.

“Oh, Harry… It was so hard, so very hard... Dad-- he didn’t say much; he wanted to, I could see he did, but he didn’t when I was explaining to him. He didn’t argue with me because—because he didn’t have the strength!” Her voice broke and she clutched him tighter. He flinched at the naked agony in her voice but didn’t move otherwise. “He didn’t have the strength; it hurt him to talk but I could see that he wasn’t happy with my decision, that he would have wanted to try to argue with me but he couldn’t—he couldn’t. I—I’ve never seen my Dad so weak and I left him! I left my parents when they were still hurting, still needing care. I left them…” Her voice had lowered, becoming nearly inaudible at the last few words and she was silent for a while, her breath hitching in her chest. When she spoke again, he had to strain to hear the words, so softly were they spoken but not even their softness could mask the desperate mingling of fear and grief and guilt in her. “And I keep wondering, what if something happens—what if that’s the last time I ever see them? What if I never see my parents again and they’re left to think… think that I didn’t love them enough, that I didn’t care enough…”

Every word tore at him with the sting as if from the lash of a whip, lacerating his mind and his heart. And he couldn’t tell her that nothing would happen; he couldn’t tell her that everything would be fine and of course she would get to see her parents again. He couldn’t tell her any of that because he couldn’t lie to her about this; it wouldn’t help. And amid all his own torment of sympathy, he could only wonder…

His arms fell from around her as he stiffened, drawing back from her ever so slightly in an instinctive, defensive reaction against the hurt he dreaded. He heard his words as if from far away, only realizing belatedly that they came from him, his voice husky, almost unrecognizable. “If—if anything happens… would you change your mind?” Even before he finished the question, he knew it wasn’t fair to ask it, would have cut out his tongue for asking such a thing that sounded as if he were making her choose between him and her parents, but it was too late now.

She had stiffened as well at his words and then slowly, very slowly, she straightened, pushing herself up, and away from him so she was no longer leaning on him.

Oh God… He opened his mouth to blurt out that he was sorry, that he hadn’t meant it, that it didn’t matter, hoping to forestall her answer that he didn’t want to hear but before he could, she spoke.

“No.”

He sucked in his breath sharply, finally daring to look at her directly, seeing the tears in her eyes but also seeing the certainty in them. No. Funny, how the word was suddenly the most beautiful one he’d ever heard.

“No. Even if—no matter what happens, I know I’d do the same thing. I know this is right; I couldn’t do anything else.” She spoke slowly, her words careful as if she were only just now realizing the truth of them herself.

He let out his breath. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“Hermione, I… I don’t…” he faltered and then stopped. God, what could he possibly say in response? There were no words to describe what he felt—but then he met her eyes. “I love you.” The words came from the depths of his heart, his very soul, and slipped from his mouth with an amazing ease, given that he’d never said them before, never really even imagined saying them, but somehow, in light of the immense gift she had just given him, they came easily.

“Oh Harry…” And she didn’t say the words to him, only looked at him but the words were in her look. And after all, he already knew it.

And he decided that his destiny wasn’t bad. In spite of everything, he was lucky, so unbelievably, amazingly lucky to have met this girl and to have this girl love him… Maybe, just maybe, that was what was meant by the phrase of having a charmed life; it meant that he could be here, today, now, with Hermione, knowing she loved him…

His eyes met and held hers, for a long, endless moment, before he lifted one hand, trembling slightly, to gently brush her cheek with the tips of his fingers in an ineffably tender caress. Her breathing slowed, hitched, her eyes fluttering closed, and he leaned in closer, with all the deliberate intent which he hadn’t known the last time…

And then he kissed her.

He kissed her softly, he kissed her gently, he kissed her with every ounce of feeling in him.

And she kissed him back, her hands fluttering up to touch his chest and then his shoulders and then to slide around his neck, as the kiss deepened, lengthened…

It was a kiss of faith, of loyalty, of silent promises as well as those just spoken aloud. It was a kiss of discovery, of best friends becoming so much more than simply friends.

It was a kiss that held infinite promise for the future.

To be continued…

A/N 2: Happy now? ;-)

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 5^th 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 5^th 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.

Disclaimer: See Part 1.

From My Soul

Part 18

It was rather anticlimactic, after their hurried departure from Hogwarts, to find that Grimmauld Place was still just as deserted and desolate as ever.

Remus didn’t let down his guard, glancing around the square warily, as he ushered them inside Number Twelve once it had materialized in between Numbers Eleven and Thirteen. He turned to leave again almost immediately. “I’m going to go back to Hogwarts, make sure McGonagall has everything in control there. You three stay here,” he emphasized pointedly, looking at Harry, and Harry realized that Remus was even more perceptive than he’d realized (or simply knew Harry well enough from his years of friendship with James and Sirius to be able to predict what Harry would think and do) and was very aware of Harry’s smoldering disgruntlement at being forced to hide. “I’ll be back later to let you know if all is well or not.”

He looked at Ron and added, more gently, “I’m sure your family will be fine.”

Ron nodded numbly and with a last glance at Harry, Remus left.

The door had barely closed behind Remus when Ron bolted upstairs followed almost immediately by the sound of his door shutting.

Harry hesitated, staring after him, tormented with sympathy and a wish to do something, help in some way, but hampered by uncertainty and some awkwardness. He was released from his paralysis by a gentle nudge from Hermione.

“Go,” she said simply. “He’ll probably want to talk to you.” She left unsaid what they both knew, that Ron would be more likely to talk to Harry alone than he would be to talk to both Harry and Hermione, in spite of their closeness.

Harry squeezed Hermione’s hand briefly and then followed Ron.

“Ron? Can I come in?” he ventured, after knocking.

“Oh, why not?”

It wasn’t the most enthusiastic welcome in the world but Harry hadn’t expected one under the circumstances.

“You okay?” he asked lamely as he stepped inside, his gaze going to where Ron was sitting slumped against the wall.

Ron shot him an incredulous look that was almost a glare. Harry flushed. “Sorry, dumb question,” he apologized. “I’m sorry about Percy,” he added rather tentatively, after a moment.

Ron let out a bark of un-amused laughter. “Sorry, that Percy proved he’s a git? Don’t bother. He’s just keeping an eye out for the main chance, wants to stay in good with the Ministry.” He made a disdainful noise. “Always was a prig.”

Harry sat down beside Ron. “I suppose so.”

A silence fell for a long, few minutes, finally broken by Ron who asked abruptly, “How do you deal with the guilt?”

Harry flinched a little at the bluntness of the question but said what he knew he had to. “You just do, but you know, it’s not your fault.”

Ron shot a disbelieving glance at him at this statement from Harry, who was adept at blaming himself for everything from the weather to everything You-Know-Who did.

Harry fought not to react and only went on, gamely. “It isn’t. You didn’t know what would happen; you couldn’t know what Dolohov would do. You shouldn’t blame yourself. It won’t change anything and Charlie wouldn’t want it.”

“When did you get so smart?” Ron asked sardonically, pointedly reminding Harry of his hypocrisy.

“I’m not,” Harry said promptly. “I’m just channeling Hermione,” he added, half-jokingly, half-seriously.

Ron studied Harry for a minute and then responded with a wan attempt at lightness, “There’s something scary about you saying that.”

Harry half-smiled fleetingly but then sobered. “Seriously, though, you just learn to live with it. But it is true that you shouldn’t blame yourself. Blame Dolohov.”

“Yeah.” Ron was silent again and then he murmured, “I can’t believe Charlie’s gone, that I’ll never see him again. He was so cool, you know. I always wished I could be more like him.”

“Yeah, Charlie was a great fellow,” Harry agreed, his voice quiet.

“He wasn’t around much after he left for Hogwarts,” Ron went on, in a reminiscing tone, “and then later because he was in Rumania but when he was around…” Ron trailed off and then, after another long moment, began, “I never--” his voice broke and he swallowed hard before he finished, very quietly, so softly Harry could hardly hear him, “I never thought one of us could die.” He said the last word with a slight shudder and covered his face with his hands.

Harry could only sit there in silent sympathy and he couldn’t help but think of Sirius, think of his parents, think of Dumbledore— and wonder with a sick sense of fear and dread who would be next. Who would be next- -and also, would Ron and Hermione be okay?

He tried not to dwell on his fears for them much, but the terrifying images intruded on his nightmares mercilessly, haunting him until sometimes he couldn’t push them back. The thought of anything happening to Ron was quite bad enough—but Hermione… The thought of Hermione ever being hurt in any way was enough to paralyze him with mind-numbing horror. It was too terrible—he couldn’t bear thinking about it. Nothing could happen to her; he couldn’t do anything without her, needed her…

He was abruptly recalled to the present when he heard Ron’s somewhat muffled voice. “I want to be alone now.”

Harry hesitated, but then settled for saying, “We’re here if you need us,” before he left. He knew, somehow, where to find Hermione and was proven right when he went to the library.

She looked up as he entered, putting her book aside. “How is Ron?”

“I’m not sure, but he said he wanted to be alone.” He paused and then added, as he settled down beside her, one arm automatically going around her shoulder as she leaned against him, “He feels guilty.”

“He shouldn’t,” was Hermione’s swift (predictable) response.

Harry gave her a slight smile. “I told him that.”

“Good.”

“Actually, I told him pretty much exactly what you’ve told me, that he couldn’t be blamed because he had no way of knowing and that Charlie wouldn’t want him to torture himself.”

Hermione gifted him with a soft glance and nestled even closer against him, before she sobered and asked, “What did Scrimgeour want to talk to you about?”

Harry grimaced. “Oh, nothing too important.”

Hermione gave him a look. “You mean, nothing you wanted to agree to. What, did he want you to tell him what you’re planning so he could leak it to someone, give people some hope?”

Harry stared at her for a moment. “Why do you even bother asking if you already know the answer?” he asked, with a mixture of mild irritation and humor and affection in his voice.

She smiled slightly. “I didn’t know the answer; I was just guessing. People have been getting restive and I’m sure it’s spilling over into discontent with him, as it always does. It’s not surprising he’d try to boost his standing by trying to get closer to you. More people still turn to you in this war than will ever turn to him.”

“I don’t know about that,” he shrugged one shoulder, “but you’re right. That was what Scrimgeour wanted, almost exactly. He wanted me to tell him something inspiring so he could quote me on it.”

“And you told him, no.”

“In no uncertain terms,” Harry affirmed.

For a moment, Hermione hesitated, tempted for the first time since she’d known him, to simply stay quiet and not question him, because she loved him and she hated to think of disturbing his fragile peace in any way, especially after Charlie—but no, she couldn’t do that. She couldn’t just stay quiet—not when it might help so much, not when she truly believed he was wrong, even if she understood his answer. “Harry, do—do you think that was really the right thing to do?”

Harry stared at Hermione, drawing back from her. “What, you don’t mean I should just let Scrimgeour act like he’s some great help or my best mate or something?”

“No, no, not that part. You were right to refuse him,” Hermione clarified hurriedly. “I was thinking about saying a few encouraging words to the people.”

“I don’t have much to say. What could I really tell them?”

“That’s not the point, though, Harry,” Hermione explained calmly. “Minister Scrimgeour isn’t all wrong about the importance of giving people something to hope for, to inspire them in some way.”

“Why should I try to inspire people who aren’t fighting anyway?”

“Because, even if they don’t join the Order outright, you do want to make sure that no one else goes over to Voldemort. People will, out of fear even if they don’t agree, you know.”

“The Pettigrew way,” Harry grimaced.

“Yes, Harry, like Wormtail did. He’s not unusual, you know. You don’t need to tell people exactly what you’re doing or anything about the Order specifically. All you need to do is tell them that you haven’t given up, that the war’s not over yet and they shouldn’t give up.”

“Offer myself up as a symbol of hope, in short.” His rather curt tone expressed all his distinct lack of enthusiasm for the prospect eloquently.

“Well, yes. I know you don’t really want to do it but it’s what you should do. You are, whether you like it or not, seen as the real leader of this resistance, especially now that Dumbledore’s gone. You need to give people something to believe in, give them hope.”

The pause after her words stretched out for more than a few seconds as he considered her words and she sensed his acceptance of her reasoning before a shadow crossed his eyes again and he sighed.

“I don’t know if I can give them that hope. I mean, I’ve just been sitting around and look what’s happened to your parents, Charlie…” he trailed off. “Maybe Dumbledore was wrong or the Prophecy was wrong and we shouldn’t be relying on me anyway. I haven’t done much.”

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione sighed. “You shouldn’t think like that. It’s not true. You’ve already faced Voldemort so many times and you’re still alive; you’re still here. What happened to my parents and Charlie wasn’t your fault and you shouldn’t blame yourself. No one really blames you.” She paused, her tone and her expression softening. “And for what it’s worth, I believe in you.”

For a long moment, he simply looked at her, amazed anew by the quiet strength of her, of her faith. “I don’t know how you can.”

She allowed herself a slight smile. “I believe in you because you’ve proven that I can. Every year, you’ve somehow managed to do what you had to do and you’ve won.”

“I’ve had a lot of help. I always had you to help me.”

She shook her head as if to minimize her role but there was a pleased flush on her cheeks, even as her tone tried to shrug off his words. “I’m still here.”

He brushed his lips against her forehead. “I know. I guess there’s hope for me after all.”

He paused and then asked, in a distinctly disgruntled tone, “Do I really have to give some sort of inspiring speech?”

And she knew he had given in. “Just look at Percy. He’s the last person to believe in the whole purity of blood thing but because of his ambition and his fear of being on the losing side, he just got cut off from his family. I’m not saying he’s right but there are going to be a lot of people like him. And you’re the only person who can talk to people, really give them something to believe in. You know you are.”

He looked at her for a moment. “Why are you always right?” he finally sighed.

She flushed and smiled slightly. “I’m not always right.”

He snorted a little. “If you’re not, you’re close enough to it as makes no difference.” He leaned forward and kissed her quickly, before smiling into her eyes. “Lucky for you, you’re pretty when you’re teaching me something. Besides, I never did like silly girls.”

Her smile brightened as she nestled just that little bit closer to him. “I’m glad.”

And for a moment, he pushed away all thoughts of anything and everything else as he kissed her, letting his hands stray under the hem of her shirt to touch the smooth skin of her back (and he was rapidly getting addicted to the feel of her skin under his hands), loving the shiver that passed through her and the way she leaned into him, her hands fluttering from his hair to his neck to his shoulders and down to touch his chest. His lips left hers only to trace the line of her chin to her ear and down her neck, to kiss the gentle, lovely curve where her neck met her shoulders, glorying in the gasp that escaped her.

God, she was so lovely… And at times, he couldn’t understand how he hadn’t seen it long before now. He didn’t know how he could have looked at her for more than six years of friendship and not seen just how very pretty she was, looked at his best friend and not seen, too, the girl who was everything he wanted…

The kisses and caresses became gentler, less intense, until she brushed her lips against his one last time and shifted so she was only leaning against him, her head tucked under his chin in one of their habitual positions. (Sometimes, he couldn’t get over his surprise that they even had habitual positions this intimate, that this new—thing—between them wasn’t so new anymore…)

And for several minutes, they were silent, content, but soon, what they had been talking of nudged its way back into his consciousness, not focusing so much on the depths of her faith in him but in the concrete task she wanted him to do and in her reasoning for it.

He hated the idea of playing on his fame and his story and saying a whole lot of nice, inspiring words; it wasn’t like him to be eloquent and he disliked publicity and was more inclined to avoid it than seek it out. Part of him wished he could argue against it, wished he could simply refuse to listen to her—but always, somewhere in the back of his mind now, was a small voice that whispered, simply, think of Sirius, and he knew he couldn’t. As usual when it came to things like this, her logic was unassailable, her reasoning sound—and he wasn’t stupid enough to make the mistake of ignoring her when he, of all people, knew how often she was right. And he did understand what she meant, even agreed with it—didn’t mean he liked it anymore but he did see her point.

He mentally grimaced, resigned to this whole giving-people-hope idea, as he turned to her. “So how should I tell people this inspiring speech? Surely you can’t expect me to actually talk to everyone.”

“No. I was thinking more along the lines of you sending a letter to the Daily Prophet. I’m sure they would print it.”

“And say what? Even I’m not that hopeful. We still don’t have any idea where the last horcrux is or how to destroy the ones we do have,” he added gloomily and unnecessarily. “How do I give people hope that I don’t feel myself?”

“We’ll find it, Harry. We will. And as for the letter, well, we’ll work on it together and think of something to say that will acknowledge that times are bad but that there’s still hope. That we need to work together, everyone doing their parts if we’re going to win.”

“We few, we happy few, we band of brothers, for he today who sheds his blood with me, shall be my brother,” Harry quoted with mordant irony.

“Harry!” It was Hermione’s turn to look at him in surprise.

Harry grinned in spite of himself. “What? You’re not the only person who reads, you know.”

“I know that but I didn’t know you’d read Shakespeare or knew him well enough to quote him.”

“The Dursleys had a copy of a Complete Works that someone had given them once and I- erm- basically borrowed it and never gave it back. They never missed it. Dudley was never interested in it, that’s for sure.” He edited out the fact that what had really happened was that Dudley had decided the very large, heavy book would made a satisfying missile and had thrown it at Harry’s head one day. He’d missed (fortunately for Harry) but it had hit Harry on the shoulder and upper arm, leaving a bruise, and Harry had quickly grabbed the book and shoved it into his broom closet to deprive Dudley of the chance to throw it at him again. It was only later, when he was again locked inside for some imagined crime, that he’d pulled it out and begun to flip through it and then to read it. Admittedly, he’d understood very little of it other than the general plots at his young age but he’d read most of the plays anyway, for lack of anything better to do, and he had, at least, found that several speeches and lines appealed to him.

“And you read all of it?”

“Most of it,” Harry admitted. “There wasn’t much else to do in those times when they’d lock me in, you know.”

Her face darkened at this casual mention of how badly the Dursleys had treated him and wordlessly, she wrapped her arms around him and hugged him hard.

He closed his arms around her, loving the familiar warmth of her, the familiar scent of her hair against his cheek… And he decided that he didn’t care about anything the Dursleys did anymore; whatever they’d done, this, right here, having Hermione in his arms, made everything worth it.

~

Harry’s letter, when it was finally finished (written in large part by Hermione with Harry’s acquiescence and a few suggestions from Ron—that mostly consisted of things to cut-- as Ron’s first reaction was more to find the entire idea either comical or a likely waste of time) was printed and given pride of place on the front page of the Daily Prophet on Christmas Eve.

Harry had tried to argue, rather half-heartedly, against sending the Daily Prophet something that was bound to make subscriptions to it go up by leaps and bounds, since Harry still rather disliked and distrusted the Daily Prophet for all its false articles about him in the past, but Hermione had reasoned that they did not have the luxury of waiting for other papers to pick it up from the Quibbler and they especially did not need to have Harry’s letter alongside an article about the Crumple-horned Snorkack or some such creature. Harry had been unable to deny the validity of that point and had given in.

The letter was relatively brief—although it was still longer than what Harry was comfortable with but even he had to agree that just a few sentences would hardly be enough.

Christmas is called a season of hope and there is never a better time to remember and celebrate hope than in a time of war like now.

This is a war and too many people have already died in it. With all this, it is sometimes easy to forget the importance of hope and despair is a feeling that I am all too familiar with. But to despair is to let Voldemort and our enemies win by default, in a sense. And that is something I will not, cannot, do. So I ask you all to remember to hope—and to continue to fight.

I do not promise victory immediately or easily. I will not lie to you to give you all hope.

All I can say is that this is not a war we can lose. We are fighting—we will fight—we must fight for freedom to live and learn without fear, freedom from blind prejudice and senseless cruelty.

It’s a fight that affects us all and everyone must do their part, however small. As it has been said, all that is necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing. That cannot—it must not—happen now.

I will make no false promises but I do promise you that I will not give up. As long as Voldemort lives and as long as I have breath in my body, I will oppose him with everything in my power. And I hope you will all stand with me as well.

The letter sounded rather hopelessly stiff and unlike him but Harry could think of nothing to say that would not sound stiff and unlike him. And as Hermione reasoned, it could do him no harm to have people momentarily forget in reading it that Harry was only a 17 year old boy.

Harry’s letter was, naturally, read by everyone and within the week, according to what Ron heard indirectly from his father, everyone was quoting it to everyone else and everywhere, the most common topic of conversation was “that brave young lad, Harry Potter.” (Harry had grimaced at that particular epithet but refrained from commenting.)

Harry was immensely thankful that the Fidelius Charm prevented most owls from finding him but he knew (from what Remus told him) that Hogwarts had been deluged with response owls.

People’s reactions were almost overwhelmingly positive (with the exception, naturally, of those few people who may not have been Death Eaters themselves but agreed whole-heartedly with the beliefs of people like the Malfoys). It seemed as if those who may have been wavering were given new energy and hope with this proof that Harry Potter was very much alive and willing to fight (as Hermione had predicted).

People read his declaration of not giving up and remembered that he had lost his parents to Voldemort as well as his mentor in Dumbledore (no one mentioned the loss of Sirius as that was not a generally-known fact, plus Sirius was still generally believed to be an escaped criminal and no one knew he’d been Harry’s godfather)—and were moved, in spite of themselves, at the idea of such a young boy being so heroic.

Harry violently disliked the pity that was implicit (if not overtly expressed) in the response owls to the Daily Prophet which he saw, but his grumbling subsided after Hermione’s reminder that the important thing was not the pity but that people didn’t give up and simply surrender. He still wasn’t happy about it but he did, at least, stop grumbling.

~*~

With all that, Harry never expected that he would remember that Christmas as one of the best ones of his life but what happened ensured that he did.

Hermione had been oddly subdued during the day, as indeed they all had been.

(The Dursleys’ gift to him had consisted of a ripped tissue and a piece of paper that said, in Aunt Petunia’s handwriting, this is no longer your home. It was, undoubtedly, the worst Christmas gift the Dursleys had ever given him, including that dirty old sock of Uncle Vernon’s one year. He had tossed both away and not mentioned it to Hermione, not wanting to upset her.)

They received a surprise package by stealth owl from Mrs. Weasley containing the usual, knitted sweaters for all three of them. Hermione’s was Gryffindor red with a book on it; Harry’s was also Gryffindor red and had two small animals on it, a stag and beside that, a black dog—the sight of which had Harry blinking furiously. Ron’s was, however, the one that hit them all the hardest. It was dark blue and had a dragon on it. The accompanying card, which was very brief and spotted with tears, exhorted them all to be very careful and had a note at the end which said (in letters blurred by tears) that Ron’s sweater had actually been made for Charlie but she thought Charlie would want Ron to have it instead.

It was the first time Harry and Hermione saw Ron close to tears and he stared at the sweater for a long moment before putting it on with a solemnity he’d never shown about the annual Christmas sweater before.

All in all, it had been a quiet day, but even with that, Harry had noticed that Hermione was rather thoughtful and even distracted. He guessed that she was thinking of her parents and did not bother her about it.

She went up to her bed early and he had felt a pang of hurt and guilt when she did so without kissing him good night, for the first time in weeks.

He had just gotten into bed when he heard a knock and then her voice. “Harry, can I come in?”

She sounded rather nervous, he thought with some mingled concern and apprehension, as he told her to come in.

He felt himself flush as she sat down on his bed. He could feel the warmth of her body through his blankets and swallowed, suddenly excruciatingly aware that they were alone, on his bed, and he was in his pyjamas, as was she.

“What is it?” he asked, and was thankful that his voice didn’t emerge as a croak.

Her answer wasn’t in words; instead she leaned forward and kissed him, her lips soft and warm and inviting against his.

God, he loved the taste of her and the feel of her…

And as always when he kissed her, he lost touch with the rest of the world, forgetting everything but the touch of her lips, the warmth of her, and the softness of her skin. He forcibly pulled himself back to reality, breaking the kiss with a gasp, when he became aware of the growing hardness in his pyjamas.

“Erm, Hermione, we’d better stop,” he managed to get out, drawing back from her, trying to put some much-needed distance between their bodies.

“You don’t have to stop.”

He stared at her, convinced he’d misheard her. “Hermione, are you—do you--” he stopped.

She brushed her lips against his again, quickly this time. “I love you and I want to be with you.”

His heart positively stuttered in his chest, his breath seizing, as he stared at her and he knew he would never, as long as he lived, forget the way she looked right then at that moment in the dim light, her lips slightly swollen from his kiss, her cheeks flushed with some uncertainty and with the stirrings of desire, and the glow deep in her eyes that spoke of so much certainty and so much love it took his breath away.

“Hermione,” he breathed and reached for her, only to hesitate at the last instant. “I- we don’t have to,” he said, unsure of himself and whether she had thought he was pressuring her or something.

“I want you, Harry,” she confessed very simply and leaned forward to kiss him again, murmuring, “touch me,” against his lips.

And so he did, his arms going around her, as he kissed her and touched her with all the tenderness he felt…

~To be continued…

Author’s Note: For those of you who are over 18 (and please, don’t click on the link if you are not over 18! I promise you will not be missing any plot.) I’ve written and posted a smutty interlude over at my fic journal: http://avonlea-dreamer.livejournal.com/66704.html .